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some-kindofgnome · 4 years ago

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these violent delights, pt. i

In an immersive theme park where cutting-edge technology makes your wildest dreams come true, the line between fantasy and reality begins to blur. enter westworld, where artificially intelligent automatons known as ‘hosts’ are programmed to fulfill your every delight.

(westworld AU, eventual host!dabi x reader, host!keigo takami x reader, eventual shouto todoroki x f!reader)

part one | part two | part three

featuring: hanta sero, denki kaminari, katsuki bakugou, momo yaoyozoru, eijirou kirishima

part one: you prepare to enter the park for the bachelorette party your bridesmaids wanted. meanwhile, westworld’s capable employees prepare to roll out the latest programming update.

wc: 8.7k

pt. i warnings: smut (18+!), sci-fi dystopia, artificial intelligence, medical/surgical procedures, body modification. gun violence, robbery, kidnapping, drinking, death, no beta we die like teddy

notes: this is part one of my entry for The Smut Pile’s Western Collab! this is my very first server collab and I am so thrilled to be kicking it off with this plot monster. this is the first of three parts- it leans a little heavy on the world building, so stay tuned for parts two and three. the action dials up from here, promise! i’m excited to be putting out one of my first plot-heavy stories on this blog!

please note: part one borrows several events from season one, episodes one and two of the series. the story will branch off in its own direction in parts two and three. you do not need to be familiar with Westworld to enjoy this fic- so please give it a try! 💖

(MASTERLIST)

“This doesn’t feel right.”

Livestock Management technician Hanta Sero drifts idly from tool cart to operating table with his raven hair pulled back. He’s clad in a protective latex apron and gloves, approaching the table with a blowtorch in one hand and a long, slim pair of forceps in the other.

“That’s what it says here.” Denki Kaminari stands across the black-tiled room, his back reflected in the glass walls of the operating facility. He scrolls mindfully through a folding datapad with a crease of deep concentration in his golden brow.

Snapping his datapad shut, he lifts his chin to find Sero’s conflicted gaze across the lab.

“The specifications were pretty precise.”

“I know what the briefing said,” Sero retorts. “I just…”

He ignites the blowtorch and takes a deep breath, letting his gaze over slowly over the pale, unmarked flesh of the body stretched out on the table in front of him.

“What?” Kaminari takes in the sight before him. He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh. Well-“

He gets up from his stool, tugging his gloves back over his shirtsleeves and crossing the room toward Sero and the body in question. He picks up a scalpel, making a clean little cut just below the subject’s left nipple without any hesitation.

“Dude, stop!” Sero reaches with the hand still clutching his forceps, blanching as a thin well of blood trickles onto pristine flesh.

“He’s offline,” Denki chuckles. “He can’t feel a thing. You’ve patched these guys up a thousand times, Sero. What’s the problem?”

“I dunno,” Sero muses, drawing the back of one glove nervously over his temple. “I dunno. I think they’re starting to get too real. It’s messing with me.” He shoots Denki a weak chuckle and shakes his head.

“What do they need this guy all burned up for, anyway?”

“Momo told me he’s for the new narrative,” Denki replies, puzzling over the red hair and immaculate pale skin of their unsuspecting victim. “Some kind of grizzly new villain who’s supposed to stir up trouble.”

“Better make him extra fucked up, then.” The blowtorch, extinguished in Sero’s panic, is ignited again, but he’s still hesitating.

“Hey,” Denki prompts. “Why don’t we start with the system update? That’ll kill some time. And then- hey.” He reaches across the tool cart, grabbing for the bottle of black hair dye that came with the host’s modification kit. He shakes it in Sero’s face, letting a smug grin cross his features.

“I’ll do the carpet if you do the drapes.”

Sero and Denki find their rhythm easily enough. Before long, the tension dispels and they’re letting conversation flow smoothly between them, making weekend plans while Sero pushes polished silver staples into the now-scarred flesh of the transformed host.

“This guy’s older than he looks,” Denki quips from the tool cart, where he’s selecting an appropriately sized needle for the delicate work ahead of him. “His systems haven’t been updated in years.”

“I’ve never seen him in the park before,” Sero admits. He’s finishing the clean row of staples that trail from the corner of the host’s mouth to his ear, struggling to push the staple into the skin at the edges of his face. The sharp prongs don’t hold as well in the spots where the muscle and flesh thin to just skin stretched over bone. He looks up in frustration, shaking the spots from his concentrated gaze.

“Whoa,” he starts as he spots the way that Denki’s moved up between the host’s lean thighs. “You’re really gonna-“

“That’s what it says in the briefing,” Denki presses. He’s got the aforementioned needle in one hand and a bowl of curved barbells in the other; he’s gone a little grin about the gills, too.

“Sick fucks,” Sero snorts, shaking his head. “Doesn’t feel very historically accurate, does it?”

“Please,” Denki pushes. “If you think this has ever been about history, you’re in for a nasty surprise.”

“Christ, you wanna talk about nasty surprises,” Sero replies, blanching and averting his eyes while Denki inserts the first piercing. “Just wait’ll the guests get a look at him.”

"Bakugou's outdone himself this time," Denki agrees, brow furrowed with sympathy and panicked concentration as he unscrews the first barbell. "Those idiots won't know what hit 'em.”

“Bring yourself back online.”

Head of Programming Shouto Todoroki sits in front of the park’s newest addition, datapad spread across his lap. Sero and Denki’s work paid off; the new host is looking fiercer than ever.

Not new enough for Shouto’s tastes, though. He can still see the blue glint when “Dabi,” as his new narrative calls him, shifts into wakefulness and lets his eyes flutter open. He shoots Shouto a sinister grin but does not move from his seat.

Shouto doesn’t want to believe what they’ve done to him. He’s still nude, putting all his new modifications on brilliant display. The staples in his flesh look angry and inflamed. The scars, done perfectly to appear long-healed, still make his blood curdle.

He can’t even think about the flashes of silver that catch the light when Dabi crosses his legs.

“And who are you supposed to be?" Dabi growls an opening line that shakes Shouto more than it ought to. He sports a brand new drawl that fits the world he’ll be slotted into soon enough, but it’s too much, bouncing off the pristine glass and shiny tile beneath his bare feet.

“Lose the accent,” Shouto commands. Dabi's expression shifts a little, but he does not drop eye contact.

Shouto can’t help but wonder if they all stare like this. He hasn’t been alone with a host in a very long time. Especially not one with this kind of significance.

“Do you know where you are?” He presses, determined to push forward. The sooner he gets Dabi through analysis, the sooner he can pretend like the unsettling host doesn’t exist.

But Dabi’s voice with no drawl is even more spine-chilling.

“I am in a dream.”

“And… do you want to wake up from this dream?”

Dabi’s eyes drift away in a direction they’re not supposed to. For a moment, he casts his gaze down and to the left, letting it sweep across the edge of the room as his brow creases with terrifying subtlety.

The gesture is minuscule, almost as if he's recalling a distant memory. For a moment, Shouto can only admire its beauty.

Then he realizes it’s not supposed to be there.

“Yes,” Dabi continues, his voice soft and lilting and almost wistful. “I’m terrified.”

“Freeze all motor functions.” Shouto’s heart pounds in his chilled throat. His extremities have gone cold. But Dabi follows his instructions to the letter, freezing before he can even blink. Shouto questions why he expected any differently.

Not two minutes later, Head of Behaviour Momo Yaoyorozu ducks gracefully into Dabi’s glass prison. Shouto is still sitting exactly where he began, perched on a little rolling leather stool. Six feet away, Dabi has not moved, bare and frozen on a stool of his own.

"I got your page," Momo soothes, shutting the door quietly behind her and unfolding her datapad. The hinges go rigid when they sit flat, blending seamlessly into a broad tablet that she taps and scrolls quietly through.

“I checked his programming on the way over. There’s something new here,” she concludes. “But I don’t know who added it. Must have been one of the interns, or-“

“I know who it was,” Shou answers grimly, already scrolling meticulously through the lines of code that make up Dabi’s new personality. Momo freezes, looking up at him with cold surprise.

“You don’t think…”

“I do,” he confirms. He takes a deep breath to quell his racing heart and shoots his closest colleague a shaky look. “You’re going to want to see this.”

“Incredible,” Momo gasps a few moments later when Shouto asks Dabi the same series of questions and gets the same frightening response. He knows why it shakes him as much as it does, but it hasn’t occurred to him that someone like Momo would actually… appreciate them.

“It’s like he’s-“ she starts, then stops herself. The conclusion she’s drawn should be as impossible as it sounds. But it’s staring them both in the face.

“Like he’s remembering something.” She finishes her thought this time, and Shou clenches his jaw.

"He must have slipped the code into the update," he determines. "In the programming, he's calling them Reveries."

“Kind of poetic,” Momo muses, still admiring the way that Dabi’s eyes seem to mist as they stare into the middle-distance. “It makes him look so real.”

“The code pulls memories from his earlier programming,” Shouto continues, looking up at Momo and waiting for her to be as spooked as he is.

He’s almost frightened that she’ll be defensive. But she’s sharper than he’s given her credit for, and that revelation is enough to pull her from her stupor.

“That could cause a lot of problems,” she muses. “Especially if the loops haven’t been closed properly. They’re supposed to be wiped after every cycle, but if there are links pulling them back…”

“I know,” Shouto emphasizes. Momo straightens, planting matter-of-fact hands on matter-of-fact hips.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” he confesses, turning back to catch another blood-chilling glimpse of the all-too-familiar host. “I can’t just pull the programming out from under him. He’ll know.”

“You can’t send him into the park with it. If it’s slotted in with the update, he could spread it to the other hosts.”

Shouto pushes his datapad aside and leans forward, steepling his fingers as he sighs deeply and descends into even deeper thought.

Momo’s right. With the Reveries included, the update has potentially disastrous consequences. But that’s operating on the assumption that his father makes mistakes, which most people would confirm is simply impossible.

If he clears the programming before letting Dabi go through, however, he’ll be facing the wrath of his father.

Shou purses his lips, lacing his fingers together but leaving the pointers extended and pursing his lips against the smooth joints.

“I think we’re going to have to.”

The glossy, perfect train- the first of many you'll take today, as you're told- pulls into a station that's even whiter than the train itself. Polished white floors and perfect whitewashed columns are the first things you see out the massive panoramic windows as the cars pull to a complete stop. When the doors glide open, your maid of honour touches your sleeve as the other girls filter out of your private compartment and onto the platform.

You’re far from the only ones disembarking the train. The rest of the platform is soon crowded by immaculately-dressed guests from all over the world. They bow and shift like a flock of starlings, moving in stark contrast past the perfectly-still bodies of the white-clad staff waiting to greet them.

A tall, statuesque woman with raven hair steps forward, addressing your maid of honour by name. She gives you an apologetic wave and a see you in there before disappearing amid the writhing sea of people.

You’ve been reading up on this place for weeks, scouring pamphlets and websites and guest reviews for every detail about the induction process you can glean from public knowledge. Details of the park itself are kept very private, but you’ve learned all you can about the way you’ll be introduced to it.

This place was not your first choice for the occasion at hand, but your friends practically insisted. You know it’s for selfish reasons- it’s the only chance they’re ever going to get to see the place for themselves- but you can already think of several places you’d rather celebrate your coming nuptials.

Not exactly your typical bachelorette party fare. But your friends agreed to wear matching dresses in that shade of pale green you couldn’t stay away from, so you’re giving them this.

Before long the platform is nearly cleared. You’re just starting to make your way toward the escalator, wondering what exactly became of the host who was supposed to greet you, when a soft croon of your name over one shoulder nearly shocks you out of your sandals.

Your host has arrived, and he’s even more gorgeous than you feared. Graceful and lithe-looking, he’s clad in a pristine white suit and turtleneck that contrasts the bold flashes of his golden hair perfectly. He shoots you a smooth smile, lit by razor-sharp tawny eyes and as he turns his face to catch the light, you can see that his jaw is grazed by the barest hint of scruff- perfectly groomed, just like the rest of him.

"Hello," you greet, trying not to lose your breath. You clasp the fingers of your right hand around the ring finger on your left- the remnants of your favourite new nervous habit. You've taken to twisting your engagement ring in moments of idleness or anxiety, but for safety's sake, you've left the flashy diamond at home.

You know you’re engaged. That’s what matters most.

“Good,” the host croons. You’re getting quickly used to his honeyed brogue, strong and low and sweet as he takes your hand and drops a suave kiss to your knuckles. “I’m glad you found your way here.” He jerks his head toward the emptying escalator, eyes never leaving yours.

“Follow me.”

As you’re ascending through the polished storeys of the park’s immaculate headquarters, your attendant rattles off a long list of mundane medical questions. He’s tapping away on a datapad as he walks, and you’re sure that whatever information he’s taking down will be swept away for later use.

Finally, he brings you to a plain-looking white door. He tucks away the datapad and slips his hands into his pockets. He’s graceful and perfect- too perfect. You’re starting to suspect that he’s no ordinary employee.

“Go on,” he urges, nodding toward the door. You shoot him a sideways little glance but step forward, hooking your fingers around the polished handle and pushing it open. You step inside.

The interior of the room- or closet, as it would be better described- is lit almost exclusively by glowing strip lights hidden in the crevices of the doorway, racks of clothing, and bordering a large series of mirrors that stud each wall.

It’s the biggest walk-in closet you’ve ever seen. And it’s filled to the brim with racks of clothing, all appropriate to the vague late-19th century setting of the park.

“Everything is bespoke,” pipes your immaculate attendant as he shuts the door behind him, “and exactly your size.” Painfully, you remember being asked for your body measurements in anticipation of this visit. Did they custom-tailor everything for each guest?

Or are you being given special treatment?

“You can pick out anything you’d like,” he continues, moving toward you, “and your other clothes will be waiting for you when you’ve finished your stay.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” you muse, fingering the raspberry-coloured silk of a lavish-looking day dress.

“The clothes you choose will determine the course of your experience.”

Your attendant is right beside you now, so close that you can see the way his golden eyelashes brush his tanned cheeks. He’s leaning in to examine the silk same as you, but his shoulder pushes just a little close to be solely practical. As he grips the material between lithe fingers, he lifts his gaze to yours on purpose. There’s a charming lilt to his smile that you can’t help but admire.

He pauses, dropping the silk and turning to face you head-on. Though the smile has slipped from his features, he still eyes you with interest.

“You want to ask, don’t you?”

Your brain catches up immediately, confusion swelling and fading in the span of a heartbeat. It tightens to thick dread in your chest.

He’s right. You do.

“Are you real?” The words sound even more ridiculous in the air between you than they did in your head. But ever since you boarded the train it felt like you could never be sure. And he’s perfect. Too perfect. Even the way he takes your question seems scripted and rehearsed.

He gives a low chuckle and takes your hands, stroking smooth thumbs over the backs of your knuckles. Then he peeks up at you from beneath flawless dark lashes and flashes a hint of pearly canine as he speaks.

“If you can’t tell, does it really matter?”

You don’t need him to expand.

“Come,” he prompts gently, dropping one hand to pull open a drawer of delicate slips and shifts, sitting in neat, folded piles of undyed linen. Some are plain, others trimmed excessively with lace and ribbons. You’re drawn to the coloured ribbons immediately- pale peach, soft blue, mint green. But the brassy gold of your attendant’s eyes is even more magnetic and you can’t look away for longer than a handful of seconds.

“You know,” he continues, squeezing your fingers gently and moving back in to run his knuckles up the inside of your wrist. Every single one of his touches is delicate, fluttering like a songbird against your skin. But there’s nothing gentle about the way he looks at you.

“Some of these clothes are a little difficult to put on alone.”

He does not explain further, but he watches as you’re drawn to the same conclusion that he is.

You have to roll this one over in your mind for a long while. You left your engagement ring behind, but the engagement itself still stands. Then again, he told you to enjoy yourself here. ‘Make every use of the park’s benefits,’ he’d suggested.

He’s just a computer, you tell yourself. A glorified sex toy. Maybe he walks and talks and flirts like a real human being, but…

There’s something about him that’s making it hard to turn him down.

After a silence long enough for any normal person to question, you look up at your attendant once more. He’s patiently awaiting your response, having gone uncomfortably still. You're not even sure he'd blink if you stare long enough.

You give a tight little nod and he’s smiling again, the same lazy smile as before. His default expression, you’re beginning to gather. He reaches for your coat.

“Wait.” You stop him with one hand on either forearm. He’s touched you before, but it’s still shocking how warm he is. Even though the sleeves of his perfect white jacket, he feels unquestionably alive.

"Don't you have a name or something?"

“Of course I do,” he responds. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Um…” Your brow knits. “Yes.”

He slips around behind you, curling his fingers into the open folds of your jacket and beginning to slide the weighty material off your shoulders. As he does, he leans forward, letting his lips draw close to your ear and making you shiver.

“Call me Keigo.”

“Keigo,” you repeat. It’s pretty and rolls easily from your mouth in a slow purr of desire. You can’t help yourself anymore. Keigo’s been programmed to put you at ease, but he’s doing much more for you now.

He undresses you methodically, pausing only briefly to run a hand down the curve of your waist or dip his fingers under the point of your chin when he catches you looking down. Even when you’re standing completely naked in front of him, he does not move to touch you in any untoward manner.

Whatever unspoken arrangement you thought you had formed is obviously not as unspoken as you’d hoped.

With his help, you select some period-appropriate undergarments. He helps you into your breezy linen shift first, lovingly tying the drawstrings into a neat little bow at the centre front. The corset is not as uncomfortable as you'd anticipated, fitting you devastatingly well. Keigo’s skilled hands pull the laces with precise tension, and the whole time he breathes soft commands and inquiries over your shoulder.

“Too tight?” He whispers, holding the laces taught at your waist. You take a slow, deep breath, then shake your head.

“Good.”

He ties the laces off and helps you into two petticoats- one of plain white cotton, the other of decorative silk and lace. Then he sits you on a cool, leather-covered sofa on one edge of the room and drops to his knees in front of you.

“Uh-“ you start, but he produces a pair of silk stockings from seemingly nowhere, smirking over the tops of your knees.

“Let’s get this out of the way.”

He pushes your airy petticoats up from your ankles, letting the backs of his palms brush the insides of your knees. He shoves the material up to your thighs and your confusion is multiplied now- is this what you think it is?

The way he admires your thighs as you shyly press them together certainly makes it seem so.

"Keigo," you gasp, curling your fingers against the edge of the sofa. The leather is supple and delicate beneath your touch like you could tear it if you wanted to.

He looks up just in time to watch you hook a bare thigh over his shoulder, and his brows shoot into his pointed hairline.

You’ve decided what you want out of this trip.

"Dove," he chides, setting down the stockings and pushing them gently aside. He takes both hands up the backs of your calves, stroking perfectly manicured fingernails into the tender skin at the backs of your knees.

He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. His face disappears behind the swath of frothy white petticoats gathered in your lap, but you feel his hot breath on your skin clear as day.

“If you wanted something from me,” he purrs, “all you had to do was ask.”

“I’m asking now,” you hum, letting your head fall back against the back of the couch. He’s easy enough to convince. Somehow, the fact that you didn’t have to work very hard for this almost makes it feel more acceptable.

“Here’s my answer,” he replies, sinking his teeth into the flesh of your inner thigh. You let out a strangled gasp, thigh jolting against his face as he slips his hand under the other leg- still hooked over his shoulder. You let out a low, shaky breath, trying not to think about the mark he’ll leave.

He pushes your leg away after biting it, shoving your knees apart and leaning eagerly forward. His head is fully buried under your gathered petticoats at this point, and you can feel him nosing his way into the crook of your groin, sliding a few free fingers up to prod gently for your hair-dusted folds.

“Wet already, bluebird?” He chuckles into your skin, sending shivers up your spine. “I’m flattered.”

“Stop,” you groan. There’s heat rushing to your cheeks with every word that tumbles out of his pretty mouth. You don’t want any of this to stop, but the heat between your legs is the one quickly growing unbearable.

“Do you want me to?” Keigo sits back almost immediately, ridding you of the delicious tingles his close breath were sending across your skin.

“No, no!” You yelp sharply, indignantly, digging your bare heel into his back to keep him close. He stops as soon as you apply pressure, letting out a quiet little chuckle.

“Keep going,” you pant, curling your toes against his pretty jacket.

“Your wish is my command,” he hums, already leaning into your flesh again. He does not hesitate this time, burying his head between your legs and giving the weeping slit of your cunt a long lick.

His first touch is all it takes to remind you how long it’s been.

“Fuck,” you gasp, low and languid. He doesn’t hesitate to close his lips around your swelling clit and suck. He makes sharp, sloppy noises with his lips and tongue, and the way they resonate in your ears near-doubles your pleasure. He’s eating you out perfectly, with terrifying precision. The strength of his jaw and tongue remains almost painfully consistent.

All the better for drowning him out. Despite his easy-flowing attitude and suave charm, he’s not a person. And it isn’t unfaithful to want him like this.

Even if you know he wouldn’t like it.

Keigo is diligent and careful, plunging his tongue in and out of your needy hole before finding the nub of your clit again, hard and sensitive. When he flicks the tip of his tongue against the tender front of it your legs spasm and you cry out softly as sensitive goosebumps rush across your ribcage.

“Like that,” you plead breathlessly, drawing your foot up between his shoulder blades as the tension builds. “Again, please.”

You’re holding the swells of your petticoats up around your thighs for him, but your fingers are beginning to clench in the delicate material. You’re not going to last long at all beneath a tongue as talented as his.

“Don’t worry, dove,” he purrs into your body, sending thick vibrations through every nerve in your system, “I won’t leave you unsatisfied.”

As he settles into his rhythm again, he plunges two fingers into your messy depths. He curls them tightly inside you, massaging your tender walls with a blunt and careful touch.

It takes little more than a few methodical strokes to make you fall. You cum with a tight little squeal, closing your thighs tightly around his head while you spasm and buck and sigh. He’s attentive enough to keep pumping his fingers through your orgasm, drawing out the pleasure as much as possible and greedily lapping at the wetness that trickles from your clenching pussy.

"That's it," he soothes, easing you down from your high with one calming hand on the column of your twitching thigh. As you settle, sweat-soaked, back into your seat he surfaces, sweat and shiny, sticky fluid sticking in the bristles of his perfect scruff. He licks his lips and you realize you’ve unconsciously mirrored him, doing the same.

In the moments directly following your peak you say nothing, looking down to meet his brassy gaze as deep uncertainty settles into your gut.

What happens now?

Keigo sits back on his haunches, pulling the folded pocket square from his breast and mopping up the mess on his chin and jaw like he'd done nothing more than spill a glass of wine or splash water over his lips.

“Much better,” he croons, reaching for the discarded stockings from before. “Feeling a little more relaxed?”

You swallow hard.

“I’d say so.”

His smile is surprisingly bright and sunny.

“Good.” He hooks his fingers under your knee again, unhooking your leg from his shoulder. Sliding a palm down to your ankle, he fits one stocking deftly over your foot and slides it up your calf, continuing his work as if uninterrupted. He fits the stockings over your knees and ties them off carefully with slips of silk ribbon, sitting the knots just below your knees so the stockings won't fall. Then, he gets to his feet and offers you a hand.

“Let’s pick out the rest of your clothes, shall we?”

The park is even more immersive than you imagined. The photos do it no justice. When you step off the (genuine steam-powered) train at Sweetwater Station, it’s accompanied by a very real twinge of anxiety. The village is like a scene out of a Clint Eastwood movie. Only there are no cardboard sets here. The saloon doors really swing inward. The shops and businesses that line the main street are built from real, weathered lumber. The dust that’s kicked up by the hosts that go about their daily lives is already beginning to coat your new boots.

You sneeze.

“God bless you,” greets a kind stranger in a rough-hewn grey coat and white hat. He’s got a very apparent drawl to his voice, but the glint in his blue eyes is kind.

Back at the facility, guests and hosts were easy enough to distinguish from one another. Out here, it’s a little more difficult. You’re not sure whether to believe that everyone is real or assume they’re all fake.

Luckily, there are four women beside you whose humanity you are acutely aware of. You’re lucky enough to have found your bridesmaids on the train in- all clustered in the bar car, but together nonetheless.

And they’ve insisted on keeping the party going.

“C’mon, bride-to-be,” your maid of honour chides, grabbing you by the hand and pulling you out of your reverie. “I know exactly where we need to go first.”

“It’s not even noon yet,” you protest, but the others are already miles ahead of you. You’re dragged easily into the broad, dusty street and toward those broad, swinging doors. The saloon stands proudly in the centre of town on a prominent corner with faded signs advertising its wares. And your maid of honour eagerly bats the doors open, striding boldly into the sun-soaked saloon.

The tables are surprisingly crowded for this time of day. It’s most likely a flood of guests, disembarking the train and heading straight for the local watering hole for a real taste of the action. Beyond their idle chatter tinkles the bright keys of a player piano against one wall. You can see the player scroll turning in the piano’s upright fixture, but that doesn’t change the unsettling way that the keys seem to press themselves.

It’s an eerie fixture in a town populated by walking, talking player pianos.

The man behind the bar bleeds Old West stereotypes from every pore. He’s got a huge, exaggerated greying moustache and a tweed waistcoat with shirtsleeves bound back for work. He’s polishing an empty glass with a cotton rag, but you spot him just in time to watch him politely greet a guest and reach behind him for a frosted bottle of unlabeled whisky.

The only other fixtures in the place are the women patrolling it, clad in colourful, lacy outfits that you’re certain violate some kind of historical convention. But they’re all breathtakingly beautiful, bosoms heaving over tightly laced corsets and fluttering from table to table like songbirds. They seem to provide little more than decoration and, as you settle into a table not far from the door, they fade easily into the background.

Until one of them screams.

You’ve read as many stories as you could scour the internet for before coming here. You know this place can get intense. Details of the park’s narratives and interactive storylines are kept under wraps as much as possible, so you can’t be sure whether this is out of the ordinary or not.

But when you whip around to find the source of the blood-curdling shriek, it doesn’t feel scripted.

It doesn’t feel scripted when the pretty girl in peach lace flings herself to the feet of a brand-new guest, here with his wife and their young son gaping from across the table. It doesn’t feel like she’s supposed to be wracked with sobs having never exchanged a word with this man.

It doesn’t feel like she should be pleading with him.

But the sobs wrack her body anyway, and her rosy little cheeks are flushed deeply now as she sniffles and blubbers.

“My daughter,” she begs hoarsely. “My girl, my daughter, please, I know you have her. Give her back to me, please. I know you took her. Give her back to me, I’ll do anything.”

Whether the father-of-one knows what she's talking about or not he's white as a sheet, stumbling backwards against the edge of his wife's table and pushing his arms forward, trying to keep her away.

The player piano finishes its tune, keys stilling as the saloon’s patrons look on in shock. And for an honest handful of heartbeats, the saloon is silent save for the host’s ragged sobs.

It takes a few moments for the player scroll to re-align itself before the tune restarts, and as the familiar notes cycle back through the saloon the host re-centres herself, climbing to her feet. There's a hardened resolve on her tear-stained face as her target looks around, gathering his wife and son with a this is bullshit and turning to leave.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me-“ the host begins to snarl. She lunches for the man, hands outstretched for the back of his brand new jacket, or maybe the brim of his crisp Stetson.

“Freeze all motor functions!”

A deep voice booms from the door of the saloon, amplified and simultaneously muffled with the use of a megaphone. The girl, and every other host in the saloon, freezes in place as though they’ve been paused. They don’t just stand still- they’re paralyzed. The smiling bartender is stalled with a glass in his hand; he doesn’t even blink.

In the doorway stands a hulking man of at least six and a half feet, seeming nearly as broad across the shoulders as he is tall. He wears a black uniform, armored black vest and heavy combat boots with a head of brilliant red hair spilling over his shoulders. As he lowers the megaphone he’s grinning, the bare flash of a sharp canine catching the low light of the bar.

“Sorry for the intrusion, folks,” he declares, striding across the floorboards toward the frozen host. Her expression is paused in a sneer of sheer horror and aggression, her hand outstretched for the man who has long since stepped aside.

The red-haired guardian angel, who has the name Kirishima stitched neatly onto the breast of his protective gear in white thread, catches your gaze. He shoots you a familiar little wink and a nod, a soft y’alright? escaping his throat in a quiet little growl.

You lick your lips, nodding slowly. Kirishima averts his gaze and reaches for the frozen host. As soon as he touches her skin she goes limp, falling easily into his powerful hold. He hoists her body over one shoulder and surveys the saloon, touching two fingertips to his forehead in a bright little salute.

“Please, don’t let me intrude on your stay any longer,” he continues. “As you were, everybody. Resume.”

The last word seems to be a command for the hosts in the room, as they spin to life again. They resume their rounds as if no time had passed at all; as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever transgressed.

Spooked, but encouraged by Kirishima’s smooth removal of the offending host, the guests around you go hesitantly back to their conversations. The player piano, also halted by Kirishima’s commands, has resumed its delicate play, and slowly the environment returns to the way it was before.

Your friends are among those willing to brush off the incident.

"What happened?" mumbles your maid of honour across the table, as if the host were still around to overhear her. As if the host's friends might be listening in to see if anybody's talking about her.

“No idea,” quips one of the other girls. “Must be some kind of glitch.” She looks over her shoulder, watching the remaining hosts at the bar. “I wonder if it happens often.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Head of Narrative Katsuki Bakugou slams a stack of papers onto the table in front of him, disrupting the intricate hologram that provides a real-time, scale model of the park to the room’s occupants.

“Katsuki!” Momo scolds, watching the hologram stutter and flicker. It’s not the first table he’s damaged.

“You’re not pulling my fucking narrative. It rolls out today. Do you have any idea how many writers I had busting ass on that thing?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she retorts, tapping the screen of the datapad she’s got hooked tightly in the crook of her other arm. “You saw the host that Eijirou pulled, didn’t you? The fact that he had to step in at all means things got way out of hand…”

“Bullshit,” Katsuki retorts, sweeping his papers off the holo-table (and shattering the image one more time). “That was a fucking glitch. You don’t even have the results back from Behaviour yet.”

“I already know what they’re going to say,” Momo continues.

“That’s right,” Katsuki snarls. “I forgot you know everything around here.”

“She was carrying the latest update. There must be something wrong with the code.” Momo tries not to remember Dabi and his distant stare. She swallows the part about the extra coding slipped in by the man who could do no wrong.

She flips her datapad shut- it’s doing her any good, since Katsuki’s right. The results from Behaviour regarding the misaligned host won’t be ready for some time.

“You can’t. Pull. That. Narrative.” Katsuki’s squared up now, all the gathered papers tucked under his arm. His jaw is ticked, nostrils flaring as his eyes flash. “An entire trainload of guests is wandering around Sweetwater looking for the stories they fucking paid for. If you pull the plug, there’s nothing left.”

He’s right again.

“Look.” Katsuki crosses to the holo-table one more time, only this time it’s without the murderous intent in his gaze. For once he’s ready to use the table as intended, pin-pointing the broad, dusty street of Sweetwater’s main strip and bringing up a live feed of the bustling little town.

"Dabi is riding through here in less than two hours," he continues. "Dial-up his aggression a little. Make him shoot up the place. If you want to pull the hosts, at least let them go out with a bang.”

Momo isn’t convinced. But it’s the closest thing to a happy medium she can picture at the moment. Katsuki, as prolific as ever, knows how to think on his feet.

“How many d’you think he’ll take out?” She probes quietly, quirking an interested brow.

“Enough to keep the guests AND your Doctor Frankensteins entertained while I find us some more loopholes.”

Her mind races through more questions. But the panic, fluttering high and shallow in her chest, has somehow been replaced by a delicate sort of reassurance.

She flips open the datapad one more time, activating the remote host commands available only to an employee of her standing. Finding Dabi’s program file, she does exactly as Katsuki suggests and dials up the aggression in his behaviour stats by eighty percent.

“This had better work,” she threatens softly, but Katsuki’s already folding his arms across his chest, looking far too satisfied with himself. His ego is insufferable, but his talent is unmatched. Worth suffering for.

His mouth splits into a triumphant grin as he shoots an idle glance at the live Sweetwater feed. The only stage he’s ever needed.

“’Course it will.”

The afternoon sun has nearly dipped behind the tallest rooftops in Sweetwater when your friends stumble out of the saloon. Your friends are already tipsy, giggling and clutching each other as they try not to trip over the hems of their skirts. They’re all a little too eager to pull out the extravagant lace fans that pair perfectly with their colourful dresses and fan at their heaving bosoms.

As you bound down the steps and into the dirt road, you dive seamlessly into the milling crowd of hosts and guests, starting to swim. If you’re about to be caught in the eye of a devastatingly orchestrated narrative maelstrom, you’re blissfully unaware.

“Give me the time,” Katsuki grunts from the Sweetwater side of the holo-table. Momo glances up at the digital clock on the wall.

“Thirteen fifty-eight, forty-two,” she notes. Katsuki’s got the camera feed trained on a lone trio of riders, clad in black and plodding steadily toward Sweetwater. He watches carefully, keeping an eye turned on the clock.

“They’re going to be late,” he grunts bitterly, folding his arms over his chest. Sero, Denki and Kirishima, who have all crowded around the holo-table on their lunch breaks to watch the show, snort in near-unison.

“I don’t think anyone down there’s keeping track,” Denki quips, smoothing his palms down the front of his crisp shirt, apronless for once. Katsuki shoots him a vicious glare.

“You wanna go back to your sewing room or what?”

Denki goes quiet.

Inside the park, the sun passes behind a cloud. The light shifts just enough to draw your gaze, and when you look up, you’re among the first to spot a few dark shapes approaching. They’re close enough that you can make them out as riders, all on horses as black as the wide-brimmed hats on their heads.

There’s something about them, their precise formation and the slow, plodding, deliberate pace of their horses that holds your attention. You can’t quite write them off as guests, no matter how much they stand out from the dully-dressed villagers around you.

You glance across the street just long enough to spot a WANTED poster tacked to a column not far off. You can’t make out any of the writing on it, but the face is distinct- dark, shaded patches covering his jaw, chin and lower lip, carving out two shadowy patches under his eyes.

There’s something about the narrow shape of his cheeks that pulls familiar.

But you don’t have to wonder much longer.

The three riders ride quietly into town, the crowd parting around them with little more than low murmurs and dull, lidded fear. They pull to a stop in front of the saloon, barely twenty feet from you.

The cowboy in the grey tweed coat who caught your eye fresh off the train approaches the riders. He’s got a revolver holstered on one hip, and he draws it slowly out of its pouch as he squares up with the horse at the lead of the pack.

“Haven’t you seen the signs with your mug on ‘em?” He drawls, his face drawn into an expression of tense righteousness. He jerks his chin toward the nearest one, the WANTED sign you’d seen seconds earlier. “You’re not welcome here, Dabi.”

The taller rider in the centre- Dabi- tilts his chin into the sunlight, and that’s when you catch sight of its purplish colour. His face glints with silver, a perfect match for the drawing posted across the street.

He does not hesitate, drawing his own revolver in one smooth motion and shooting the cowboy in the chest. The gun discharges with a crack that’s louder than you ever imagined it could be, punctuated by the screams of bystanders nearby.

As the village descends into panic you stand there dumbstruck, watching the chaos unfold.

“Wait for it,” Katsuki grunts, hiding his satisfied grin as his colleagues watch in rapt fascination. Sero hasn’t blinked since the action began.

“You sure?” Dabi rasps, voice muffled by the feed. He produces a shiny golden badge and flipping it, like a silver dollar, onto the expiring corpse of the righteous host.

“No,” Denki whines. “He killed the sheriff?”

“Shut up and keep watching,” Katsuki growls, quelling the proud adrenaline pumping through his veins. There’s nothing quite like seeing his hard work come to life- supremely worth fighting with Momo over.

Dabi smirks, tipping the brim of his hat.

“Seems like invitation enough to me.”

He swings capably off his horse and you can’t deny your fascination with the mystery surrounding him. You should be terrified, but there’s something about the cool confidence with which he carries himself that you can’t quite put aside.

If the women flocking to the windows on either side of the street are any indication, you’re not the only one who feels that way. In a brief moment of lucidity, you take a glance around you. Your bridesmaids have disappeared, disappearing in the panicked mass of flooding crowds after the scarred rider fired his first shot.

He’s followed by a second rider on his right flank, both quickly disappearing into the bar. The third rider- a petite blonde woman swathed in a heavy coat- gets down off her horse and turns quickly toward her saddlebags. When she comes around the front side of her steed, she’s got a shotgun in her hands.

She’s loading it. The pandemonium amplifies. At her feet, there’s a long, thick coil of rope that’s partially unwound and trailing into the saloon. It’s unwinding slowly, with dull screams and shattering glass echoing from inside.

That’s all you have time to notice before another shot goes off in front of you. The little blonde girl’s levelled her shotgun, emptying her rounds at anyone who raises a weapon against her. You’re barely standing ten feet away. But she passes you clean over.

Is it because you're a guest? The only ones who have fallen at her hand are the hosts, capable of being hurt by her gunshots. The guests who haven't taken off are clustered in the windows of shops or hiding behind broad wooden columns, but there is no fear painted on their faces.

You know the hosts can’t hurt you. But there’s something about the thrill of it all that sends adrenaline pumping through your veins anyway. There’s a cool mystery to all of the black-clad riders.

A part of you wants to join them. If you can be anyone you want in here… why not one of them? Why not swing cooly down from your horse and terrorize, when there are no consequences to your actions?

You take one step backwards, then another. Your senses are finally coming back to you. You should run. Disengage. Maybe you can’t be caught in the crossfire, but you can’t stand dumbly in the empty street, either.

Something has to change.

Before you can make it to the safety of a storefront, a pattern of three gunshots in tight succession from inside the saloon triggers something in the blonde, still picking off hosts. There are bodies littering the street.

She lowers her shotgun and hops back onto her horse, spurring it on with a sharp whistle. The beast takes off without hesitation, and it’s then that you realize the other end of the coiled rope is wound around her saddlehorn. As the horse strains its haunches and pushes forward the rope goes taut. And as the pair of them take off down the street, the spoils emerge: a heavy wrought iron safe, bursting out of the saloon doors and leaving nothing but splintered remains in its wake.

It bounces and rolls down the steps and slides smoothly as soon as it hits the dirt street. The blonde shooter and her horse disappear, safe in tow.

You wonder what became of the bartender inside and his friendly moustache.

Dabi emerges seconds later, a fresh rifle clutched lazily in one hand. His companion’s lost his hat in the turmoil inside- he’s blonde, too, with a deep scar splitting his forehead from hairline to brow.

"Let today be a lesson for every one of you," Dabi calls, re-cocking his shotgun as he surveys the fresh bodies and fleeing guests. You've stopped dead all over again, drawn to him like a magnet despite your best judgement.

He levels the shotgun, aiming it about five feet to your right. You follow his gaze. In the window over your shoulder, with her hands pressed to the glass, is a little girl no older than five. She’s watching Dabi and his riders with fearful fascination and does not seem to realize that she’s been targeted.

You don’t care if she’s a guest or not. She’s a human girl with big, lively eyes, and your adrenal glands work faster than your sense of logic.

Dabi shuts one eye, tilting his head. The corner of one lip curls ever so slightly as he concentrates, taking aim. “And that lesson is-“

“Stop.” You step in front of the window, spreading your arms and drawing his attention for the first time. When he looks at you over the top of his shotgun, his expression goes slack. He drops the shotgun and his eyes are wide, wider than they’re supposed to be, almost.

You’re close enough to see that they’re a shocking shade of blue. That blue strikes an achingly familiar chord in your heart.

You recognize those eyes.

“What the fuck!”

If the holo-table didn’t weigh half a ton, Katsuki would’ve flipped it on its end. The feed is as smooth as ever, but his face has gone scarlet as he paces away from the table, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“What? What’s wrong?” Kirishima’s well past the end of his lunch break by now, but there’s no way in hell he’s going back to work before seeing the way this plays out.

“He stopped,” Katsuki growls. “He’s not s’posed to fucking stop.”

Dabi’s been stopped on the brink of a speech that took Katsuki days to put together. He’s been waiting to hear it delivered for weeks. It’s the speech that Dabi’s entire narrative was hinged on, forged out of countless sleepless nights and careless notes scribbled idly on coffee breaks.

“Holy shit.” There’s a genuine shock in Denki’s voice that’s enough to make Katsuki turn around. Denki’s gone white, Sero beside him, too.

“You’d better get over here and see this, dude,” Kirishima mutters, jerking his chin toward the feed. Momo’s watching over his shoulder, too, one hand pressed to her pursed lips.

“That’s a guest, isn’t it?” Sero quips. Silence settles over the room.

“I’ll get Shouto,” Momo declares, turning away and opening up her datapad.

“What’s going on?” Shouto bursts into the holo-room not two minutes later, mismatched eyes lit up with urgent concern. “Did I read your message right? I-“

Katsuki’s pacing the room, quieter than ever. Denki, Sero and Kirishima are still gathered around the feed, winding back the stream to replay the events that have sent them all spiralling. Momo’s the only one who even acknowledges his presence.

“Something’s happening in the park,” she explains, hushed and tight as she meets him at the door. “Another updated host is off-script.”

“How bad is it this time?” Shouto asks, hiding the dread that’s spreading in his gut. He had hoped that the girl from the saloon was just an unexpected glitch, but the results from Behaviour told another story.

Still, two deviances in just the first day of the update feels worse than he dreaded.

“You’d better take a look for yourself.”

Momo leads him to the holo-table and the feed, letting the other boys step aside. Shouto steps up to the projection, watching Dabi ride into town. Watching him break into the saloon with Twice and Toga, two other repurposed hosts, by his side.

He watches Toga ride off with the safe behind her and watches Dabi start his speech. And then, from a near-birds-eye view, he watches Dabi spot you of all people. Dabi lowers his rifle and strides toward you.

Shou’s heart leaps into his throat.

With dull horror he watches Dabi slip a leather-gloved hand under your chin. He watches you tilt your jaw into his touch. You’re fascinated by him. Even though the dust and pixels it's painfully obvious.

Dabi seems to notice, too, since he stoops low and hoists you over his shoulder without another word. You struggle, but he holds you fast. He strides across the road to his horse and sets you- still squirming and fighting- in the saddle, climbing on behind you and grabbing you tightly before you can escape.

Just before he spurs his gargantuan black steed forward, he pauses to glance over his shoulder. Shouto can’t be certain, but for a moment it seems like Dabi’s found the camera, staring plainly up at Shouto through its low-quality lens.

A breath passes. He looks away, gives a whistle, and disappears into the wilds beyond the town.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Kirishima presses. “Katsuki, you didn’t program him to kidnap a guest, did you?”

“Of course not,” Katsuki snarls from across the room, his nerves fraying dangerously. “What kind of idiot do you think I am? Do I look like a walking liability to you?”

“Look, it’s fine,” Denki chimes in. “It’s not like he can hurt her or anything. Just chalk it up to the park experience. Tell her Dabi kidnaps random nobodies all the time.”

The room goes quiet as a crypt. Kirishima looks at Shouto. Shouto looks at Katsuki. Katsuki looks at Momo, and Momo takes a slow, deep breath.

“Do you want to tell him, Shouto?” she asks, “or should I?”

Shouto closes his eyes and tries to quell the panic rising in the back of his throat. He shoots Denki a cold look, jaw ticked but eyes blazing.

“That’s my fiancé,” he mutters, low and shaky. “Dabi kidnapped my fiancé.”

#hawks x reader #dabi x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #dabi #hawks #hawks smut #hanta sero #denki kaminari #eijirou kirishima #katsuki bakugou #momo yaoyorozu #tw guns #tw gun violence #tw death #tw drinking #tw body modification #reader insert #westworld au

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hddnone · 3 years ago

Text

The one with serial killer Tony and cop Bucky (rated T)

***

Alexander Pierce was the tipping point.

When Pierce’s body was first found, Bucky had fallen back on his police training. Legal justice was the only route, where people had a chance to defend themselves in front of a jury of their peers. No one person should play judge, jury, and executioner like this vigilante who decided to murder Alexander Pierce, an ex-Congressman who had stepped back from that job to use his political skills to run a non-profit.

The man who now had iron nails hammered into his eyes, the calling card of the serial killer who had been stalking the city.

The killer stuck to the elite, like he diamond encrusted arms dealers who pushed war to make a profit or the CEOs who had a back business of sex trafficking. Ones where money and power had let them avoid the consequences of their crimes until this killer came calling.

Bucky had started to admire the guy - not that they knew it was a guy, but statistics told them it was most likely - for who he picked as targets, how he completed the job, how he knew to clean up a scene. The killer was good, and usually that only motived Bucky to work harder so he could be better, but this was one shark he wouldn’t mind letting continue to swim the sea.

Until Alexander Pierce, whose death was mourned by groups around the world. The man was a hero. There was no reason, no justification that could possibly -

The evidence rose from the deep like it was finally coming up for air. Without Pierce keeping his secrets pinned, the drug operation was toppling over. It wasn’t cocaine or crack. Nothing so pedestrian for him, of course. Pierce was into pharmaceuticals - driving the opioid addiction, price-gouging medications, whatever he needed to drive a profit or create blackmail.

No one had known. No one had even suspected. No rumors or whispers had connected Pierce to any of it before, but this guy had found out and taken care of it like no police force ever could. Not with Pierce who had that much power, that much money, that much control.

That was when Bucky tipped back onto the side of the vigilante, and he was there to stay.

Which was why when a brown-haired man fled a scene while trying to look like he wasn’t fleeing the scene, Bucky didn’t call out. He saw, knew his partner didn’t, and said nothing. The man turned, just for a moment, and their gazes met.

Bucky swallowed his gasp of surprise at the heart-stuttering knowledge that the man was Tony Stark.

Tony Stark?

Tony Stark. The poster boy for drinking and sex and money, who dropped off the map for a decade - everyone had thought he was dead - until he came back to overhaul his father’s weapons company. That Tony Stark, who seemed to have learned some tricks to target the scumbags of the world in his own way.

Tony Stark. Huh.

Bucky told no one, not even his best friend Steve, of what he suspected. What he knew made sense now, with Tony’s tech and money to identify threats and cover tracks. Of course it was Tony Stark. Who else was going to be ballsy enough to go after the darling Alexander Pierce and manage to even come close?

He continued to follow the cases as they dropped, working his job as normal like he didn’t know the answer to the question every newspaper headline was asking.

Then Tony Stark showed up at his house. Inside Bucky’s house, sitting on Bucky’s couch, feet on Bucky’s coffee table when he comes home from another long day.

“Truth is, I am the Iron Killer,” Tony declared, staring at Bucky with unnerving intensity.

Bucky made for the bar. If this was going to be his last drink, he wanted something stronger than beer.

“You always introduce yourself to people like that?”

A smile twitched at the corners of Tony’s mouth. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

“No, can’t say I do. I try to keep it hush hush, that whole pesky business with jail time for murder. Might even be death row now, with my list of…accomplishments? I feel like I should pick a different word.”

“Dead bodies is more accurate.” Bucky popped open the good vodka and gave himself a generous pour.

“That would be two words, not one. No matter. Seemed like you knew who I was already.”

Bucky flicked his gaze at Tony, whose dark brown eyes were trained on him with full force. He turned back to his drink, and added another splash of liquor.

“Yeah.” There wasn’t much use in lying. “Figured it out when you fled the scene.”

“I was behind schedule on that one, obviously. Trouble with the nails sometimes, trying to get the perfect picture. You know it is.” Tony approached, a slow strut that raised the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck.

Here it came. The danger, the death. He hoped Tony didn’t frame Bucky for heinous crimes. His search history was embarrassing but shouldn’t lump him with the dregs of society. Hopefully.

“But you haven’t said anything,” Tony said softly as he grabbed an empty glass and then Bucky’s lone bottle of whiskey.

“Nope.” No one else was in danger but himself. He was glad he’d chosen to keep this secret, no matter how it had begun to weigh.

“What do you want?”

“A drink.”

Tony swirled his glass, watching Bucky instead of the moving liquid. “Are you about to blackmail me?”

“No.” Bucky snorted. “As if that would work.”

“Excellent.” Tony took a long, slow sip of his drink and Bucky took the chance to gulp his own. “You didn’t seem the type and I’d hate to be wrong.”

“What type do I seem like?” Bucky asked, wary.

“The kind who wants to change the world for the better.” Tony leaned closer, and Bucky was acutely aware of the lack of space between them.

There was still danger, but now it was tipping into a different type. And Bucky wasn’t sure he minded.

“Which is why I’m here with an offer.” Closer, Tony was even closer. “How would you like to help me change the world? Flip the power and make bastards fear who would come calling.”

“I’m not about to go hammering nails into people,” Bucky forced himself to say, because it was the truth.

“Darling, I have something different in mind for you.” Tony’s voice was a purr, and he was in Bucky’s space.

And Bucky wasn’t stepping back.

“What do you say, James Barnes?” The question was whispered in his ear, and Tony had to have heard the hitch in his breath.

Wetting his lips, he said, “Call me Bucky.”

#winteriron #tony x bucky #bucky x tony #starkbucks #megan writes things #like serial killer things

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quillify-tries-to-talk · 3 years ago

Text

Yet Another Rewrite (Part 2)

For the thomstair appreciation week by @youngreckless ik it's over. Sorry I'm late :(

You can read part 1 here then come back and read this one.

Thomas and Alastair working things out part 2. Enjoy!

Tw: mentions of racism, bullying, abuse, colonialism

"Even our angels have mercy, Thomas." His voice was hollow now.

Despair threatened to pull him under. It wasn't worth it. Anything. He would always be like this. It was a miracle even Cordelia was able to look him in the eye without hate. He did deserve this, he thought, settling back on his bed, all the fight drained. He deserved every blow and every bruise he'd inflicted on others.

Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa

Funny that he now remembered his Latin lessons.

The bed dipped under Thomas's heavier weight, and he felt a flash of warmth when hesitant fingers crept over his skin. Too close. He was too close.

Let go, he wanted to say, but lies seemed to evade him whenever Thomas Lightwood was present. His eyes looked dark brown in the dim lighting. There were dents on his bottom lip where he must have bitten it. It took everything in him to not let his hands rise and trace the lines of his jaw.

"I remember Paris."

Alastair's eyes widened. He sat frozen, and Thomas took that as his cue to continue. "You were kind to me when I was very alone, and I am grateful." He looked up, face a bit red. "It was the first time I realized you could be kind.”

He tried not to let the last comment needle him. “It is my favorite memory of Paris as well.”

“You don’t have to say that. I know you were there with Charles.”

His jaw went tight. Not that. Anything but that. "Charles Fairchild? What about him?”

Thomas cocked his head to the side, his expression innocent. “Wouldn’t that be your best memory of Paris?”

“Exactly what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything." His tone indicated the exact opposite though. Cheeky little–

"I’ve seen the way you look at Charles, the way he looks at you. I’m not an idiot, Alastair, and I’m asking …” Thomas shook his head, sighing.

He was going to say it. Right here. Angel help him.

“I suppose I’m asking if you’re like me.”

There it was.

Perhaps he could salvage this conversation. He gathered his thoughts, straightened out of his slouching position.

“Thomas Lightwood,” he said. “I am nothing like you."

Thomas stared as if he'd been clubbed on the head, eyes dazed in shock again. He was shuffling from side to side, probably preparing to launch himself far, far away from him.

A bit more effort, dâdâsh, Layla said in his head, amused and exasperated.

Right. “I am nothing like you, Thomas." His breathing was faltering again, throat closing up, fighting against the vulnerability he was exposing. “Because you are one of the better people I have ever known. You have a kind nature and a heart like some knight out of legend. Brave and proud and true and strong. All of it.”

He smiled bitterly. “And all the time you have known me, I have been a terrible person. So, you see. We are nothing at all alike.”

His head snapped up, surprise etched on his features. His eyes started twinkling again. What was he doing to him? Even looking at him made Alastair want to smile.

He hadn't wanted to smile in a long, long time.

"I'm not—" Thomas broke off. "That's not what I meant."

Don't I know that, eshgham? "I know what you meant." His voice had softened. The words hung in the air for a moment. But he needed some answers of his own now. "How did you know about Charles?"

“You wouldn’t tell me what you were doing in Paris,” Thomas replied. Alastair thought he heard a note of hurt in his voice, but promptly dismissed the notion. “But you mentioned Charles, over and over again, like you got pleasure out of just saying his name. And when you came to London this summer, I saw the way you looked at him. I know what it is to have to hide the—the signs of affection.”

“Then I imagine you may have noticed I don’t look at Charles that way anymore.”

What did you just say, Carstairs? Admitting to your own failures now? Couldn't even hold on to first love?

His jaw tightened again. Get out of my head, baba. Charles. Get out, both of you.

“I suppose I did,” Thomas said. “Though for the past four months, I’ve been trying not to look at you. I told myself I hated you. But I could never really make myself. When Elias died, all I could think about was you. What you must be feeling.”

His father's name reopened the gashes on his heart. Heat sparked behind his eyelids. “I insulted your father and blackened his name. You were under no obligation to care about mine.”

“I know, but sometimes I think that it is much harder to lose someone who we are on bad terms with than it is to lose someone with whom all is well.”

“Bloody hell, Thomas. You should hate me, not be thinking about what I must be feeling—” Alastair passed a hand over his face. It came back wet with tears. He didn’t even know when that happened. He’d never had an audience for his crying before.

"But I do," said Thomas softly. His fingers ghosted higher along Alastair's wrist, making his heart skip a beat. Once, twice, three times.

Bewildered, he marvelled at the sensation such a small touch could cause.

"I'm sorry." Thomas's voice was soft, filled with guilt. His head bowed as if in prayer. "I—what you said. What happened at school." His gaze trailed over Alastair's features, and he shook his head. "I always found you beautiful. Then and now. I didn't know people hated how you looked. You're like a poem, but in human form."

"Poem," Alastair repeated numbly. If his brain had short-circuited before, it was blown to bits now. No one had ever called him that.

Charles had called him a beautiful secret. His safe haven. His comfort and best friend.

Never a poem.

"Yes." Thomas's cheeks were slowly flushing rose. Another nice contrast with his skin and hair. "Graceful. Elegant. Confident. You were always so poised and sharp. Like one of Jamie's knives. You were smart, managed to turn people over. They listened to you. Look what you did just now. I didn't know what to do. If I wanted you. Or if I wanted to be you. Remember when I followed you around school?"

Alastair's rusty throat muscles regained a bit of their ability. He wanted me? It wasn’t the best, but it was okay. Charles had wanted him. It hadn’t been too bad. Until the end. Until the horror of his actions had dawned on him. Until he realized that all his time spent with Charles had been wasted in tending to his needs, not Alastair’s. He hadn’t even known a relationship required his own needs to be taken care of. That it was a necessity.

"I remember,” he managed. “Then I met you in Paris and you’d grown up and turned into Michelangelo’s David. I thought you were beautiful. But I was still caught up with Charles—” He broke off, regret weighting his stomach. “Just another thing I’ve wasted. Your regard for me. I wasted my time and my affection on Charles. I wasted my chance with you.”

Thomas blinked. And blinked. And blinked. A pulse had started in the base of his neck, thudding against the delicate skin. Alastair raised his eyes only to find him already staring.

"Thomas?" His name tasted strange on his tongue.

"You said angels too have mercy," he said in answer. "I—I must apologize. I'll admit I didn't know how people treated your family. I have been sheltered in that regard."

"You must know where those indigo-dyed silks came from," said Alastair softly. They were from India. Ariadne had mentioned it during their little dance, the news that had trickled in. The brown-skinned, hollow-eyed servants brought in for labour by mundanes and Shadowhunters alike. "Or why England never has a shortage of adamas, but my country does."

That one was still going on. Britain liked guising their nefarious schemes behind offers of trade.

He released a sigh, shaking his head in despondence. "They never tell you. Layla and I knew because we saw it happen; we know our histories ever since we could walk and talk. And it still happens. It's more than demons and humans for us. It’s always been that way." He held one brown hand up to the light, and Thomas’s eyes followed. “This isn’t apparently how we were supposed to look. I tried changing that, and it did work for sometime but.. I hated myself even then. I hated my family and my culture and my books. Do you flinch from your own face, Thomas? I always did. Still do, sometimes.

“I hate that my skin isn’t like yours. If it was, perhaps people wouldn’t have said so many things. Perhaps I wouldn’t have as many bruises.” He leaned his head back against the wall, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “In another life, perhaps we would’ve had our chance, you and I.”

His words ended with a plaintive note; the bone-deep weariness that there was nothing he could do, aside from ripping off his own skin or trying to be like his father. In appearance, at least. They remained silent for a long while, but it was the thoughtful sort. Alastair didn't know how many hours he passed by just counting the cracks in the walls when Thomas's voice pierced the quiet.

"Teach me."

He jerked awake. "What?"

"You said there are things I don't know about you. About where you come from and what you and Cordelia have to face. And… perhaps I'd like to know. I'd like to understand how the world works." A small smile ticked up the corners of his mouth, and Alastair found himself besotted by the expression.

By the Angel. Definitely not coming out in one piece.

"You'd like to… umm…" Words had fled when he'd needed them most. Damn you, Thomas.

Thomas’s fingers enclosed over his wrists. The warmth was steadying, comforting. His expression was hesitant, at odds with the way his body commandeered space. “I want help. Really, truly. I found myself fascinated in Spain by the difference in language and culture. And then Paris. One-time travel gave me a different perspective, so imagine what more knowledge would do.” He was practically shaking with excitement at the prospect of learning of his ancestor’s atrocities. “You’ll be teaching me, so it won’t feel like a debt to you.”

“Are you sure you want to know, Thomas? People have done some terrible things.”

“I need to know what I’m redeeming myself for before I ask for forgiveness.” His hazel eyes were clear, expression determined. Like a knight readied for battle. A scholar rewriting history on pages.

Alastair felt his throat tighten at his excitement. He wasn’t used to any of this. Apologies. Forgiveness. Love. Hope. His story was supposed to have died after all his attempts to apologize to The Merry Thieves. He’d failed then to ask for friends, so why would someone give him another chance?

“And maybe you’re wrong,” Thomas added in what was supposed to be a nonchalant tone, but Alastair detected a slight tremor in it. “About me.”

“Speak sense, Lightwood.” His tone sharpened, a defense against his wrecked emotional state. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this.” In answer, Thomas hooked his hands around Alastair’s shoulders, and the sudden onslaught of warmth and gentleness made his body sway with the sheer impossibility of the situation. No glass. No manipulation. Nothing but warmth and truth and compromise. The good sort.

This had to be a dream. He would wake up any time now, but he couldn’t stop staring at him. Couldn't stop admiring his smile, the brightness of his eyes, the shape of his mouth, that damned pulse at his throat. And more. His strength. His passion for learning. His bravery in venturing after a killer alone. The openness of his heart.

I’m not worth it, Alastair wanted to say, but by then his head had fallen on his shoulder, nestled in the crook of Thomas’s neck. He felt lighter than air. For the first time, his head felt empty of anything: trouble, grief, responsibilities, duties. It was just them. Thomas with his arms around him, holding him in the storm of his life. His heartbeat was a steady clock that Alastair could time his breaths to.

With Charles it had been all heat and desire, and the furious pounding of his heart in the thrill of being wanted by someone. This felt like coming home, sitting down for a cup of tea with his favourite book. Warm and right and natural. Tears slipped down his cheeks, freed after years and years of being locked away for the sake of his family.

Thomas set his lips to Alastair’s brow.

His body seized up at the soft pressure. It felt like someone had poured sunlight into his veins. Another tear slipped down his cheek. Impossible. Wake up, now. Happiness wasn’t a part of your life. But he was still here, feeling Thomas lean his cheek against his hair. Through the swirl of emotions, he heard his voice again.

“We’ll get past this together. I will relearn you, Alastair.” The sound of his name on Thomas’s lips sent his heart careening again. “Negaran nabash.”

Don't worry. Even with the different cadence, it would’ve been hard to miss. Thomas had just spoken in Persian.

Lifting his head, he raised an eyebrow. “Where did you learn that?”

“Oh. Umm. Just something…” That adorable smile surfaced again. “A little hobby? Like Kit and his test tubes?”

Shaking his head, Alastair allowed himself a little smile. Perhaps, it had been worth it to risk his neck. For this. Only for this.

Taglist: @cherilyn-rose @youngreckless @eugeniaslongsword @nott-the-best (2nd part eeeeeeee🥳🥳🥳) @cant-think-of-anything @livingformyself

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benevolentcalamity · 3 years ago

Text

By My Dark Sword [Fume Knight]

"Accursed creature of the Abyss! Begone!"

"You're the bane of humanity's existence, [Name]! A font of misery!"

The scars the stones left on your skin linger even in the heat of this tower. People chased you here and there until you'd found sanctuary where they could never even dare try to reach you. For you, your only options were to run about Drangleic until you found a proper place to hide, and risk being found again and executed by the angry humans that blame you even now for the Undead Curse.

Why for, though? The answer is simple.

Born in the Abyss from the scattered pieces of Manus, you found a form to go by and tried to live amongst humans. After all, you like them were born of Dark, which Lord Gwyn had previously feared, and in turn feared Humanity.

You once had asked, why would humanity revere and love what hat tried to destroy them. Maybe that's why they felt you no longer belonged with them, for in minutes they prosecuted you for slandering the Great Lord's name, or some other crime they felt was overdue for punishment.

Your existence, then. The flesh and blood you had been born with: that is your crime.

Leaving formalities out of the way, your time has run out and you're here, in what is known as the accursed Brume Tower. A peerless giant, an endless torch in a night of hatred, accepting of what dares walk inside and survive. And from how the monsters within cower at seeing you, as if knowing what you truly are, this place is your new home, and your tomb, in one fell swoop.

Better than the piercing chill that awaits outside, and possibly the ever-omnipresent hatred of Humanity towards what should've been embraced rather than the Flame.

... Very well. If you cannot escape your nature, then you shall embrace it.

And with the authority of a child of the Abyss, you plant your seed of Dark, where you can bother no one, but those who come for your head will be punished. For no longer will you live in the shadows of those who embrace Gwyn's quivering Ash; only those who can embrace the Dark, their past, will ever be fit. That, or the Chosen One, willing to slay all of you to link the fire.

So it is written, so it shall be.

You are (quite rudely) roused from slumber, unsure of how long it lasted, from the distinct sound of the tower being opened.

A challenger? A brute who hath braved the creatures outside and has now come for you? You're not adept with a blade like your dear sister Nashandra, and Alsanna no longer embraces your shared nature. All that's left here is you, the monsters here only a barrier to whoever dares disturb you.

Swallowing, you melt into the shadows - a skill you'd learned simply from your fear changing slowly to boredom - and from the lens of the darkness you can see what dares challenge the tower.

It's a knight, brave and true. His armor's scorched black or painted in cinders, not as though you can tell, and his stance implies great power. Your insides quake; he's here for you. He must be.

Before you can stop yourself, you command through the shadows, "Halt!"

He does, body and head turning to find you.

"This is the Brume Tower, sanctuary to the Children of Dark. There is nothing for you here, Sir Knight!" You quiver. "If you wish to press on, I will not stop you, but it will not be me or the flames within that will snuff out your Ash."

His arms lower a bit, but just as you expect him to turn and leave like a wise man would, he nods. "So be it."

Dammit... So this knight is either brave or foolish...

Where is your blade? If he's here, it has to be to slay you, free the people of his homeland from fear of you and your sisters, just as humans and Lords alike will do.

Shuffling through the ashes - a natural consequence to fire being almost everywhere - you find your longsword, prepared for if this knight can brave the trials Brume Tower has for him. You will say he looks powerful, but... Will his sword bathe in your black blood?

You're lucky to be alive this long, you suppose.

Father... If only I could know if this knight should fall here.

As if on cue, there's a horrendous sound, one you'd only heard once, that shakes through the ground and reaches you. The tremors send your heart down into your stomach, and as if like a reflex you throw your arm toward the entrance to your little room. But, with the effort of trying to erect a fog wall or cast some kind of protection, your arm shakes in fatigue.

Swallowing, you grip your blade tightly, ascending the stairs. Not that you have a chance against a knight of any sort, but...

But...

If I die, what'll happen?

Hearing the resounding clanks of metal footsteps, you hold your sword with both hands, keeping your feet together and rolling your shoulders back. You swallow as a great shadow is cast on the far wall.

And in time, there he is, the knight himself.

At first he's brandished his greatsword, expecting a terrible monster to be guarding whatever could be here. However, he appears to notice you, visibly lowering his guard.

"Who are you?" You ask. "You, who has braved the Brume Tower and the monsters and scourge within... Pray, which king sent you for my head?"

"No king," He replies. "Legends spoke of a Creature of Dark. I came here to see if the legend is true. Lo, what I find is not a creature, but a fair lady."

"Nay."

His head tilts. "Nay?"

You shift a bit on your feet, examining him a bit without taking another step. "You stand before [Name], child of Manus of the Abyss. The creature of Dark you seek is right here." You remove one hand from your blade, spreading your arms out as a show of peace. "If you seek to kill me, I invite you to try. For that is your history, is it not? Any great king's knights would expunge the Dark."

With a sigh at realizing this was going slowly, you plant your blade in the ground beside you. "I will ask you again: Who are you?"

He puts a hand to his chest. "I am Raime, once a knight of Drangleic under King Vendrick."

"Exiled," You nod. "What a pity. And you came here, be it to slay me to redeem yourself or, carve a piece of the world yourself."

It's inside him, you can feel it. One touch from him, or a swing of that mighty sword, and the darkness itself will cease to be. If his sharp gaze beneath his helmet doesn't kill you, that will, if he approaches with murderous intent.

"But tell me then, Sir Raime-" You're more buttering his ego than anything, as is your nature "- what good is a dog, with no master to guide it?"

His blade lowers, and you reach out your hand.

"If you seek a new master, then come here," You beckon. "Embrace your banished fate, and kneel before me."

Much to your surprise - more that you're still alive than him listening to you - he does approach, kneeling and putting his head down.

"O, lordless knight, bereft of hearth and home, hear me," You sing. "If you shall swear by your strength to become a Champion of Dark and guardian of the Child; a blade that shall hunt our enemies..." For a moment your hand lowers in your own hesitation, but your resolution in living raises it again. "Then I shall protect you, safeguarding your body and soul with the power of the Abyss within me."

His hand effortlessly raises his greatsword by the hilt. "I will be of service to you, my fair lady."

Smiling, you put your hands over his, and soft streams of vantablack emerge from your heart and into his armor, seeming to taint it inside out. Now a fragment of your soul rests within Raime, and he is bound to you until you both die.

You then kneel down yourself, lifting your blade from the ground and tapping him on the shoulders.

"I hereby dub thee Sir Raime, the Fume Knight of Brume Tower," You pronounce. "With your protection of my wicked life, I in turn shall provide succor, however it may be asked for."

His head raises, and from his knees he stares up at you as you kneel to his level, softly placing a hand on his arm.

As is your nature, you can feel yourself corrupting him, the sharp eyes beneath the helmet glazing over with infatuation, admiration, redamancy, carnal desires from killing for you to ensuring you're guarded and loved in each way possible. Your Dark seeps into him and wraps his soul up, until his very mind is set in his almost religious dedication to you.

"My wondrous knight," You coo. "May you be one with the Dark forevermore."

His own hand raises and cups your cheek. You lean in and he pulls you closer.

"And by my Dark sword, may I be forever at your side."

Yes... Yes...!

With such a power within him, you can very much tolerate this. All the souls in this ruined world can go wherever they're beckoned - all you will want or need is here.

Sir Raime, once a knight of King Vendrick of Drangleic, now a feared Fume Knight at your stead.

You, a Child of Dark, born a splinter of Manus, made simply to carry the spread of the Abyss in his stead.

And there's nothing and nowhere you'd rather be.

#fume knight #ds2 #dark souls 2 #dark souls 2 raime #fume knight raime #my writing #you'd think if you killed him before Velstadt that Velstadt wouldn't have an issue with you #nope still got a bone to pick #joy #dark souls

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the-crows-typist · 4 years ago

Note

Hello! I recently read your azul's ficlet and i'm close to crying at how beautiful it is (its 4am emo hours). If its okay, may I request a ficlet of Jade with a gn!reader with the word 'sleep' or 'rest' (pick whichever suits better!). Thank you in advance! 💖

CW: Spoilers for the movie Your Name (Kimi no na wa), character death, body switching, angst with a happy ending, and slow burn (sort of)

Feedback in greatly appreciated!

Thank you to @opalmaplehibiscus , @jellyfishstuckinwonderland , and @raven-at-the-writing-desk for the input in the making of this fic. I greatly appreciate your help.

The Possibilities are Endless

“My name is..”

“Please remember me...!”

The crowds on the train pushed them apart, a braided bracelet was tossed towards Jade. A lifeline connecting both of them together, a connection between two souls; the face of one that was desperate to keep holding on, they yelled one last time just as the doors of the train closed and their grip on the bracelet wrap loosened.

“My name is—!”

Jade opened his eyes and he was in his room, his very dark room. To his side was his closet and to the other a white wall. The sound of bubbling water churned behind the window of his dorm room and with one slow blink, he pulled himself up and hunched over.

The same dream, the same voice, the same bracelet tossed to him.

He craned his head to his lamp stand where the colorful wrap lay next to his earring, he doesn’t remember where he got it nor does he remember why he wanted to keep it for so long. He took the bracelet and looked at it and thought back to the voice in his dream.

“Please remember me...!”

Pushing himself off he moved to the mirror to fix his appearance, with his brush and hair gel in hand he let out a gasp when the lights of vanity shined light on a note. A note written on his cheek with a marker, a message he didn’t remember writing.

“Who are you?”

It was during breakfast that Jade began to notice the strange happenings around him, how Azul asked if he was feeling better or how Floyd said he was wearing his earring again. “What do you mean,” Jade questioned. “I always wear it.”

“You weren’t yesterday. And you looked so lost like some little guppy, you even forget how to get to class yesterday morning.” Floyd complained, eating his breakfast with a huff. “Was it a prank? Cuz’ you got me good.”

What was he doing yesterday?

He woke up, went to school...No. That wasn’t what happened. He didn’t recall anything from the previous day. In fact, he remembered being at a different place.

In a city full of buildings and faraway from the sea, the familiar smell of white roses, the smile of an unfamiliar fellow and a bento box he had no recollection of him cooking or making.

His uniform wasn’t black but a cream with a tint of yellow, his magical pen was nowhere to be seen and was instead replaced with a pen nib brooch. He touches his cheek, remembering the message written on his cheek. “Who are you?”

“C’mon, you gotta tell me.” Floyd pestered, his arm over Jade’s neck “Was it a prank?”

“Perhaps.” The twins laughed, Floyd pulling close but in his mind he thought of the message, his incapability to remember the previous day. He needed more answers but only questions filled his head.

His notes were a mess and full of sketches. There were sketches of Night Raven’s facade and the students, his classmates. A slew of messy messages on paper, the handwriting worrying as if the person writing was stressed beyond belief.

“The uniforms are black, the gems are pens.”

“Nothing but roses for miles.”

“Wishing well???”

“Where am I?”

“Mr Leech, please read the next line.”

��Yes, sir.”

Trein’s brow raised and he blinked. “Well, today you actually remember your name. Perhaps you were just feeling ill.” A hum of laughter passed through the class. “And your hair is fixed as well; I was beginning to think you and your brother switched places when you came into class with a messy bed head.”

Jade blinked, tilting his head. “I...see. I’ll make sure to not make that mistake again, professor.”

“Good. Continue on reading.”

“Magic transcends all meaning when twilight occurs, when the sun and the moon share the sky for a single moment.” Trein explained, using a magical pointer. “The word twilight means ‘half-light’ when the light of the sun glows and causes refraction in the atmosphere and signaling the end of the morning and welcoming of night or visa versa. At times like this does magic become unpredictable and free-forming and when realities begin to overlap each other for the time twilight occurs. This was used to the advantage of the earliest magician in recorded history.”

Trein faced his students. “Nowadays, these times of day are known as dusk and dawn as the world twilight has fallen out of favor in recent years.”

“It’s probably because of that one book.” A student yelled from the rows behind and Trein nodded his head. “Ah, yes, ten years ago was an odd time for the word ‘twilight’.” Trein blinked, shaking his head slightly. “Who would have thought the human body produced so much diamonds but that is beside the point.” The bell rang and the students began taking their books. “Be sure to read up on your lesson today, we will be having a quiz tomorrow on the topic.”

Jade stayed in his seat for some time and stared at the diagram on the board.

Twilight.

In the back of his mind, a flash of a memory comes to him. He remembers a train stopping by and the droves of people coming in and out. Jade was alone that time, buying something some seeds or fungi. The sun was setting at the time, the yellow sun turning orange and the sky dimming to a nightly violet.

“Jade.”

He didn’t know the person who called out his name nor did he remember what they looked like but he did remember the smile they had, as if they were looking for him for a long time, it was a face relief.

“It’s me.”

He didn’t know who this person was nor did he ever remember their face and yet, at that instant he seemed to have known them his entire life. In his heart was a feeling of warmth, of glee, of content and relief; he was confused by it all. A strike of panic pierced his heart when that smile turned into a confused and upset frown. “You don’t...remember me..?”

The next stop came and people began filing out, pushing the two of them away from each other. “Jade, please remember me!” They said as they were pushed out by the crowd. Reaching up, they pulled the braided tie from their hair and threw it out of him. “Please remember me..!”

He caught the braided tie just as the other let go and doors began to close.

“My name is—!”

“Is there something wrong, Mr Leech?” He blinked, looking to Trein with confusion. He had missed the door and stood by the wall of the classroom. “Ah—I’m sorry.” There was a hissy laugh from Lucius as Trein set him down on the table to collect his papers. “You seem to be in deep thought, is there something on your mind?”

“No, professor, I was just thinking about our topic today.” Jade lied through his teeth and Trein took it with a huff. “I know twilight is a regular phenomenon but I didn’t know that it was an important time of day for mages and magicians.” A nod came from his professor. “Many people nowadays don’t see its importance as magical materials and magic itself have grown and changed over time. With the new technology and the new breakthroughs we have, the archaic practices of the past have since then been abandoned.”

Trein looked to the window and Jade followed his gaze, the sun began to set and the color of orange and violet painted the sky. “Twilight has begun.” Picking up his beloved cat, Trein stretched his back and moved to face the student in front of him. “It’s best to get back to your dorm, you might miss the curfew.”

“Professor, have you ever experienced anything during twilight? Like the way you’ve explained it during class?” Jade asked suddenly, his professor’s eyes widened then looking to the side to think for a moment. “I have but they were more of dreams than the otherworldly claims of recording happenings. I would often see myself in another person’s shoes, seeing a world I did not know about, it wasn’t a pleasant experience but...It was interesting, for a dream at least.”

“I see. Thank you very much, professor. I’ll be on my way.”

He stared at his messy notebook unblinking, the messy handwriting and the sketches were foreign to him. He drew a few doodles but he never put any detail to it nor was he able to do sketches of his peers in movement.

“Where am I?”

Taking his pen, Jade wrote a message. What had happened to him wasn’t a dream, he knew that and he knew that what he was about to do wasn’t a sure fire guarantee that whoever wrote this will see it but the unpredictability of the situation allowed him to push through with an eagerness to see the end results.

“You are in Night Raven College. My name is Jade.”

The night loomed over the dorm, the once blue waters a dark purple and tinge of black. Twilight has ended. Jade closes his eyes for a moment and sighed, thinking back about the lesson and to the confused glances of his peers.

“Please remember me...!” The voice begged, the image of a braided bracelet flowing through the air as it flew towards him. Tugging his sleeve, the bracelet was wrapped around his wrist snugly; its design was simple and bright mix of blue, yellow, and red.

“Please remember me...!”

Jade tugs his sleeves back down, only stepping out of to his bed when he felt tired. The bracelet was removed from his wrist and sat next to him.

“My name is—!”

The voice echoed through his mind, he felt that he should remember it, he felt like he should know who it was, and all he felt was frustration and eagerness to see this unpredictable situation through. He closed his eyes wanting to rest his eyes rather than sleep.

“So this is what Night Raven College looks like. It’s very pretty, your uniforms are very pretty too but I’m not used to the environment there. It’s probably because of the walls or the silence.”

It had been a few days since the messaging through the notebook began with Jade and his pen pal, of sorts. It seemed that his new pen pal had been observing weird happenings to them too. Their classmates telling them of their weird behaviors, one time all they ate were mushrooms.

“I don’t even like mushrooms and because of you I ate a whole lot of them in just one day!”

It seemed that his odd dreams of seeing another world unlike his own weren’t dreams after all. The white and yellow uniforms, the sweet smell of lilies, and the pen nib brooch all pointed to Royal Swords Academy. Apparently the person he switched bodies with studied there.

“And I was told that I ate eel for lunch and it upset my brother. It seems both of us are even on this regard.”

He always wrote messages on his notebook the moment he got home and he preferred it that way rather than waking up to writings on his face and arms. The marker ink was hard to wash off, even with large amounts of sudsy soaps.

“We have a notebook to communicate for a reason, please use that.”

“I like writing on your hand, Jade.”

There were moments that he expressed frustration with them, even anger but that soon dissipated into childish antics of messages written on skin, eating disgusting foods they came to like, and a bond that transcended physical reality. They were from two different worlds and yet, here they were being friends.

All this was just like a dream to him.

“Hey, about that braided bracelet...Where did you get it? I had one just like it before it disappeared; I used to wear it on my hair.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to that. It just came with me, I suppose. I couldn’t part with it for some reason so I’ve been wearing it ever since.”

“I guess we just so happened to have the same braided tie, huh? Hehehe!”

After class, Jade went to experience the twilight hour for once and see the students filter out of school and run about. It was the end of the week and it was a time for fun, brooms flew overhead and magical swirls of dust were thrown about by fun-loving students.

“What I like about your school is that none of you are afraid to get dirty and have fun.” He remembered his pen pal writing. “I love RSA but the uniforms and the rules we live by stop us from having fun like all of you there in NRC.”

He couldn’t blame them, RSA had some rules to go by and the uniforms really stopped them from having fun too. The chaos that he saw in RSA wasn’t like those in NRC, not by a long shot but he could see the charm it had in it despite the difference in school life.

Jade wanted them to experience this first hand one day. In their own body, of course.

He went back to his room when the sun had disappeared and the moon stood in its place. Sitting by the notebook, he took his magical pen from his pocket and began writing his response to his pen pal’s recent message.

“RSA has beautiful scenery, there’s no doubt about it. It’s a nice change of pace from the gothic feel NRC has, I find it rather peaceful. Though the sudden music lessons do tend to throw me off but that is something I will eventually come to get used to.

He tapped his pen on his desk, humming at his short reply. He looked at his wrist; the braid coiled around his wrist and was vibrant under the yellow light of his lamp. Unlike them, he never really gave hints of what his school life was about nor did he give details of what it was like to spend a day in RSA.

“We had a lesson about the magical phenomena known as Twilight. Apparently around that time, magic becomes different and realities begin to overlap...Do you think that’s what’s causing us to switch bodies?”

“Twilight...I’ve heard of that phenomenon too! It actually makes sense, maybe that’s what's causing it but if it’s really true then that’s some real strong magic!”

Jade slept that late that night, the braided tie next to his forehead. For once, he didn’t dream of the train station but of a hand coming up to take his own. No, it wasn’t his hand, it was his pen pal’s hand, and it grasped softly then tugged for him to follow.

He was on a mountain, the sky glittering with millions upon millions of stars. It was a beautiful sight, his eyes widening as the stars grew closer and closer, the heat around him rising and rising; burning his skin and singing his hair. The world around him was destroyed and the last thing he heard was the terrified scream of someone he was beginning to hold dear.

He awoke with a gasp, his eyes tearful and his lungs out of breath. Next to him were a concerned Azul and his brother Floyd. “We could hear you gasping from the hallway.” Azul explained but Jade kicked off his covers and ran to his desk, his notebook, their means of communication was empty. The messages he had collected with them were gone and only his own remained.

His brother tugged at his shoulder. “Look at me.” He was whirled around, their foreheads touching. “Breathe. You’re gonna give yourself an attack if you don’t breathe.”

He closed his eyes, leaning against his brother to breathe harshly. A pair of hands pats his back, Azul’s and Floyd’s, in an act of comfort but none of their touches reached Jade. He was too confused, too shaken up, too anxious. “It was just a bad dream.”

A dream...

What he had seen in the eyes of his pen pal was all a dream...?

Pen pal?

“It’s best that you get some more rest.” Azul said, pulling Jade back to his bed. “I’ll explain to the teachers what happened to you.” Floyd nudged him down and pulled the covers up until his brother’s chin. “We need you well rested, Jade. We’ll have the others check on you every once in a while.”

He forced himself to breathe slowly and carefully, his eyes screwed shut and thoughts in a whirlwind. His memories scrambling and confusing, he tries to remember the train station, the lake that was on RSA’s sloping hills and the falling meteorite.

Had there been a meteor shower? There was no news of it, no indication.

A hand caressed his head, shushing his sounds to silence.

“Sleep, Jade.”

The next day, Jade spent all his time in the library with books about stars and meteors and sleep being the furthest thing from his mind. He poured through the articles about meteor showers, checking online news sites, and pouring through scientific documents.

Nothing.

No recent reports of a meteor shower anywhere near the area of RSA or NRC.

A frustrated sigh left Jade’s lips and he held his head with a huff, burying his fingers into his hair when a fluffy tail rubbed and pawed against his arm. “Good to see you’re up and about, Mr Leech.” Trein stood over him as Lucius stepped over the articles to sit on one of the books.

“I didn’t know you were taking a liking to astronomy.” The professor commented, taking an article and reading through it. “Meteor showers, eh? I haven’t seen those for some time. The last one was beautiful but also very tragic.”

“What do you mean, professor?” Jade stared up at his teacher, slightly surprised.

“You weren’t in NRC at the time this happened but there was a meteor shower that passed by Twisted Wonderland, it was a festive time...But that soon became a tragedy when a fragment broke off from one of the passing meteorites.” He sighed, closing his eyes and setting the paper down. “Though NRC and RSA have been rivals for a long time, I can’t bear to think such a catastrophic event would happen to them.”

His heart skipped a beat, eyes wide in surprise. “You mean to say...”

“A meteorite fragment fell on RSA three years ago, specifically on the field just outside the school where some students were watching the shower. Those poor children...”

The white crystal of his magical pen glowed bright and Jade pushed himself off his chair, figure hunched forward and head hung low. Lucius let out a meow as he scrambled away from the student. “Mr Leech, what are you doing?” Trein demanded but his voice fell on deaf ears, Jade remembers his last dream, the last time he switched bodies. He remembers the falling meteorite, the scream that wasn’t his own, he remembers them.

His pen pal.

In a burst of magic, Jade disappeared from his position leaving a scared Lucius and a confused and upset Mozus Trein.

The landscape around him was heavy, the crater left by the meteorite was massive and no traces of life were seen within the impact zone. The memory of the meteorite fragment falling right on top of his pen pal, killing them instantly played again and again in his head. Jade, normally so aloof and calm, fell to his knees.

They died.

They died where he stood.

For the first time in a long while, Jade screamed his heart out. A wail of agony loud enough to echo through the empty void that was essentially his pen pal resting place. He sunk to his knees and continued crying until his throat became hoarse and painful.

He laid on his side as the sun went down, the braided tie peeked out of his blazer.

“Please remember me—!”

The train station...Was that a dream too? What had he been doing when he was in there? What was he there for?

Who was calling out his name.

“Jade...?”

The sun set over him, the sky turning orange and violet. It was twilight hour.

“Jade..”

“Jade.”

There was a touch to his shoulder and a soft shake. His head turned, his eyes widened. A student from RSA stood over him. They smelled of white lilies, uniform a mix of white and yellow, and their magical crystal a pen nib brooch. There was a familiar gleam in their eyes, a smile he came to know from the many days they had switched bodies.

His pen pal smiled at him, offering their hand for him to take. “It’s really you, Jade. It’s actually you.”

They laughed, pulling Jade into a hug; his tall figure dwarfing them easily as they hugged his chest. Jade sighed, returning the hug soon after and rocking each other back and forth for a few moments the sun shined in the horizon.

“I thought I lost you, y’know?” They said, looking up at him. “I just...I suddenly couldn’t reach you.”

“I thought you had died. I saw the meteor fall on you.”

They looked at each other for a moment and a laugh was shared, their foreheads linked together soon after. “I know but...somehow, maybe...I don’t really know what happened to me. I just couldn’t reach you to tell you what happened on that day. I nearly forgot about you and I cried for days wondering why.”

Pulling away, they looked down to Jade’s wrist. “Hey, that bracelet...”

“You gave it to me in the train station.”

It was all coming back to him now. This person, his pen pal, was someone he held dear for a long time.

He felt comfort.

“Oh yeah! I did, didn’t I?”

“Do you want it back?”

“No. Keep it.”

The two held hands for some time but were immediately thwarted by them pulling out a marker. “Hey, why don’t we write our names? That way, if we ever forget each other there’ll always be a reminder. Ah, but I don’t have any paper with me...”

Jade offered his palm, his smile teasing and knowing. “You always liked writing on my skin.”

They shared another laugh and the marker’s cap was pulled off, Jade looking over the horizon as they wrote their name on his palm. “Your turn.”

He took the pen from them and as soon as he wrote the starting strokes of his name, the marker fell from his grasp.

The twilight hour had ended and the moon took over the sky.

“Eh...? What am I...doing...?”

Jade was found by his peers not long after, taking him in and letting him rest as they descended the crater near RSA. Mozus Trein was their chaperone, explaining to the staff of the rival school and covering his own students.

“Someone he knew died here,” He explained, looking at Jade being covered with a blanket by his brother. Jade’s eyes were closed and he leaned against him, clearly exhausted from the ordeal and exposure to the elements.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, professor.” Said one RSA’s employees, brows upturned and frowning deep. “The meteorite crash was a very tragic event for all schools. I can’t imagine how much grief that young boy has gone through knowing that a friend of his died that day.”

“I hope you can look the other way on this. I know we shouldn’t come into each other’s premises without proper—“

“It’s quite alright. I’ll explain the situation to the headmaster once everything has settled.”

Floyd pulled his brother to his chest and stood up, Azul placing a hand on his back.

“Let’s go home, Jade.”

Jade wasn’t alone that night, Floyd and Azul wouldn’t allow him to be alone. They slept next to him, keeping him company but while the two slept, he couldn’t. The moon shone against his window and gave his room a very soft blue glow. He raised his hand to his face, the message from someone he held dear was still visible but slightly smudged.

“Thank you.”

Bitterness rose in his chest and to his throat, his brows furrowed in frustration. The tears forming stung his eyes.

“You idiot,” he brought his palm to his face, sniffling. “I can’t remember you this way.”

A year had passed and the dreams stopped coming after that night. Jade had picked up the habit of sitting outside during twilight hour, watching the set and holding the bracelet that never left his wrist for more than a second. He wore it everywhere he went but when asked; he never had a proper reason for it.

“I feel complete wearing it.”

The yearly magical shift festival brought troves of customers and onlookers, Jade and his brother sat on a bench and let their legs rest after a long day. “I’m gonna go get something to eat. You want anything?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll buy some myself.”

“’Kay.”

Jade was left alone after that and he closed his eyes for a moment, his nose taking in the different smells of food and perfumes.

There was a familiar smell of white lilies.

“Excuse me.”

A person stood in front of him, holding a brochure. They were a uniform of white and yellow and a pen nib brooch. They smiled at him and familiar warmth bloomed in his chest. “I don’t mean to disturb you or anything.”

Their smile was sheepish but it felt as if he’d seen it somewhere before.

“Do we know each other by any chance?”

“I think so.” Jade’s smile was easy and suddenly their eyes began to water. “I had a feeling we did.”

“Hey,” Jade reached over and intertwined their hands, the bracelet’s colors were vibrant against his skin and theirs.

“May I…”

“Can I…”

“...Know your name?”

#works from the typewriter #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #jade leech x reader #jade leech #twst jade leech #twst jade x reader #angst #jade ficlets #this took me so long to write oml #twst #twst x reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader

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kajikxp · 4 years ago

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Loving a king

I was just walking through a dark allay, my footsteps were not heard by a man I was calmly following. He was scared, he knew subconsciously that something was after him. Yeah, he should be terrified. But today I'm gonna make it quick. I don't have time to spare. I took out my dagger, which would pierce your skin just by touching the blade... With one swift motion I grabbed his neck hard, which would normally leave a bruise and then I silenced his cries for help with one precise cut. Blood splashed out and now his lifeless body hit the cold ground, but before that I grabbed the key, he wore on silver chain around his neck. Another well done job, now I have to go to her, but firstly, I have to change my clothes, sun is going to rise in fifteen minutes. I climbed up onto roof and silently run back to my house. Sky was clear today, but I knew it was going to rain today. This way they'd find his body maybe tomorrow afternoon when their boss would send others to look around for him. I will still have time to do that one job. That's what I thought but I didn't know that she actually left a letter inside my dark house, where now I was. I stripped from my black shirt, pants and boots then just started making myself a coffee. Thank to my scumbag of father I could withstand three days without a sleep but at least that is what killed him. He was creating me like some monster so I show him that what this monster could do. Only thing he taught me was killing so in return I turned back at him for underestimating me. After some time, I met a Momo, she was kind enough to me to give me a shelter and food and lastly a job which I could do. Still people would be conscious if I would live here and did not nothing in a daylight, so I have to find a job at closest bakery. They didn't ask questions why I was always tired and why I was sometimes late – or maybe that was because I would always tell them that I have insomnia and something along those line that they left me be. With coffee in me I put on after a shower light blue shirt with brown pant and boots and left house to the bakery. People always looked at me and I did not care anymore. My half red and half white hair really were weird and not to mention my mismatched eyes, grey and light blue. I was quite but really not so unfriendly, or that was what Deku and Kirishima always told me. I only have a rough exterior but soft inside. I never really care enough to tell them I'm not. Not after that once time when I told them I'm the assassin and they laugh it off with Kaminari and Sero. If they would believe me and sold me to the crown, they would be filthy rich and shouldn't work for their three lifetimes. Well, who am I to judge? Their mistakes are theirs and only. Today flight right around me. Deku and Kirishima making out in the storage room, Shinso half a day in the bakery sipping a coffee reading a book and looking out for Kaminari. Always the same as the day before. I was cleaning on today's duty which was mine and one last customer came in. He had glasses, was tall and talked like some kind of robot, asking for a croissant for a royalty. I didn't really care and did as ordered. When he left my only though was about me seeing him again maybe. Yeah, I was about to do a regicide and betray the kingdom, but I couldn't care less. Hope it will go fine. I told myself back at home in my black outfit only for killing even smelling faintly like it and iron.

...

Silently going through a palace like it was mine, outside only noises of a rain. Guards couldn't see me, when I was walking in the shadows and thanks to their chatting about really loud king, I was finally able to find his room from which were heard loud blasting and loud voices, actually three of them. One of them I heard today. The robot-like human. I had a feeling I would meet him again. Well, I need those two to go away. Then a plan strokes me. I made a ruckus in the hallway when a made one of the guards scream and after that I cut of his tongue. He kept screaming though. The doors open in a fast manner and some pretty girl runs outside. "Iida, run and call a medic! Fast!" She screams at him when she checks situation. Guard kept his eyes on me screaming and pointing finger at me. Before she could turn around and maybe see me, I waved at a guard and slipped into the room, closed the door and locked them. When I turned around, there was a knife on my throat. "What the actual fuck are you doing here and what's going on?" Asks a king harshly. He had pretty, scarlet eyes, fire burning everything inside them into ash. His spiky blond hair messed into every direction. I only smiled to myself. "I'm pretty surprised you can actually see me." I grin and them with few swift motions change our positions to reverse only with little dismally to that he pulled my hood off. His eyes travelled all over my face and he whispers. "You're so pretty..." With that he kisses me. I was never ever so much surprised and frozen on a spot. He grabbed the knife and throw it away with my dagger. When I moved, I could only ask him how the fuck did he know about my dagger. "You looked like a shitty person to have one. The Shadow, the one who is the fucking living legend. Every shitty brat knows you, but nobody actually lived long enough to tell the tale how you look like." He smirks. "Who could have known that only way to stop you was a simple kiss" He licks his lips sensually. "And have a fucking good taste even though smelling like a death." He smiles at me and when he takes my face in his hand and caresses me, I don't object, until there's a pounding on the door and screams in the name of a king. "Go and return the other night, Halfie." He whispers and I cannot do otherwise, but before I jump out of the window many meters above the ground, I kiss him and when he wants to deepen it, I break the kiss. "Tomorrow, you Highness." With that I jump out and it makes me laugh, when he runs to the window and looks down, me standing on the window under his. "King who cares about his assassin's health – that's going to make a pretty good history book." I snicker and after he blow me a flirty kiss with a key, which I catch, I go back inside with a hood on and escaped a castle. The heavy rain clouds cleared and the sky only shining with many stars promising a good start of something nobody could ever imagine.

...

Today was a day I have once in a time slept all the night mostly. Once I was on my way to the work in bakery, I could hear all the people talking to each other. "Did you hear that? Someone broken to the castle!" "Did they steal something?" "I know it was a Shadow! They went to kill a king!" "They're after the crown!" "Even his most trusted guards couldn't see them!" "It's only miracle the king still lives!" "The king didn't even tell them how they looked like! Not even a gender!" "They just let him live!" "Do you think they had something with the king?" "I don't think it was a Shadow! Nobody ever lived after meeting them!" "Don't lie! It's a girl and seduced a king!" And so on and so on. I knew that today I was going to meet Momo inside of my house. At least I've got my hood with my work outfit with me. Little did I know that today I was going to meet with her last time. At work I left my things under the table and went to selling to the citizen, who came in. All day all I heard was about the king, me and assassination. Like the day before in the evening came in a royalty. But today it was a king himself. "Get your things, extra, we're going." With that said I just grabbed my things not even looking on the others, who were silenced with one look from a king, and with him we came outside into a dark allay. "Put on you other cloths, Pretty boy, today I'm going to meet the other one, with you..." He whispers into my ear. "You know, they're going to die, right? But you know that exact time, you left me alive, didn't you, Shadow?" His voice so soft and deep even more than ever. My only responds for him was a nod and taking out my black shirt and pants and one for him too. "I think, this would fit you so much better that the red one you're wearing, your Highness." He growls, but when he gets what I meant, he didn't complain anymore and just put it on without looking at me and me at him. This wasn't the time to do this and we both knew that. We're going to make this end. When I jumped at a rooftop, I held out an arm to him, but he surprises me even more, when he uses his strong arms and pull himself up too. I was fast, slim and silent and he was all bulky and strong, I wasn't even sure if in a real fight I or him would win. And that's a hard one when actually almost no one was ever a challenge for me and my assassinations. Without a word I started running from rooftop to the other in a moonlight and its shadows, which I knew too well to his Highness's liking, I was leading us to my house almost at the end of a city. I supposed the king was never here, but he was so natural at learning, that even his steps were more silent than that night at which we met inside his royal room, so I could never guess if he was there or not. My window was opened, and I came in swiftly with king right at my heels. There inside in my armchair was sitting Momo. Her dark hair up in the ponytail as always, I saw her. "So, you're finally here. Hello there, your Highness." She says ironically which was a big change from her usually well-mannered self. "You're on his side right now," she shakes her head in disbelieve. "And here I thought we could be together and rule this kingdom by each other's side. I love you, Shoto!" She declares. "I gave you everything you ever needed and now you're turning your back to me? After all that time? Didn't you love me back?" She asks desperate after I told her everything. She really did save me, but she never did bother to really asked me out, if she did, I would tell her I was gay. I would tell her that all the missions I did just because she gave me money for that, I would tell her that I never really care about a throne. "Then why him? Why? How did you...?" She asked and king answered her honestly. "I just gave him a kiss and asked him in some way out. I had a guts and not only a dream. If you want something to become a true, you have to tell that to someone and with conversation you would get, what you so much wanted, what your heart was craving for." In the end they left her there standing, watching with a broken hea

#writers on tumblr #boku no hero academia #momo yaoyorozu #shoto torodoki #bakugou katsuki #bakugo x todoroki #todoroki x bakugou #assassin au #fan fic prompts #fanfic #king au #my writing #writing #writer #modern #trying

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jawritter · 4 years ago

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Happy Halloween

Summary: It’s Daddy’s favorite holiday. So what’s a good girl gonna do, but let him blow off some steam after a successful hunt?

Warnings: Daddy kink, hair pulling, consensual name calling, Dom!Dean, Sub!Reader, spanking, light edging, orgasm control, language, rough sex, oral (male receiving), mouth fucking, hint of a pain kink maybe? I think that’s about it. This is just porn with a crack ass plot. I’m not sorry lol.

Word Count: 3092

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

A/N: You guys ask for some Daddy!Dean for Kinktober? Well, who can say no to that? This fic was beta’d by the amazing @deanwanddamons! Thanks so much hun! Please do not copy my work! Feedback is golden! Hope you guys enjoy this one!

Want more? Check out my Mastlist. Not enough? Become a Patreon, and make special request, as well as get access to exclusive fics, and one shots!

**MASTERLIST** **BECOME A PATREON**

Dean had always been the aggressive sort. He didn’t take shit from very many people, and if you were one of those who he did take it from, you counted yourself as lucky. He’d even gone off on Sam more than once, and Sam could get away with more than most.

It was one of the side effects of dealing with the life that you all were thrust into when you were just children. Your father had been hunting partners with John for years, off and on, when you were children, so you had known the Winchesters for a very long time, long enough to know you did NOT push your luck with the eldest Winchester.

Even though Dean was always hard in a sense, there was a time when he wasn’t as hard as he is today. Back then, the hardest thing he had to do in his life was impress John Winchester, and that had been more challenging than any monster he’d ever faced.

Life was as simple then. A vamps nest, the occasional Djinn.You killed the monsters, you saved a few lives. That time was long gone for the both of you. John's death had opened up a whole new world of monsters, demons and dick angels. Things that you weren’t prepared for, and neither was Dean. Dean spent what was only four months to you, but was forty years to him in Hell. Literal Hell. Sam jumped in the cage with Lucifer. Life became a downward spiral that just went on and on, until you found yourselves here today.

God had it in for you.The son of Lucifer was dressed as the Devil, courtesy of Dean’s twisted amusement, in the backseat of the Impala he’d deemed “Baby” years ago. You were on your way to a Halloween party that was expected to go south thanks to one of those rare simple vamps nest your unconventional group had been investigating.

“Dean, I don’t know about this,” Jack said, looking at his own reflection in the rearview mirror where he caught the look of Dean's amused gaze. The red paint on the boys face was a little much in your opinion, but hey, you weren’t in charge of this shitshow, so you decided to keep your trap fucking shut.

“It’s simple Jack,” Dean said.You could almost hear the smirk in his voice, and you were determined to look dead ahead of you, and not in the backseat where you would probably die laughing. “You go to the party, just stand back, watch, find a chick maybe. I don’t give a fuck, but just make sure that no vamp gets inside that fucking house until Y/N and I can take care of the mother fuckers. If one does show itself, lure it out to us, and we will take care of it.”

Dean made it sound so simple, and you could only imagine how nervous Jack was. He didn’t have the conventional upbringing of most people as it was. Technically, he wasn’t even 12 yet, he was just advanced because of his race, and somethings just didn’t come quite so naturally to Jack as Dean had thought that it should. That, or Dean just didn’t give a shit, because he was never really going to forgive him for Mary’s death. He just wasn’t.

“You will be fine Jack. Just keep a low profile, and watch out for vamps. Dean and I can take care of the rest,” you told him in what you hoped was an encouraging tone. “This will be a piece of cake, and we will be back at the hotel before you know it.”

Jack fell quiet as he looked at the landscape flying past the backseat window, and your eyes trailed Dean's still amused face as he drove down the farm road to the old ranch house the teenagers were attending for tonight's festivities.

Dean loved Halloween. It was one of the only holidays that he really did enjoy. Sam, on the other hand? Well, Sam hated it, and when Dean found this case, Sam decided to stay behind with Eileen while you, Dean, Jack took care of this small little case that was only three states over.

Dean had tried to convince you to dress up for the occasion, but quickly changed his mind when you told him that there was not a chance in hell you could hide a machete in the slutty nurse costume he’d picked out for you. That’s how the plan to dress Jack up , and place him in the party watching the party goers was born.

You and Dean had a history.That history had started when he’d taken your virginity when you were only 18 years old. Every time you got a chance after that, you found yourselves between the sheets, in the back seat, and against the walls of bars in dark alleyways. Dean had a “healthy appetite”, and even in his forties he still carried the stamina of a horny teenage boy. You weren’t complaining either.

Somewhere around thirty, he’d discovered his Dom fetish, and that literally fucking ruined all other men for you. You should have known Dean’s “take no shit” attitude would have translated over into the bedroom eventually. It was the one place he could have complete control, and the one place he could let off steam with someone he trusted.That someone was you.

Since tonight was his favorite holiday, you had decided when this small little hunt was over, Dean would get to see you in that slutty nurse costume he’d wanted you to wear so bad. After all, daddy always gets what he wants, and that’s why you had jumped up and suggested the kid get his own room.

You watched the sky turn dark as Dean speed towards the party and the hunt, your mind on just what Dean was going to say when he discovered you had kept the costume.

Three hours later, you found yourself standing in the hotel room that you and Dean would be sharing for the night, staring down at the nurse’s outfit on the bed before quickly sliding the towel that was covering your body to the floor, and picking up the costume. You only had a few minutes before Dean would be done with his shower, and he’d already ordered you to be in position when he returned to the room. He just didn’t know about the costume.

Dean was usually in a good mood after a good hunt, and this hunt was the first easy thing they’d done in a long time, so therefore Dean was in a very good mood.

You had just slipped the last strap over your shoulder, and got into the kneeling position on the bed that he required you to be in when waiting for him, when you heard the shower cut off, and the door to the bathroom open.

The room was dark.The only light that came into the room was coming from the bathroom and it flooded the small room as Dean rounded the corner to see his prize. Judging from the predatory growling sound he made when he saw you waiting for him, he was very pleased, but you knew better than to look up from your submissive stance and make eye contact without permission. Dean wasn’t going to take your shit, and you wanted to cum tonight. Slick already gathered itself between your spread thighs in anticipation of what was to come, and Dean hadn’t even laid a hand on you yet.

Dean’s eyes shamelessly raked over you as he made his way towards the bed.You could feel his piercing gaze, even though you couldn’t see it, and you waited with bated breath for Dean’s approval, which came in the form of the Dean’s rough thumb reaching out, and running across your red painted lips. You reached your tongue out and swept over the tip of his thumb, twirling it around this thick digit as if it were his cock before sucking it into your mouth, and letting it go with a pop.

Dean groaned at the sensation as he watched your lips around his thumb, and his dick twitched in interest as his eyes roamed the barely there costume that you were wearing for him.

“Such a good little slut, waiting for Daddy, all dressed up so pretty,” Dean said, his rough voice causing a shiver to visibly roll through your body, and land in your already aching cunt.

Dean chuckled at the reaction and he brushed his fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear to get a better view of your face. It was a move that was almost too intimate for what was to come, but it was his way of asking you if you trusted him and you did.You trusted Dean with your life.

When he noticed you lean into his touch, it was the only permission he seemed to need. That and the high adrenaline made him more impatient than what he would have normally been . His large hand fisted your hair almost painfully as he jerked your eyes up to meet his darkened gaze. His bare chest and body was on display for you, as his hard length twitched on its own from it’s proud position. A bead of precum was already forming at the tip, and you licked your lips as you watched it bob there. He needed this. He needed this just as much as you did tonight, and damn, you wanted to taste him so bad.

His eyes followed your gaze, and if you would have not forgone the underwear you were sure that the smirk he gave you would have melted them clean off your already overly heated body.

“What is it, sweetheart? Daddy’s little cock slut wants to have a taste before I ruin that pretty little pussy of yours tonight?”

The needy wine that left you lips wasn’t the answer Dean was looking for, so he gripped your hair impossibly tighter, and growled as he looked down at your form as you all but squirmed underneath him.

“Use your words. I want to hear you beg for it,’ Dean said, lowering his face so close to your own that his lips brushed yours with every word, and his whiskey kissed breath fanned warm over your skin.

“Please Daddy, please let me suck your cock, I’ll be a good girl, please let me taste you,” you begged him in a small voice that surprised even you. Dean’s mouth meet yours in a clash of lips, tongue and teeth that ended with his perfectly straight teeth sinking into your lower lips before he pulled away to soon, leaving you breathless and at his mercy, his grip still tight in your hair as he guided you to his impressive length before tapping your mouth with his swollen tip.

Reaching out with your tongue you lick softly at his dripping slit. The salty taste of his precome filled your mouth, and you moaned as he gave your hair a sharp jerk, sending the jolt from your scalp to your pussy, that was literally dripping down your leg onto the already stained bed sheets under you.

“No teasing, Bitch,” Dean spat, his teeth gritted against the shiver of anticipation that rolled through his own spine. “Hands behind your back, you know the rules. No touching yourself. I’m gonna fuck that filthy little mouth, and then I’m going to split open that pretty little cunt.”

As ordered, you opened your mouth and Dean pressed himself into your waiting lips. You sucked at him as he slowly pressed himself into your open mouth. Your tongue ran along the vein under this shaft as he adjusted to the feeling of your mouth around him, stopping when the tip touched the back of your throat with a grunt, his teeth biting into his own lip.

Your fingers dug into your palms as arousal coursed through your body with renewed fervor. Dean’s cock laying heavy on your tongue as you gulped in oxygen. You knew that would be the last easy breath until he was satisfied with your mouth as his eyes locked with your own.

“Eyes on me pretty girl,” he commanded as he started to thrust himself slowly in and out of your mouth. “I want to see the look on your face when you choke on my dick.”

Giving him a hard suck in response, Dean started to fuck your mouth with harsh thurst as you tired desperately to relax your throat and hollow out your checks to take all that he was giving you. Your cunt pulsed with every thrust of his hardness into your mouth, and it was all you could do to keep your hands behind your back, and not give yourself the relief you so desperately needed. The only balance you were able to maintain was on your knees, and Dean’s hand still pulled your hair tight as he fucked himself into your mouth over and over again.

You did all you could to keep your eyes on him as your throat contracted around his tip as it assaulted you over and over again. Tears were streaming down your face, and your lipstick was ruined as drool dripped from your mouth, but you dared not break eye contact with Dean.

He was beautiful when he lost control like this. His green eyes rolled in pleasure every so often. The vein he loved to let you bite showing in his throat as he strained to keep from spilling into your mouth.

“Fuck, I wish you could see yourself. Taking my cock so good baby girl.”

You moaned desperately around his length at his praises and he shivered above you, his pace faltering as he pulled himself from your mouth just before he could fall over the edge.You gasped desperately for air as he let go of your hair, and you fell down to your hands and knees on the mattress and he positioned himself behind you.

A hard smack to your ass caused you to whimper as you felt him slide his thick cock through your slick, not entering you, just teasing your throbbing clit with his tip, his fingers leaving delicious little bruises as his large hands held you in place.

“Look at you,” he moaned as your warmth edged around him just enough to make him nearly lose it right there on the bed sheets. “So wet, so needy.” Another harsh smack to the other cheek made you jump and a scream left your lips as frustration and arousal created the needful ache between your legs. Dean’s slow thrusts against your clit pulled you to the edge, but never let you fall over. “What do you want? Tell me.Tell Daddy what you need.”

“Please Daddy, please, I need you, need your cock, please,” you begged him, and he moaned behind you as his hand ran up your back, over your barely there costume, and into your hair again, giving it a hard jerk as his tip breached you, waiting for heat. “Then take it, slut.”

That was all the warning you got before Dean was pounding you almost flat on your stomach, each thrust hitting your G-spot with mapped out precision.You were a screaming, moaning mess as he pounded you into oblivion.

“That’s it, baby,” Dean said, smacking your ass and never losing pace as each swat of his large hand made you moan, and your pussy spasm around his length. “You better not cum yet bitch! If you do, you know it will be the last time for a week. Do you understand?”

You moaned as you fought against the orgasm that had you shaking on the edge of delirium, and Dean gave your hair a hard pull, bring your back up to his chest, ripping your top down so that your tits flopped freely as he continued to pound into your ruined pussy, giving your exposed tits a harsh twist to get your attention. “Use your words Y/N, or I’m stopping, and I’ll finish myself off while you watch.”

You knew he’d do it. He’d done it before, and Dean didn’t take shit from you, or anyone else, and he wasn’t afraid to take care of himself, and leave you waiting.

“Yes Daddy, I understand,” you squealed as his fingers dug into your hips, his hand never letting go of your hair.

“Good girl, such a good girl for Daddy,” he said as he picked up pace, until his hips started to stutter after what felt like an eternity, your own body buzzing as the orgasm you’d been holding off was becoming almost painful.

“Touch yourself baby, I want to feel you come on my cock,” Dean said, his voice strained as he raced to his own end.

Your hand traveled down your still costume clad body, and to your swollen aching clit, matching his pace in rough circles.

It didn’t even take a full minute before your pussy clamped down around his pulsing cock, and your orgasm rocketed through your body as he spilled deep inside of you. Dean pulled you both up as your bodies seized around one another, until he was able to remove his softening length from your body, and lay you gently down on the bed.

Your body was still quaking slightly when you finally came back to yourself, as Dean cleaned the mess up between your legs before helping you out of your costume in silence. You watched as Dean crawled over you body, and pressed a sweet kiss to your swollen lips before cleaning the lipstick off your face.

“You okay?” he asked as your eyes met his. There was your Dean again, always worried, always concerned for someone else above himself. Even in this aspect of your relationship, he was always the nurturer that you had fallen in love with under that rough exterior so long ago.

“I’m good Dean,” you tell him as his lips pecked at your own again, and he lay down next to you to pull your exhausted body against his own, tucking the covers in around you.

Maybe one day you’d tell each other you loved each other, but not today, for now this would be enough.

“Happy Halloween Daddy,” you told him, feeling him chuckle behind you, before his teeth bit playfully into your shoulder, leaving his mark on your skin.

“Happy Halloween Baby Girl.”

Forever Tags: @deanmonandnegansbitch @hayleeharling @flamencodiva @coldmuffinbanditshoe @bxbyizzy @rain-dance-goblin @itmejado @supernatural3002 @teresa-67 @thoughts-and-funnies @deanwanddamons @rvgrsbrns @bi-danvers0 @onethirstyunicorn @i-love-superhero @akshi8278 @lyss-dw79 @magssteenkamp @lemondropirwin @squirrelnotsam @hobby27 @spnbaby-67 @mrsjenniferwinchester @defenderrosetyler @screechingartisancashbailiff @thecreatiivecorner @aflamboyanceofgays @vicmc624 @busy-bee-angel-misska @justanotherwinchester @brilovesdeanwinchester @idksupernatural @lyarr24 @amandamdiehl @love-jackles-37-blog @miraclesoflove @Waywardsistershy @emoryhemsworth @dean-winchesters-gardian-angel @softsebastian @tatted-trina6

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ratonnhhaketon · 4 years ago

Text

Still Breathing

Read on Ao3 | Previous | Next

Summary: Six months after the defeat of Thanos, the world is still in chaos. The threat of the Flag Smashers combined with the new headstrong Captain America means it’s time for Valencia Zicari to help save the world one more time. But, in doing so, she also has to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship.

Warnings: Major TFATWS spoilers, Swearing, Angst, Fluff, Slow-Burn

A/N: Original character backstory reveal time!! Sorry this took longer than anticipated, I planned on having weekly updates for this fic, but I’m trying to finish up this year of college and my classes have been draining me of any motivation. Hopefully I’ll be able to update quicker in 2 weeks when I’m finished. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter and as always if you have any questions or comments about my oc or the story feel free to send them my way! Feedback is always accepted and appreciated!

Chapter 2 - So We Meet Again

The entire way to Berlin, Valencia just felt off. Going to see Zemo, after everything he did to tear apart the only family she had left, just did not sit right with her at all. Especially when she considered everything he put Bucky through. Her mind was preoccupied as they walked through the facility, her body on autopilot as it followed closely behind Sam and Bucky. She didn’t realize they had stopped following the guard that was escorting them until a gloved hand rested on her shoulder, her confused gaze snapping up to meet a set of icy blue eyes.

“D’ya hear me, doll? I’m gonna go in alone.”

Valencia’s eyes widened in horror at his words. “What? Like hell you are!”

Bucky’s eyes moved from Val to Sam. “Both of you are Avengers. You know how he feels about that.”

Sam rolled his eyes at his words, his hands settling on his hips as his patience grew thin. “Buck, it's not like you two were known for frolickin' in the sun together.”

The super soldier held back his own eye roll at his words. “He was obsessed with HYDRA,” he spoke in a firm tone, his voice dropping with the last word. Bucky looked between the two people in front of him and noticed how Valencia was practically staring him down.

She spoke up in a monotone voice, “This is an absolutely horrible idea.”

“Look, we have a history together. Trust me. I got it.” As he turned to leave Valencia reached a hand towards him, catching his wrist. He immediately stopped and turned back to look at her.

“Bucky, just.. Be careful. Please,” she spoke in a small voice. Her eyes were pleading with him just as much as her words.

“I always am.” He shot her a small smile as he turned back around, walking down the hall towards Zemo’s cell. She felt her heart sink watching him walk off.

Valencia leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest and a defeated sigh slipping past her lips. Sam copied her body language on the wall across from her. “So what’s going on with you two?”

Her brows furrowed together. “What?”

“I know you two aren’t still together but you seemed real friendly back at the police station.” The corner of his lips turned up as he spoke.

“Oh, my god,” she rolled her eyes at him. “I haven’t seen my boy-” she stopped mid word, mentally cursing herself, “best friend in almost a month and suddenly I’m not allowed to hug him? Especially when I thought he was going to be imprisoned?”

Sam put his hands up in surrender. “All I’m saying is that it looked like more than just a friendly hug.”

“Even if it was, we’re still broken up.” Her foot nudged a small clump of dust on the ground. “Besides, I know he’s been trying to move on.”

He let out a chuckle. “Oh I call bullshit on that.”

“I’m serious! He’s been going on dates. His friend Yori set him up with a waitress a few days ago.”

Sam sighed, pursing his lips and shaking his head to the side in frustration. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Val. His feelings haven’t changed.”

“I just..” she huffed. Her teeth chewed on her bottom lip as her mind worked to string her thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I’m worried. He called me the other night. At three in the morning. Which means his nightmares are coming back and I just hope to god it isn’t about what I think it is.”

“Have you thought about taking a break from work and going down to see him?” She stared at him, her jaw tightening as she held back. It was obvious where he was going with this. “He needs you, Val. Now more than ever.”

That one sentence was enough to send her over the edge. She pushed off the wall and stared at the man across from her, tears starting to blur the edges of her vision. “Do you think I don’t want to be there for him? That I want him to suffer through his trauma in silence?” With each word her voice rose until she was practically yelling. “When Steve left I made him a promise that I would be there for Bucky to help him recover. And I was, for so long. I made sure he went to his therapy appointments and was working on his list. But I can’t exactly do that anymore when he was the one to push me away!” Her chest heaved, hot tears running down her cheeks.

“Val, I’m sorry.” Sam stood up, crossing the space between them and planting both hands on her shoulders. Her figure shook gently from the bottled up emotions leaving her all at once.

“I don’t even care about what happened with The Winter Soldier anymore. I wasn’t even a year old, it barely matters now.” she sniffed, looking up to catch Sam’s gaze. “I just want to make Steve proud. And I thought that letting Bucky push me away was what he needed in the moment but.. now..” she trailed off, eyes turning down to the floor.

Sam pulled her towards him, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. “You did what you thought was right, no one can blame you for that.” Valencia pulled her eyes closed tightly, her hands clutching onto the back of his jacket. She clung to him as she cried, holding on for dear life as if she would slip away if she let go.

After a few minutes she had calmed down enough that she was only sniffling. “Do you think I made the wrong choice?” Sam mumbled, breaking the silence.

“What?” Valencia looked up at him, eyes still glassy from residual tears.

“Do you think I should have given up the shield?”

“Sam, that was your decision. And I’ll stand by whatever choice you made because I know you did what you thought was right.” He wanted to do right by Steve, just like she did, but it was difficult. He didn’t truly know if he was capable of handling everything that came with carrying the shield.

His eyes moved from the patch of wall he was staring at ahead of him and back down to Val as she pulled away from him, her left hand coming up to wipe away the stray tears from her cheeks. “I’m not mad that you gave up the shield, Sam. I understand that it was your decision and you thought it was just going to sit at the Smithsonian exhibit. I’m only mad at the goddamn government for giving it to that prick who wishes he could be half the man Steve was.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

She smiled back at him, letting out a deep breath before tugging at his hand. C’mon. Let’s go see what’s taking Bucky so long.”

~~~~~

The three of them slowly trudged through the darkness, one of Valencia’s hands gently holding on to the back of Bucky’s jacket as she tried not to trip. “Buck, where the hell are we?” she practically whined out at him.

“Are you serious? You wanna break Zemo outta jail?” Sam questioned from behind them, causing Bucky to turn around sharply. The flashlight he held in his right hand flashed directly across Valencia’s vision, a hand coming up quickly to shield her eyes as she grimaced.

“Do you have a better idea?” Bucky asked in a curt voice before turning back around to keep walking. “We have no leads, no moves, nothing.”

“But what we do have is one of the most dangerous men in the world behind bars.” Valencia pointed out, nearly falling as Bucky stopped abruptly in front of her.

She watched as Bucky’s eyes scanned over the control panel in front of him. “And there’s also eight Super Soldiers that are loose.”

“Zemo’s gonna mess with our minds. Especially yours. No offense.” As soon as the words left Sam’s mouth Bucky had finally flipped the lights on, revealing the angry expression he wore.

“Offense,” he said with a pointed glare. “Super soldiers go against everything he believes in. He is crazy but he still has a code.”

“Yeah, and all three of us have been on the wrong side of that code.” Valencia interjected before Sam could speak. “Remember Bucharest? Him bombing the UN and blaming you for it? Because the Wakandans certainly didn’t.”

Bucky sighed, his hands finding purchase on his hips. “Look, let me walk you through a hypothetical. Can I walk you through a hypothetical?”

Before he could begin to explain a loud crash came from the next room over. Sam and Valencia’s heads snapped over towards the sound, leaving Bucky to hang his head in defeat.

Off to a great start.

The vague outline of a person started to approach them, to which Valencia’s eyes widened as she whipped around to face the blue eyed man behind her. “You broke him out?!” she practically yelled.

“Hell no,” Sam spoke up, pointing a finger towards the man standing before him. “You’re going back to prison!”

Zemo stood timidly in the doorway, taking his hat off to hold between his hands before saying, “If I may-”

Immediately the trio turned and shouted “NO!” before returning to the matter at hand.

“Okay, just, listen.” Bucky spoke in a low voice. “When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you two backed him. You broke the law, and you stuck your necks out for me. I'm asking you to do it again.”

Valencia’s gaze repeatedly flickered from Bucky to Zemo, the same uneasy feeling from earlier in the day resurfacing in the pit of her stomach. She just knew this wasn’t going to end well, but also knew that Bucky was as stubborn as a mule and would not take no for an answer. Especially when Sam finally agreed.

Bucky looked down at her expectantly, his icey blue gaze piercing her soul. She let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding before nodding. “Yeah. I’m on board.”

“Alright Zemo,” Sam said. “Where do we start?”

~~~~~

After finding out about Zemo’s wealth and joining him on the jet, they learned that their destination was Madripoor. Zemo explained that they had to disguise themselves and gave each of them a set of clothing to change into for their roles.

Valencia was in the back of the plane, the curtain pulled across the doorway for privacy as she pulled on the deep red cocktail dress given to her. After repeatedly struggling to reach behind her and pull the zipper up her back, she threw her hands up into the air as an exasperated sigh left her lips. Admitting defeat, she peeked out of the curtain and spotted Bucky standing a few feet away with his back towards her. With one hand Valencia pulled the back of her dress together while the other pushed the curtain back. “Bucky? Would you mind?”

He ducked past the curtain behind her, a warm hand taking the zipper from her grasp and a metal one landing on her hip. He slid the small zipper up her back, hand lingering between her shoulder blades for a second before she turned to face him.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. She didn’t like seeing him dressed up as The Winter Soldier. That part of his life was behind him. That man was gone.

His gaze met hers and he could see all of the apprehension, the fear, in her eyes. He wanted to pull her in close, to kiss away all of the uneasy feelings, but he couldn’t. Not after everything that happened. Everything he did to her. Instead he put a gloved hand on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing light circles into the exposed skin. “I know, doll. I’m not a fan of this plan, but it’s all we have right now.”

“Hey,” Sam called, walking towards where they were tucked into the back area of the plane. “You two ready? We’re landing soon.”

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onenerdtwonagas · 3 years ago

Text

Outside Threats

(Warning: contains physical assault and attempted sexual assault.)

Uriah had recovered from his transition into elemental immortality nearly a year before, and he had begun learning how to adjust to his new innate abilities, but he certainly didn’t have a firm control over them. The members of the Council offered their assistance when they could, but even they had warned him it would take time and experience, since he wasn’t born into magic as the rest of them were. He was thankful that he was able to get away from the the human city to the seclusion of the temple belonging to Orpheus’s family to practice. Trying to learn how to master magic amongst humans wasn’t a bright idea, and he wouldn’t entertain it. But, even at the temple, he wasn’t so certain he was ready to be on his own the handful of times Orpheus’s new godly status called him away. Maybe it was just missing him, now that they were married.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, love,” Orpheus would promise him, before giving him a kiss and slipping through a portal. Uriah had said goodbye to him the day before in a similar manner. Something about territory disputes, Orpheus had said; it would hopefully be resolved within two or three days.

Uriah sighed and leaned heavily against a sturdy stone pillar, fiddling with the clothing he’d been gifted from the Council. He wasn’t sure if there was any significance or importance to them, but at least they were comfortable.

A soft chime got his attention, and Uriah looked up to see one of the nightbell sprites that served Orpheus’s family—those who had been night god, respectfully.

“Pollux?”

He held out his palms for the tiny creature to land in, watching it shake its furry body and sit up on its haunches to chime again.

“Sorry, I, uh...don’t speak sprite. Not yet, anyway.”

Pollux’s ears flopped. He waved a paw vaguely towards the entrance of the temple. Uriah quirked up one eyebrow and followed his gesture.

“Is somebody here?”

An affirmative jingle.

“Huh. Not Eden or Atheer, though, right? Aren’t you kind of Atheer’s pet anyway?”

The tiny creature mustered up as best a shrug as his anatomy allowed.

“Well, guess we gotta check it out.”

Uriah set Pollux on his shoulder and made his way through the temple, hesitating only when he heard movement from the receiving chamber towards the entryway. He questioned whether he should make his presence known. He himself wasn’t a god or deity, and all of Orpheus’s relations were away for one reason or another. No one else was with him if this visitor wasn’t the friendly sort...

“Hello? I have a matter to discuss with Night God Orpheus!”

Uriah glanced down at Pollux with an unsure frown. A violent intruder wouldn’t make themselves openly known, would they? And for the most part, the pantheon seemed to respect his position as a spouse of a god. Maybe he could handle this?

Uriah straightened himself and proceeded out. He was Orpheus’s husband. He should be able to handle himself whether his husband was there or not; it would be an insult to Orpheus’s position if he needed to rely on him for everything.

“Hello—“

“This is his temple, but I’m afraid Night God Orpheus is busy with other matters,” Uriah spoke up, descending the stairs that sat on either side of the throne centered at the top of the far side of the chamber. The stranger turned, and seemed to puzzle at him for a moment. Uriah took him in carefully: a naga, and most likely from an old bloodline seeing has he had horns and four arms as Orpheus and his relatives did. His scales were a midnight black, shining like obsidian, but his skin was pale. He had dark, piercing eyes and hair as dark as his scales. He could vaguely identify him as some sort of shadow deity, and he remembered Orpheus had warned about being cautious with them. Uriah kept stopped halfway down the stairs, standing between the throne and the visitor.

“If you’d like, I can deliver a message,” Uriah added. Pollux remained perched on his shoulder, quiet, whiskers flared as he sniffed the air. The naga looked at him quizzically.

“You look like a mortal, and yet...”

Uriah didn’t respond.

“Ah, you must be his husband, then, the one the pantheon keeps gossiping about,” the naga said. His tone seemed...cordial. Uriah wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I am.”

“Well, then, it is a pleasure to finally meet the one that all the fuss is about!”

Pollux gave a small snort. Uriah glanced down at him, making note of the tension in his whiskers.

“And you are supposed to be...?”

“Forgive me, where are my manners? I am Erebos, heir to the Shadow God’s title.”

He slid a few paces forward and extended a clawed hand. Uriah didn’t move from his place, remaining skeptical.

“You were saying you had business with my husband, Erebos?”

The naga slowly retracted his hand. There was a hint of offense noted in his gaze. Pollux’s fur began to rise. Uriah raised a hand and gently stroked a finger beneath his chin, hushing him.

“Yes. A matter of politics. Is he here? I should like to discuss it with him directly.”

Erebos moved slightly to the side, and Uriah stepped over into his path, blocking him.

“I’m sorry, but my husband is busy at this time. You’ll have to come back later, or I can tell him you came by and he can meet you.”

“He’s busy, you said?” Erebos cocked his head slightly, eyeing Uriah. The man tried his best not to waiver in stature. “Then that means he isn’t here.”

He did not like that tone. There was something malicious in it. Dangerous. Pollux bristled, startling Uriah for a moment as he took off with a clear peal of a bell and zipped out of the chamber. When he returned his attention to Erebos, the naga had ascended the stairs, and was nearly eye level with him thanks to his height. Uriah stepped back instinctively.

“I told you that he can’t speak to you now. You need to go.”

“I heard you. But I also heard you offer to deliver a message in my stead. And I have quite the message to give,” Erebos said coolly, one pair of his hands folding behind his back as he slid around Uriah’s side, cutting him off and forcing him between the naga and the rest of his long, scaled body. Uriah frowned up at him and furrowed his brow.

“You need to leave. Now. I won’t tell you again.”

“And what, pray tell, do you intend to do to make me leave, hmm? Rumor has it that you’re still weak, still new. All that power and you have no idea how to use it...”

Erebos smirked down at him, reaching out and grasping his jaw firmly.

“But you are pretty, for a mortal. No wonder he likes you.”

Uriah slapped his hand away and scowled. His fists shook at his sides.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarled.

Erebos chuckled.

“Do you know much about the Shadow deities, mortal? We have a long history, but a great deal of the world has forgotten our importance,” the naga drawled, briefly turning his attention to the throne. He ran a hand along its smooth, polished stone, tracing his claws along the edge of the arms, staring at it longingly. Uriah watched him carefully, all of his nerves burning.

“We used to have a claim to the powers of the night, you see,” Erebos went on, “until the family of that wretched husband of yours caused the split. How can we, beings of hidden secrets and all darkness, compete with those who have power over both the night and the celestial heavens?”

He turned his gaze on Uriah, sharp and cold.

“We’ve tried so hard, for centuries, to get back what we once had, but no. The Night gods always take what we want.”

“Clearly you’re going about it the wrong way,” Uriah retorted acidly. Erebos paused, smirked, and then erupted into laughter. It sent a chill down Uriah’s spine.

“Oh, how right you are!”

Before he could react, one of Erebos’s clawed hands lashed out at him. The back of his hand struck Uriah soundly across the face, sending him down. Uriah sprawled for a moment before catching himself, gasping at the raw, stinging pain that flooded his cheek. He felt something hot on his face, and after moving his hand, he realized one of Erebos’s claws had cut him. Uriah winced up at the naga as he began descending towards him.

“You have no idea how right you are, little mortal,” Erebos growled. “I’ve learned from my predecessors that going for the Night God directly simply isn’t enough. You have to hit them where it hurts.”

Uriah backpedaled from him. He remembered his magic. Maybe it could help him! He rose a hand and tried to feel the force both in him and in the temple grounds, visualizing a vine striking where he wanted it—but all that came was a thin root-like fiber that wilted almost as soon as it appeared. Erebos sneered.

“If there’s one thing I know about your husband, it’s his reputation as a lover. Did you know you managed to snag the most sought-after bachelor in the pantheon, hmm? He’s known to be fiercely loyal and romantic, and he takes heartache oh so heavily. Personally I find it a bit gauche.”

Uriah forced himself to his feet and evaded a strike from the naga, but stumbled and just barely caught himself on the throne. He turned over just as Erebos lunged a second time, cornering him.

“And I think, precious tiny mortal, that perhaps the best way to hurt your doting husband, is with you.”

Uriah threw a fist at his face, but the naga caught him by the wrist. Erebos tutted, and then slammed his own fist into Uriah’s face. He cried out in pain, doubling over as he felt a bruise forming over his left eye; had he been wearing his glasses, there no doubt have been glass in his skin. Erebos dug a hand into his hair and yanked his face upwards, staring down smugly. He seemed to ponder a moment.

“Though I do wonder... Perhaps there’s a better way to do this, hmm? Oh, I could kill you easily enough, but where’s the fun in that? Your husband would moan and grieve, but he’d move on eventually. But to make it last...”

Uriah panted and stared up at him in pain.

“How much would your husband writhe if I took what was his?”

No. No, no, no...

“G-Get off of me!” Uriah spat, squirming as Erebos pinned him down. He could feel his tail weighing on his legs, forcing him flat onto the stone beneath him.

“I wonder how badly it would hurt him, if every time he wanted to touch you, he could only think of me touching you instead?”

“No!”

“The more you struggle, the more painful this will be. Well, for you, anyway,” Erebos taunted, claws teasing at Uriah’s throat.

He didn’t care if Orpheus wasn’t there. He didn’t care if he was thousands of miles away. He needed him. It was instinct.

“ORPHEUS!”

There was a flash in the chamber, and the sound of the air itself tearing open. Uriah wrenched his face towards it even as Erebos’s hand held his jaw. A portal. Orpheus’s portal. The god himself materialized in the room, eyes searching for only a second before comprehending the scene in front of him. Uriah twisted in Erebos’s hold and drove his knee into his middle, causing the naga to falter.

“Orpheus!”

“URIAH!”

Orpheus’s voice was a roar. Before Erebos could recover, he darted up the steps and threw his weight into him, sending the two of them sprawling in a whirl of roars and fangs and scales. They snarled at one another like rabid dogs, teeth flashing at each other’s throats. Orpheus gained the upper hand long enough to throw Erebos off of him, his body tumbling back down the stairs as Orpheus placed himself solidly between Uriah and the offending naga.

“You come to my temple, on my family’s ancestral grounds, and you attack my husband?! I’ll tear you apart!” Orpheus spat, shaking with rage. Erebos didn’t have a chance to retort with more than a violent hiss and bared fangs before Orpheus went for him a second time, catching his claws before sinking his own into Erebos’s shoulder. Uriah weakly pulled himself up onto his knees, using the throne for support. The two nagas were tangled with another in such a blur that he could only tell their upper bodies apart by the contrast of their hair and skin.

Erebos hissed and lashed at Orpheus’s torso with his tail, flicking it sharply like a whip. Orpheus cried out as his skin tore from the contact, recoiling and glaring. Uriah watched with his unbruised eye as Erebos prepared to lash out a second time.

“Orpheus! Watch out!”

“I’ll kill you,” Erebos snarled. “I’ll maim you, make you watch me take your mortal pet, and then I’ll kill you!”

Orpheus swore in his native tongue, hissing so loudly it hurt Uriah’s ears. He’d never seen his husband so enraged. He had to help him, somehow.

“Please work, please,” he pleaded, pressing a hand down to the stones and feeling for the hints of moss between them. He could feel the tie between the greenery and the ancient soil. It was there, right there...!

“Orpheus, move!” Uriah shouted. Orpheus looked back at him, and then back to Erebos, just before the stones between them trembled. Orpheus retreated, and Erebos lunged, and a violent eruption of vines and roots burst up to snare him. The naga roared in fury, writhing before Orpheus took him by the throat.

“You will never touch my husband again,” he snarled. “If you even think of it, I’ll give you a permanent reminder of what’s to come.”

There was a bloodcurdling scream as Orpheus tore his claws down one side of Erebos’s face, blood pouring from his eye before Orpheus threw him back to the mouth of the chamber.

“My eye! You! You wretch, you took my eye!”

“And I’ll take more if you don’t leave! Now!”

Erebos glared at Orpheus with his remaining eye.

“The Council will hear of this—“

“You’re damned right they will! Don’t forget that you came here and attacked my husband! Now get out, or the trial will be about your death!”

Erebos hissed, and Orpheus responded with another roar and a flash of nightfire that ran the entire length of the chamber.

“GET OUT!”

Finally, Erebos slunk off. Uriah exhaled and felt the last of the tension leave his body, leaning heavily against the stone throne next to him. He could fully feel the pain from Erebos’s strikes as the adrenaline wore off, and he whimpered as his blackened eye throbbed. He hadn’t even been aware that he’d started crying. Orpheus slithered to his side, lowering down and reaching out carefully.

“Uriah, look at me. Let me see your face,” he said urgently, cupping Uriah’s face in two of his hands. Uriah winced as Orpheus brushed his hair back.

“He hurt you,” Orpheus growled, brows knotted together in both anger and concern. “Did he touch you? He was on you when I got here, did he—“

“No,” Uriah answered tiredly. “H-He tried, but no. You got here before he could—“

Uriah shivered.

“I-I tried to fight him, I swear I did. I couldn’t stop him, Orpheus...”

“I know,” Orpheus hushed, “I know you did, love.”

He held Uriah’s face gently and began whispering healing spells, brushing his fingertips gingerly along the bruise on his face. Uriah winced and shuddered, still unused to the sensation even after so many years with Orpheus.

“H-How did you know?”

“What?”

“How did you know something was wrong?” Uriah asked. “I-I couldn’t contact you.”

“Pollux found me.”

A faint chime rang in the chamber, and Uriah looked over as the little sprite settled down onto the stone beside both of them.

“Pollux!”

Uriah set a hand down, letting the sprite climb up his arm. Pollux nuzzled him and jingled softy.

“Good boy,” Uriah praised, bending his face into the tiny creature’s nuzzling. “Good boy, Pollux. Atheer trained you well.”

“Yes, he absolutely did,” Orpheus said gratefully, reaching up to stroke a finger down the sprite’s spine. “I’m sure Father will be wanting him back soon, though.”

He sighed suddenly and looked to Uriah, his face softened with worry and remorse. Orpheus brushed a hand through Uriah’s hair, and traced his slowly healing face. He didn’t even care about his own stinging wounds. He leaned forward and pulled him close, holding him so tightly Uriah could feel him shaking. Pollux fluttered down to the floor and watched with a sad whistle.

“I’m so sorry, Uriah.”

“Orpheus...”

“I should have taken more precautions. I was arrogant in thinking my title would protect you when I’m not there. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Uriah said firmly, even surprising himself. He held Orpheus back and squeezed. “That bastard came here wanting to start something. It wouldn’t have mattered if you were here, or if your family was here either. He wanted to hurt you.”

“And he tried to do it by harming you...”

Orpheus pulled his head back and looked into Uriah’s face. He felt so angry and ashamed seeing the bruises there, and knowing how helpless his husband would’ve been if he hadn’t been alerted in time.

“I’m going to ask my father if there’s a way you can reach me when I’m gone. I won’t leave you alone again, not until I have a better way to protect you. I will never let anyone hurt you again, I promise.”

Uriah brushed his hand against Orpheus’s cheek and pressed their foreheads together.

“There will be a trial. The Council will want to know what happened. Will you be alright facing him a second time?”

“As long as you’re there,” Uriah said, nodding. “Wait, my injuries... They’ll need to know. How will they if your magic is healing me?”

“Trauma lingers in beings’ auras. The Council will have someone gifted in such sight to determine if your injuries correlate to your story and mine. Words can lie, but your being’s energy will not. And I won’t stand for you being in pain any longer than you need to be.”

Orpheus kissed his forehead and helped him up, lifting him to avoid any further strain. They’d both need rest in order to recover.

—

The trial came as Orpheus had said it would. Facing Erebos a second time was unnerving, but Uriah carried himself well; his husband couldn’t have been prouder of him. Erebos was swiftly found to be wholly at fault, his rank and title stripped. The shadow deities would need to find a new heir to their leading god, now that he was banned from inheriting it.

As for the protection Orpheus promised, he was grateful to his father for informing him of a talented fortune deity who specialized in charmed items. Orpheus borrowed Uriah’s wedding band for only as long as necessary, returning it to him once a channeling charm had been placed upon it.

“You can call for me whenever you need me,” Orpheus explained, sliding the band back onto his husband’s finger. “I will hear you, and I will know where you are. You will never need to worry about being alone and unprotected. Whatever happens, wherever you are, I will come for you.”

Uriah admired the ring again. He would always be proud of it, of everything it meant. He held out his hand for Orpheus’s and slid his ring back on as well, raising it to his lips to kiss the band.

“We’ll be okay,” Uriah said soothingly, holding Orpheus’s hand close. His husband bent his head down and nuzzled him, squeezing his hands.

“Yes,” Orpheus sighed against him, “we will.”

#onenerdtwonagas #uriah #orpheus #freckles & stars #lit #lit post

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jaskierswolf · 3 years ago

Text

Yes Chef

My fic for the Novigrad Exchange! For the marvelous @ohnomybreadsticks

Ship: Calanthe/Eist Rating: E Summary: Restaurant AU with a healthy dose of smut? I don’t know. I’ll think of a better summary later 😂 AO3 link to come later on!

CW: 18+ smutty time, vaginal sex, oral sex, semi-public (they are alone but in a public setting),

The kitchen was sweltering, the chefs moving around the small space in an intricate dance that only they knew the steps to. The air was filled with a cacophony of smells; slowly roasted barbeque pulled-pork, fried onions and garlic, chocolate brownies. It all wafted around the kitchen in a mess, mouth watering and delicious. For Calanthe, there was nothing better than the hustle and bustle of a professional kitchen. She had been cooking since she was a child, her own grandmother had often let her help around the kitchen and Calanthe had been hooked. There was just something so addictive about creating masterpieces out of nothing. How could flour, butter, sugar become something entirely different? A cake, soft and melting in her mouth, flavours exploding on her tongue, almost better than sex… almost.

The industry itself attracted Calanthe like a moth to a flame. It was undoubtedly a man’s world, and that pulled her in, the need to prove herself, a competitiveness that drove her forward in life. If there was one thing in love she truly loved, it was proving that the patriarchy was absolutely shit. Whenever there was an opportunity to prove that she was better than a man, she took it, and as she grew older she learned how to use that to her advantage. It didn’t take long for her to rise above her rivals. Her ingenuity and skill in the kitchen was unmatched, and she had a remarkable talent for ruling the roost. When she spoke, people listened.

Opening her own restaurant had been a dream come true.

The Jewel of Cintra.

The cuisine wasn’t fancy but it was clever. She didn’t leave her customers hungry and wanting for more, but it was posh enough that she could charge a decent amount. It was also almost entirely locally sourced. That was the hook. Her restaurant supported local businesses, and she had crafted the menu using old traditional Cintran recipes. She was determined to preserve the Cintran way of life, especially with Nilfgaard slowly taking over the catering industry with their new wave recipes that blended old Southern style flavours with that favoured by the North, creating a brand new fusion.

Calanthe hated it. Cintra had a wealth of history and it was being wiped out.

It did keep her on her toes though, she had to constantly think up new ways to stay ahead, networking at conventions and collaborating with other local restaurants and breweries. It was draining but she thrived on it, and her head waiter, Jaskier, was an absolute blessing. He could charm any customer and handled complaints without even blinking an eye.

So naturally she was furious when he’d handed in his resignation. The idiot had been snatched right under her nose. He’d gone and fallen in love with the head chef of Kaer Morhen, a gastro pub in Kaedwan, the pair had met at one of the conventions that Jaskier had gone to in her stead. Two months later, her best waiter had announced he was moving to Kaedwan to be closer to Geralt.

And Calanthe was left to replace him.

The applicants had all been shit. No one could compare to Jaskier, lacking his charisma and easy going attitude. Those who might have stood a chance bristled at the idea of bowing to Calanthe, men who thought they could come into her restaurant and overthrow her.

The misogynistic pricks.

Yes, the applicants had all been shit… until Eist Tuirseach. He was infuriatingly good, handsome, suave and seemed to already be completely head over heels with her. So, she’d reluctantly hired him.

And she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

“Good morning, Chef!” Eist waved cheerily as she sauntered into the kitchen. He was helping Lambert wipe down the counters before service started. Her sous chef was a talented but prickly young man, and she trusted no one else to get her kitchen in order when she had her rare days off. He’d been trained under Vesemir from Kaer Morhen, but had been eager to escape Kaedwan. His boyfriend, Aiden was her pastry chef and, when they weren’t flirting up a storm in the kitchen, they were some of her most efficient workers.

Calanthe felt herself blush as Eist winked at her. She blamed the heat of the kitchen. “It’s almost five in the afternoon, Eist,” she shot back.

“Ah, but that is morning for a chef.”

Calanthe scoffed. He wasn’t entirely wrong, she was a night owl, most chefs were, if they slept at all, but she’d also seen five in the morning more times than she would have liked. Delivery days were killer, and when they had parties and events most of the team were in the kitchen early for prep.

“How are the books for tonight, Eist?” She grumbled, getting straight to business. It was easier that way.

“Fully booked as always, Chef. Nilfgaard wishes they could have our numbers. No one else can compare to your skill and talent, not to mention your beauty,” he said with a caddish grin.

The same smile he’d used to charm her in his interview.

________

“Eist Tuirseach?” Calanthe asked as a handsome young man entered her office. He was well built, roguish in looks, and reminded her of a lost puppy. He smiled brightly at her as he took her hand, his grip strong and firm and for the briefest of moments Calanthe wondered what those hands would feel like caressing her body, rough callouses against her breasts.

“Aye, that’s me. The Lady Calanthe?” Eist said, smirking as he cocked his head, making his tousled brown hair fall in front of his eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat in her chest, and she felt a familiar warmth at her core.

Fuck.

Of course he had to be cute. He was the last applicant and she was really really hoping it would be another idiot so she could politely decline Jaskier’s request to leave before his notice was up. She wanted to keep the young waiter for as long as she could.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she lied. “I expect professionalism in my kitchen, and you will refer to me as Chef.”

And this was the point where most of her applicants had turned tail and run. Eist, however, blushed instead, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips, and there was a definite hunger in his eyes. “Yes, Chef.”

Calanthe swallowed. “Good, now… I have some questions, and at the end if you have any questions for me, you’ll be given the opportunity. Unfortunately my sous chef got called away on a family matter, but if you’d like a second person here, we can rearrange the interview.”

Eist smiled even brighter, adoration and lust shining in his eyes. “No, I think we’ll be just fine, Chef.”

____________

The bastard hadn’t stopped charming her since, and it was taking all her self control not to let him ravish her in the kitchen. They danced around each other and flirted like there was no tomorrow but… well, she didn’t want to give in. She knew what it would look like; the head chef and the head waiter dating. No. She didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to question her integrity, but after months of being around Eist, she felt weak. The way their fingers brushed whenever she passed a plate over, the easy banter that made her laugh even when she was in a terrible mood at the start of the day, the disappointment she’d felt when Eist had booked off a couple of weeks to visit his family in Skellige.

The kitchen had felt empty without him.

And she just wasn’t as good at dealing with complaints. Calanthe had a short temper, and when people complained, she couldn’t help but take it personally. She got defensive and fought back.

She needed Eist.

She hated Eist.

… Or perhaps she loved him.

“We have a party of eight booked in at half-seven. No known allergies, should be pretty straight forward, but I’ve briefed my team and let your’s know too” Eist hummed, picking up his clipboard. “Most of the other bookings are couples and smaller families.”

“Fuck,” Calanthe hissed. “I hate big groups.”

“I have no doubt that you will be flawless as always, Chef.”

“Getting the plates out in one go is a faff that I could live without,” Calanthe groaned. “Lambert!” She barked.

Lambert looked up from his station, his hair slicked back and his sleeves rolled back to his arms, revealing an intricate tattoo sleeve that went down to his wrist on his right arm, wolves running through the woods. He strolled over to her, crossing his arms in front of his chest, hazel eyes alert and attentive.

“Yes Chef?”

“You’re in charge of the party of eight, I want you working with Eist and his team. No fucking around with Aiden, understood?”

“Loud and clear, Chef,” Lambert nodded then smirked. “Can we fuck around after?”

Calanthe rolled her eyes, swatting him over the head with her palm. “Behave, wolf.”

“What?” he gaped, rubbing the back of his head. “You and Eist are worse than us, and you still claim you’re not together!”

“We’re not together.”

“Not yet, at any rate,” Eist chuckled.

Calanthe shot daggers at her waiter. “Get out of my kitchen, Eist. Before I get you for harassment.”

Eist quirked an eyebrow. “Tell me to stop, Chef, and I will, but you have yet to tell me no. One word, Calanthe,” he paused, giving her a chance to admonish him for using her name whilst they were at work, but he said it so reverently that she was too stunned into silence. “One word and I’ll stop.”

No.

The word should have been easy.

“Don’t,” she whispered, and his face fell, heartbroken, and she could already tell he wouldn’t argue. “Don’t stop.”

She felt her cheeks burn, and the eyes of their audience were piercing into her soul. So, she cleared her throat. “Right!” she snapped. “Back to work!”

The kitchen burst into life once again, giving her the privacy to wink at her waiter. “Later?” he mouthed at her, and she nodded.

The dinner service went by in a blur. It was busy enough that she didn’t have to think about anything but the quality of the food her chefs were serving. She’d rolled up her sleeves and got stuck in, flitting about between stations and helping wherever she was needed, supervising and delegating the tasks, running a tight kitchen as she always did. However, that didn’t stop her from feeling a little giddy whenever Eist flew through the double doors, looking like some kind of Oxenfurt actor in his suit, the server’s apron strapped around his waist.

Anticipation curled in her gut, the heat that crept along her skin was from more than just the ovens. There was a hunger in his eyes whenever he looked at her, and she wanted more. She wondered if his lips were as soft as they looked, whether his beard would scratch against her skin.

It was all very distracting, but if anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything.

By the time the kitchen was cleaned up, and she’d dismissed the last of her chefs, it was past midnight. Lambert waved her off with a lewd comment and jumped onto the back of Aiden’s motorcycle, the two of them speeding off along the road.

“So,” Eist’s voice came from behind her as they stood in the doorway, watching the motorbike drive off into the distance, and Calanthe spun round in a start. “It’s just us.”

Calanthe smirked, her fingers wrapping around Eist’s tie and pulling him in for a kiss. The waiter groaned and went willingly, their lips melding together in a slow and languid kiss, noses bumping as they explored each other’s mouths. The heat crept along Calanthe’s skin, her heart fluttering in her chest. How had she denied this man for so long? She was already soaking, aching at her core with want, and soon, she grew impatient with the pace of the kiss. Nipping at Eist’s lip, she pushed their bodies together, forcing Eist back into the kitchen and towards the kitchen counter. Another day she would love to take this gorgeous man apart, fuck him over the worktops in her kitchen, but that would have to wait.

She made a mental note to keep her strap in the back of her car.

She had a very good feeling about Eist.

For now he seemed content to please her. He spun them around, helping her to wriggle out of her trousers and ruined underwear before hoisting her up onto the counter. She gasped into the kiss as his fingers teased her clit, slipping inside her wet cunt with little resistance. Calanthe’s head rolled back, her hands gripping the edge of the cold metal counter. The kitchen was quiet except for the sounds of their moans and his fingers pumping inside her. It was thrilling, everyone had gone home but there was always the off chance that someone would walk in on them. She moaned, rolling her hips to force his fingers deeper inside her.

“Fuck me, you bastard,” she gasped.

Eist just winked. “Soon, Chef.”

She expected him to finally unzip his trousers but Eist seemed to have other ideas. The waiter fell to his knees before her, pressing kisses along her inner thigh with a soft groan. Her hands threaded into his soft brown hair, guiding him towards her cunt. If he wasn’t going to fuck her then he’d better put that mouth to good use and she was tired of waiting. Eist’s stubble scratched wonderfully against her skin, a reminder of just how strong this man was, and yet he still knelt eagerly between her legs, as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Fuck,” she moaned as Eist’s tongue flicked at her clit, fast and feather light and sinfully good. She thrust forward against his face and he groaned, one hand gripping at her thigh, the other joining his tongue between her wet folds. His fingers pressed inside her as he continued to lick and suck at her clit, moaning as he devoured his feast.

Calanthe’s fingers stroked through Eist’s hair as he ate her out, hips rolling against his face. She felt like she was on fire, her skin so very sensitive and every lick of his tongue had her moaning, crying out in pleasure.

“Stop,” she gasped before she could cum.

Eist groaned but pulled back, staring up at her with dark eyes. His lips were wet and glistening, and he smirked as he wiped his mouth. “Chef?”

Calanthe raised an eyebrow, barely able to catch her breath. “If you don’t get your cock inside me now, there will be consequences.” The waiter closed his eyes and moaned, a visible shudder going through him at her words. With a quick tug on his tie, Eist was once again standing. “If you like eating me out so much-” she purred, “-maybe I’ll have to find something else to feed you with.”

“Calanthe,” Eist groaned. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Why don’t you show me?” Calanthe challenged.

That seemed to finally spur the waiter into action and he met her lips in a messy kiss, the taste of her own slick on his tongue. She moaned into the kiss, desperate and wanton as he fumbled with the zip of his trousers. There was a telltale rip of foil but when he pushed inside her, fuck, it felt so good. She easily stretched around the girth of his cock but he just filled her so completely.

“I’m not going to last, Chef,” he gasped, lips never leaving her’s.

She closed her eyes. That wouldn’t be a problem, she was already so close from all his teasing before. “Get on with it!” she snapped, rocking her hips forward to the edge of the counter.

Every thrust made her cry out, obscene sounds filling her kitchen as they both chased their release. Eist panted as he left messy kisses on her neck, nipping and biting at the tender skin. Her orgasm hit her like fireworks as she clenched around his cock, sparks flying in front of her vision. She gasped wordlessly as he fucked her through the waves of pleasure that just seemed to keep coming. Calanthe swore, the pleasure beginning to wane and her body oversensitive. Eist grunted as he followed her over the edge, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate. She caught his lips in a sloppy kiss, their breaths mingling as he slowly came back to his senses, slipping out of her with a groan.

She pressed her forehead against his as they panted breathlessly in the otherwise quiet kitchen. One hand gripped onto his shoulders while a leg was still hooked around his waist. There was a disgusting splat on the floor as the condom fell off. Calanthe tried to keep a straight face, she really did but Eist snorted and let out a hearty laugh, his fingers lacing with her’s on the countertop. Mirth bubbled up inside her, a ridiculous giggle escaping her lips as they both looked at the mess on the floor. Soon they were both laughing, hysterically and without any restraint, their post-orgasmic bliss making the whole thing seem utterly hilarious.

“You’re cleaning that up, Eist.”

He groaned, capturing her lips in another kiss with a muffled “Yes, Chef.”

Calanthe rolled her eyes and cupped Eist’s face in her hands. “You can call me Calanthe outside of work, you fool,” she said with a smirk.

And her partner seemed to melt under her touch. Eist’s face lit up in a dopey smile that made her heart skip a beat. He took her hand in his and bought her fingers up to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. “Yes… Calanthe.”

#the witcher #calanthe/eist #calanthe x eist #queen calanthe #eist tuirseach #wolfie's witcher writing #novigrad exchange

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no-whump-on-main · 3 years ago

Text

Apartment 307-8 (Grabbed by the hair)

Hi guys!! I'm so sorry it took me so long to update. School and work have been crazy but luckily I'm out of school next week so I'll have much more time and be posting more frequently! Apologies for the short chapter, I have no idea why but it just kicked my butt lol. I tried doing some cool multimedia stuff, I hope you enjoy! This is @sableflynn's BTHB request, grabbed by the hair.

TWs: Creepy, possessive whumper, mention of branding, also this chapter made me sad bc I love my mom and Elora's mom is sad so warning for that lmao

Elora was still lying there crying hours later. The tears had slowed from her initial keening sobs, but they still fell steadily down her face, accumulating in a small puddle on the tile by her head. She could see a bit of her reflection in the salty water; just her eyes, mostly. She saw green eyes that had once been so full of hope and life that were fading, the slow abandonment of hope almost making them gray out. She wanted to lie there forever, staring into her own eyes, until oblivion took her. If she cleared her head enough, she could pretend she was elsewhere, somewhere warm and loving; the blanket draped over her body did help with the fantasy, though she always knew somewhere in the back of her head that it was just that: a fantasy. She was still here. With him.

Clyde tried to give her time to recover, but his patience wore eventually. He began to get antsy after a few hours of watching her lie there, doing nothing but cry. Admittedly, he did enjoy it at first-seeing her so weak, so docile, because of him-but it eventually grew tiresome. Watching each tear drip down into the puddle became like watching paint dry.

He stood up abruptly. Elora was startled by the motion, flinching before stilling and watching him very carefully. What was he going to do?

“Get up,” he said simply.

Elora froze. She still felt sick, dizzy with pain and the lingering scent of her burning flesh in the bathroom. But why would he care about that? Why should she disobey him, when she knew what would happen?

Yet pride and pain got the better of her again.

“I can’t,” she whimpered. She felt weak. “I hurt. You hurt me.”

The piercing sound of a loud, sudden laugh began to echo through the bathroom. It reminded Elora of the laugh of a hyena. She winced.

“Darling, did you not think that was the point?”

Her expression hardened and her heart thumped in her chest. That was the point. She wanted to say something, but her mouth suddenly got dry.

The man simply grinned. “Get up,” he repeated, but she didn’t. She just laid there, dumbfounded.

He groaned angrily, rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Be that way.”

He gathered up her hair in his hand, locked his fingers in a tight fist, and pulled up. Elora yelped and scrambled to get to her feet to relieve the pain, but he didn’t give her the chance; he carelessly dragged her off, out of the bathroom, through the hallway, and into the living room. She screamed and thrashed wildly, her hands desperately trying to push him away as her scalp burned like fire. Again and again, her feet scraped the ground to no avail, kicking and kicking but never able to gain enough traction to stand as she was mercilessly dragged. The man finally dropped her on the floor at the foot of a worn leather couch, releasing his death grip on her hair. Her hands immediately flew up to her head, applying gentle pressure to her scalp to try to ease the burning pain as she looked around the new room.

The living room was barren, like the man had half moved into it then given up. There was a dusty box in the corner, the couch, a worn coffee table, a small stand, and an old TV. Other than that, it was empty, in an eerie way. The aged carpet spanned the floor like an ocean.

The pressure didn’t do much and Elora dropped her hands, still wincing as the man plopped himself on the couch behind her, the leather making a loud crackling noise as he sat. She whipped her head around as her shoulders raised up to her ears instinctively. The man made a sour face, his features twisting into an ugly frown.

“Relax,” he commanded, forcefully pushing her shoulders down. At first, she tried to wiggle away, but that idea was abandoned when he tightened his grip, clearly as a warning. He grabbed the TV remote from the arm of the couch and turned it on. It started on some history channel documentary about cars, but Clyde quickly flipped through channels until he found the local news station.

A grin spread across his face as he read the blue banner spanning across the bottom of the screen. They were just in time.

UP NEXT: CAPE COD GIRL GOES MISSING; DESPERATE MOTHER PLEADS FOR HER RETURN

His hands wandered to Elora’s scalp and began to gently card through her hair. She inhaled sharply, and it took everything she had in her not to immediately shove him off. Somehow the gentleness felt worse than the pain; the false sense of care disgusted her. He was a maniac. He hurt her, he branded her, and now he was sitting on the couch petting her hair, pretending like none of it happened. It didn’t escape her attention how he set her on the floor instead of the couch, below him, like a dog.

The banner was bad enough, but she felt sick to her stomach when the station cut to a reporter sitting at a desk with a picture of her on half of the screen. It was the picture her mom took of her at the orchard last fall. It was candid; she remembered it. She was intently focused on a butterfly off on a tree, ignoring her mom as she snapped the photo. It was one of her favorite pictures of herself. And now, it was plastered all over the news.

The reporter on the TV began to speak. “Tonight, a desperate mother pleads for her missing daughter’s safe return. Elora Larkin, nineteen, of Barnstable county, Massachusetts has been missing since Friday night. She was last seen walking home from her job at Agathangelou’s bakery, wearing khakis, a black t-shirt, and black sneakers. The police have opened a tip line and are offering an unspecified reward for any information that leads to Miss Larkin.”

Elora felt a lurching sensation in her stomach, so visceral she wanted to throw up. That was her. On the news. Gone. Missing.

Behind her, the man chuckled.

“Look at that, baby. You’re all over New England.”

“I’m not your baby,” she snapped, turning around. But her head was spinning. All over New England? It wasn’t the Cape Cod news station on the TV. It wasn’t even a state news channel. It was entirely unfamiliar, the reporter’s face one she’d never seen.. So he’d taken her across state lines, making her chances of being found lower yet.

The man shushed her and put a finger up to her lips. “Watch.” She almost bit him, but decided it wasn’t worth the inevitable punishment that would follow. Besides, they might say something useful, something that could help her. She needed to pay attention.

The screen changed, and a missing persons poster popped up. Hers.

It was up for a minute before it faded away as the reporter came back on the screen.

“Such a sad story. Everyone in the studio is hoping and praying for her safe return. Unfortunately, vigilance is so important in this day and age. Up next, we have a recording of a press conference with the girl’s mother.

The girl’s mother. Her mother. Elora felt her heartbeat thumping in her chest.

And there she was. Jodie was standing at a podium in a building that had to be a police station. Demetrios was standing by her side, offering support by merely being present. While Elora hadn’t seen him cry even once in all the years she’d known him, he now looked like he was on the verge of tears.

Her mom started to speak. She looked so sad. Withered, like the life had been sucked out of her, from fear and overthinking and sleepless nights.

“My daughter-My daughter Elora has been missing since Friday night. She’s got-she’s got blonde hair, and green eyes, and she’s real tall. I’m sure pictures have gone around by now. She was walking home from work and-and then she disappeared. We were supposed to have dinner Sunday and she never came. It was supposed to be her weekend off. I- If someone has her, please, I’m begging you, let her go. Bring her home safe. She’s a good kid, she works hard, she rescues cats in her spare time...she doesn’t deserve this. And Elora, if you’re seeing this, I love you. I love you so much, honey. If you chose to leave, please just tell us you’re okay. It’s okay. You can go see the world, just tell us you’re okay. And if something-something bad happened, we’re gonna find you. I promise, baby, I love you and we’re gonna bring you home. Promise.”

At that point, she set the microphone down and began to cry, tears streaming down her face as she hurried off to an exit, the cameras following her for a few moments. Elora’s heart twisted in knots. Seeing her mom’s face brought her so much joy, yet knowing how worried she had to be made her feel sick with guilt.

But she promised. She promised she’d find her.

“That your mom?”

Elora stilled. He already knew the answer.

"She’s kinda pathetic. Could barely keep it together long enough to tell them about you.”

She went cold. “Stop,�� she seethed. Her voice was eerily calm, given her anger.

"Or what?” he replied, twisting her hair up in his hand and giving it another tug.

Elora was silent. There was no or what. She knew that.

The reporter came back on the screen.

“Well, folks, that’s all we have on the case for tonight. Remember to be safe and vigilant. This has been Hannah Brown with News12.”

The man released her hair, picked up the remote, and turned off the T.V.

“Notice how they only talked about you, not me?”

Elora turned her head around. She was crying.

“What?”

He scoffed. “I said, notice how they only ran their mouths about you the whole time. Never said a word about me. You know what that means? They don’t know jack shit about me. They don’t know who you’re with or where you are. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we’re in Connecticut. We crossed state lines twice. They’re never going to find you, you know that?

She tried to hide it, but he could see her expression falling with every word he said, hope beginning to seep out of her. She shook her head vigorously, her bottom lip trembling.

“N-no! No, they will, you’re just crazy! You’re just fucking crazy!”

A scowl formed on his lips. “No, they won’t.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but in a split second, his hand was gripping tightly around her throat, cutting off her air. Her eyes went wide.

“No one is coming to save you.”

Elora swallowed, fear bright in her eyes. She tried to rip herself away, but the man raked his fingers across the fresh brand on her collarbone, sending her to the ground, keeling in pain.

“We could’ve had a nice evening if you behaved. Listened,” he grumbled, standing and once again grabbing her hair tightly before dragging her off towards the bathroom.

Tags: @exploringspaceinpyjamas @all-whumped-out @badthingshappenbingo

#bad things happen bingo #whump #whump fic #whump writing #my writing #whumper #human whumpee #possessive whumper #creepy whumper #Elora #elora larkin #lady whump #whump blog #psychological whump #physical whump #apartment 307

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salandition · 4 years ago

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10 and 126 with Raihan please 💖

A/N: i love writing these because I’ll look at the prompt list and then my eyes will bug out when I see what y’all chose. It’s very fun. ESPECIALLY for this one- my eyes got all big and I went “YEHHH” out loud. So that’s great lmao

Prompt(s): “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”/ "I think about you all the time, it’s freaking annoying."

---

You’ve known the Dragon-Type Gym Leader, Raihan, for a long time. He’s got quite a few different names, actually, which was pretty interesting. The Tamer of Dragons, The Dragon Lord (that one always made you snort), or even The Great Raihan. In a way, he kind of fits those names, but you just like to stick to ‘Raihan’, ‘Rai’, or ‘Daddy Long Legs’.

He hates it when you call him that last one, so you make sure to use it often.

You can easily call Raihan one of your best friends. Though time has a history of bad effects on some relationships, you don’t think that’s the case for you and Raihan; the more time you spent together, the more your friendship solidified and became reliable and comfortable. You didn’t ever get bored or tired of Raihan, and despite your first initial anxieties that he’d get that way towards you, he didn’t. So the two of you are best friends, though and through.

And that’s exactly where your problem lies.

Raihan is your best friend, so- you can say confidently that you know him pretty well. And you know that Raihan isn’t the most enthusiastic about relationships- deeper, romantic ones. He likes to indulge himself every so often, but whenever you talked about crushes or something like that with each other, he always seemed distant and reluctant about entering a serious relationship with another person. The only reason this created a sense of unease in your stomach is because- well- lately… You’ve found yourself liking him a bit more than you used to.

You’re not sure when it happened. You just realized one day that maybe you stare at him for just a bit too long, maybe you’re just a bit too excited whenever the two of you are able to hang out, maybe you stay up with him a little too late on the phone when he calls.

Realizing that perhaps you have a crush on Raihan- it created a fit of anxiety within you. Because falling in love with someone you’re so close with- when did that really ever turn out well? Sometimes it worked, if you were lucky, but you don’t really think the word ‘lucky’ describes you very well. And then there’s the fact that you’re keenly aware that Raihan is definitely not interested in you like that.

Even if he was, you know he doesn’t like deep relationships- and you’re not sure how comfortable you are with being a fling or thrusted into a ‘benefits’ type situation.

So, once you realize your feelings, you do your best to squash them before they have the opportunity to get even worse. You drill the fact that Raihan doesn’t like you and you can’t like Raihan deep into your skull; you remind yourself over and over that you aren’t in love with him and you’re just friends.

And that’s fine. You’re happy to be his friend. That will always be the truth, regardless of the little hiccups along the way.

Usually, though, hiccups don’t last this long, and they don’t hurt this badly. That’s something you’ve come to realize as time has passed.

Because, hiccups- they’re temporary things. Unexpected bumps in your throat- and sure, sometimes they can hurt and leave a funky ache in your chest- but hiccups are supposed to go away after a quick glass of water or something like that.

And this particular hiccup isn’t going away. So it’s probably time to stop calling it that.

You’re not sure what to call it. Torture? That’s a bit too brutal. What about ‘agonizing, lovely, awful torture’? Still a bit dramatic.

It’s a problem is what it is. You know what? It’s almost like a virus, actually. Because it started out as just a tiny problem- a little crush, and then it slowly spread throughout your body and created lots of other problems in it’s wake. Problems that are getting worse as time goes on.

Things like how your body will tingle and ache when Raihan hugs you, how your face will burn when he compliments and teases you, how you don’t even know how to look at him correctly anymore without giving away that you’re slowly falling in love with him. Which wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with The Great Raihan, The Tamer of Dragons, The Dragon Lord.

You were supposed to just be friends. So what happened to that?

---

You know Raihan is starting to suspect something is wrong with you. He has a way of accidentally clueing people in that he’s thinking about something or that he’s curious. It’s the little way he lifts his left eyebrow, his lip quirking up with it, and his head will tilt just a tiny bit. It’s a subtle tell.

You kind of hate that you’ve stared at him long enough that you can recognize such meager things. But it helps you, regardless, because it lets you know when you’re being a bit too obvious and you should leave before he starts to ask you questions.

Except you can’t really leave without giving him more questions right now; because you’re hanging out at his house, planning to spend the night as you drink together and watch movies, and if you left now, that wouldn’t be any good. He’d certainly grill you about it tomorrow, and you’re not sure if you’d be able to come up with a good enough lie as to why you ditched him.

“So,” you clear your throat, trying to look away from his gaze on you as you lean on his kitchen counter, beer bottle in hand as it leaks wet condensation on your hand. “Tell me more about your challengers this year. Anyone catch your eye?”

Raihan hums, lifting his own bottle to his lips and you definitely don’t watch as his throat moves when he takes a drink. “No one in particular yet,” He tells you. “I did hear one of the challengers really gave Melony a run for her money, though, which is pretty interesting. She’s a tough lady- I look forward to seeing who can battle so well against Ice Types, considering they’re one of my team’s weaknesses and all that.”

You nod along as he speaks, and you try not to look bothered when he crosses the counter and leans on it, same as you- right in front of you, actually. Which would only make sense, considering you’re talking to each other- you want to look directly at the person you’re speaking to. But does he have to lean in so close?

“That’s a good point,” you take another drink to distract yourself from his piercing eyes. Maybe it’s not really a good idea to drink with him in the first place, considering he already makes your stomach do pathetic flustered flips, but it’d be odd if you rejected it now. “Besides the frivolous chit-chat, as much as I love talking about your work- I want to see the movie you picked out.”

“Of course,” Raihan grins, leaning off the counter and leading you into his living room. Not like you need to be led, considering you’re more than familiar with the layout of his apartment. “So, I know you hate horror,”

“Raihan,” you groan before he can even finish, and he laughs as he shows you the case of the movie.

“Okay, but we have to! It’s a classic, and it’s not that bad. It’s old, so the effects look shotty to begin with. You’ll be fine,” he assures you, but you doubt he’s being honest. He’s lied to you before to get you to watch horror films with him. You purse your lips, crossing your arms together, still holding your drink between your fingers at the rim.

“You just want to see me scared.”

Raihan turns from you, putting the disk in the player, and you huff. “Maybe,” he singsongs, “you can cuddle into me and hide if it’s too much, don’t worry!”

You fall against his couch and roll your eyes, trying not to let him see you blush as you lean against your hand. “In your dreams, long-legs.”

“I like that better,” Raihan hums and sits next to you, said legs already taking up a lot of space as he crosses them.

“Ah, sorry. Daddy long legs.”

“I guess I deserve it if I’m making you watch this,” he huffs, and you smile.

“Exactly.”

The movie starts, the two of you quieting your banter as the intro scene plays. But you’ve always been chatty during films, especially when it’s horror- talking helps ease your nerves as you groan loudly at the screen, and Raihan absolutely thrives off some of the comments you make, so it’s a good time overall. He also makes some jokes and crude comparisons to the things on screen that makes you laugh, so that’s nice, too.

Despite your nerves and your growing affections for the man sitting beside you, you try to remember these moments. He’s your friend- your best friend. Even if he doesn’t love you like that…

You sneak a look at him during a particularly slow moment in the movie. His eyes are focused on the screen, face lit up blue from the screen, and he laughs at one of the jokes that’s made in the script. You quickly chuckle, turning away from him so he doesn’t catch on that you weren’t paying attention- and your stomach does that funky flip again.

Even if he doesn’t love you like that, at least he loves you at all. You should be grateful for that. For what you have.

Before you even realize it, the movie is over, which is surprising. Usually you can’t wait for the ending, but you were zoning out in your thoughts so much that you didn’t even realize the credits were rolling until Raihan leaned forward, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. It’s significantly darker in the living room without the light of the television, but you can still make out those blue eyes when he looks your way.

“So,” he relaxes back on the couch, one of his hands grabbing at his knee and the other rests in his lap. “You’ve been weird.”

You snort. “If you wanted to get my guard down for a talk about feelings, you should have chosen a better movie.”

“Would it have mattered?” He raises an eyebrow. “You hardly even reacted to most of it.”

You suppose you can’t argue with that.

Raihan shrugs, sighing a bit through his nose as he turns his head away from you. For that, you’re glad, because he just looks too intense when he looks you in the eye. “Figured I’d give you an opportunity, since you’re not bringing it up yourself. Don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

You frown. You’re still holding your beer bottle, now empty, and you place it on the floor before you lift your feet up on the couch and criss cross. “It’s not a very big deal, Rai,” you tell him softly. “Honest.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s a big deal,” Raihan looks back at you, “we’re mates, right? Doesn’t have to be a big deal for you to tell me.”

There’s little room to argue with that. He’s right, and you know that, but this is different. Your shoulders drop as you purse your lips. “I don’t want to bother you with this,” you say, and Raihan just laughs through his nose.

“You once called me in the middle of the night because you felt something weird on your bum and you acted like it was the end of the world because you had bum-cancer.”

Without even thinking, you grab a pillow on the couch and you hurl it at him full strength. “That was a valid concern! And I told you that you’re not allowed to bring it up ever again!”

Raihan barks out a laugh, giggling like a child as he grabs the pillow you threw at him and he tosses it back. You smack it on the floor, making him laugh harder.

“My point is, we’ve been close, yeah?” He says once the giggles finally end, and he smiles at you so genuinely that you have to look away. He notices. “That’s it. You keep doing that. Why?”

“Doing what?” Acting dumb. Grade A plan, sure to work.

Though you can’t see it, you can hear how he rolls his eyes based on his tone. “You keep acting distant. Looking away from me like I’ll jump you or something.”

That’s funny. You actually want him to jump you, but, you know. In the cute, kissy way.

Why’d you think that? Shut up. You shake your head, as if that will shake away the thoughts as well. “It’s not that,” you tell him. There’s a dread building up in your chest once you do- because you know where this conversation is going.

Raihan is nice and respectful of your boundaries, and he’d never make you tell him something you’re not comfortable sharing. The issue is that he’s too nice, and it makes you want to tell him that much more. Because he deserves to know, right?

There’s really only a few ways that this conversation would go. You know- you know that the next thing he’ll say is going to be something like ‘then what is it?’

“Then what is it?” He asks, and you curse yourself. You knew it would be a bad idea to hang out.

You finally look at him again, biting your cheek as your eyebrows furrow. “Raihan,” you shake your head again. “I can’t.” Your voice is soft- a whisper, at best.

Truthfully, you didn’t notice how your hands began to tremble in your lap- but Raihan did. His lips tug into a frown.

“Why?”

You huff, and he shrugs.

Maybe you should rip off the bandaid and get it over with. If Raihan has figured out that something’s been bothering you, and if you leave the conversation tonight without telling him what it is, you know he’s going to pry it out of you eventually. It’s only a matter of time, now.

“You really wanna know, Raihan?” You hold your hands in your lap, trying to get them to stop shaking, and Raihan nods. All right, you think with a deep breath, this is it. Time to tell him and have the awkwardest rejection of your life.

You don’t have the guts to look at him, so you look up at the dark ceiling, and honestly, your eyes are already burning. And you’re definitely not going to cry. Despite that, you sniff, and your voice leaves you shakily, “I think I’m in love with you, and that terrifies me.”

It’s quiet, and a rush of anxiety courses through you again. You stutter and stumble as you try to explain yourself. “I- We’ve been friends for so long. And- and I’m not- not interested in ruining that. I don’t want to ruin our relationship. Because- well, because I love you,” you laugh, “and I- I don’t want to ruin it by getting all weird and reading into things. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, either.”

Finally, you lower your head and let it hang as you sniff again and lift a hand to run through your hair, ruffling through it harshly. Come on, you think, get it together.

It takes a lot of courage to look at him- and you honestly don’t have the courage, so you basically just turn your face his way and then stare at the couch cushions instead. “...Sorry,” you apologize weakly, though you’re not sure why.

From your peripherals, you see him uncross his legs, his body leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He sighs, which doesn’t really make you feel good as you quickly look to the floor instead, even further away from his eyes. “You don’t need to be sorry about that. Not like you can control your feelings,” Raihan finally speaks. “That would just be silly.”

You shrug.

“I guess I can understand why you didn’t want to tell me,” He continues, his hands coming together and rubbing before he entwines his fingers, cracking his knuckles with a swift movement. “Would you like to hear something funny?”

Your eyebrows furrow, suspicious. “...Sure.”

“Well, it’s funny for you, maybe, but it’s been annoying for me,” Raihan chuckles. “It really is. Cause the thing is, I think about you all the time. So much that it bugs me. It’s distracting, too, cause you really shouldn’t be popping up in my thoughts the way you do when I’m trying to ride on Flygon. That’s just dangerous.” You finally lift your eyes to meet his, and he shrugs with a smile when you do, his pointy tooth looking odd when his face is so soft and bashful. “You do anyways.”

You squint.

Raihan rests his face in his palm, laughing gently under his breath. You’re both in a weird staring contest, as if it’s a test of wits. He reaches forward as you stare, and before you realize what he’s doing, he flicks your nose.

You jolt back in shock. “Hey!”

Raihan just laughs, his nose scrunching up and his eyes squinting as he chuckles. “What I’m saying is, I think you’re not alone with your feelings. Either I’m a creeper for thinking of you so often, or I love you, too.” He raises his brow. “You pick which one sounds more appealing to you.”

“Don’t joke around, Raihan,” you can’t help but sigh as you rub your nose.

“Sorry,” surprisingly, he apologizes. Which is odd, catching you off guard as he finally looks away from you. “I’m not real good at this, either.”

“Raihan...” You softly call his name, and he purses his lips. There’s no other way to describe his demeanor other than ‘shy’, which is never a word you’d think you would use to describe him.

“The feeling is mutual, is what I’m saying.”

You almost want to laugh. “What happened to not liking serious relationships? Would- do you still feel that way?” You can’t help but ask him. Just because- wow- maybe he loves you, doesn’t mean that’s changed.

“Well, I’ve never loved anybody before.” Raihan lifts a hand, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck as he finally stops slouching over his knees and straightens his posture. “But if you’d be into it...” He trails off.

...Hm. Slowly, your hand reaches forward, and you grab Raihan’s as gently as you can. It makes your heart speed up a bit, and Raihan’s eyes snap toward you when you do- but you smile. “We can go slow. See what happens. If it doesn’t work for you- I’m still going to love you.” You tell him, honesty in your tone. “I can’t expect you to be the world’s best boyfriend if you’ve never even thought about being one before.”

“I’ve thought about it sometimes,” he mumbles, and his hand is absurdly long in yours- you notice it even more when he fumbles with how small you are before squeezing your palm. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“Yeah,” you nod at him. Surprisingly, you’re honest- you feel sure of yourself. “You’re my best friend, Raihan. You’ll always be my best friend, no matter what happens.”

Slowly, he smiles back, and it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen. In the back of your mind, you realize that Raihan is actually a sweetheart, and you wonder how he’d react if you added that to his long list of nicknames.

Perhaps you’ll try it out.

#Anonymous #rushed ending because my FRIEND is a baby who sleeps at 11 on the dot every night #ajdgkadfjgafh #chucks this at you #baby #raihan x reader #raihan x you #gym leader raihan x reader #gym leader raihan x you #pokemon x reader #imagines #swsh x reader #pokemon swsh x reader #pokemon sword and shield x reader #pokemon imagines #pokemon swsh imagines #pokemon sword and shield imagines #reader insert

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