#it was hard to settle on just one word to encompass a relationship and its development | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rainytomorrows · 22 days ago

Text

Deadpool x reader | Hold me, I can't hold myself.

First things first- this is not necessarily romantic. It can be, but the relationship I've written is neutral. So, I know you guys hear this excuse from me about every damn fic now but. I legitimately have been having the scariest episode of my life. I cannot do it justice in writing but I'm a baby and I want comfort. So I'm writing a fic for it. Yay! Extremely short- sorry. Words: 1,885

Fair warning: Mentions of various mental illnesses such as derealization. Woops! Have fun chat

♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡

You weren't sure where it came from. All you knew was that it almost burned in your chest. You didn't know up from down- nor left from right. Sure, you could keep yourself together for work. But that was only for the sake of keeping your shitty apartment.

It'd been hours. You lay on the floor, curled up with one of your pillows. You had a bowl next to you, you'd be in your bed if not for the nauseous feeling that crawled up your throat whenever you allowed yourself to think too long. You could feel each inch of your skin, how it scratched itself on the wood floorboard, and how the pillow's fiber was suddenly too rough.

There were no words for it. You were sure even if you'd read the dictionary ten times over- if you'd dragged some professional into the crevices of your brain. It was all-encompassing. And you hadn't told a goddamn person about it. What the hell were you supposed to say? What, along the lines of "I don't have a clue what's going on, but it's almost as if I'm both not real, and somehow way too real", or were you supposed to just mention the constant brain fog? How, unlike the regular joking way you'd said it, you actually couldn't remember what you had for breakfast this morning?

You eventually opted to lay on your back, pillow desperately clutched to your chest. Staring up at the ceiling- it seems to zoom in and out. You were terrified. It wasn't as easy as the depressive episodes you'd experienced- or even the anxiety. There was no comfort. You felt absolutely bat shit crazy. You felt almost stupid, what with how the brain fog left you with about the same amount of thinking power as a goldfish that'd hit its head against the glass one too many times.

It was debilitating, with no comfort for the terror it brought. The inability to feel so much as normal. Stuck in your skin- the feeling that something is wrong pricked at your bones. You pressed yourself against some wall in your house, like if you tried hard enough maybe it'd hug you. Chest heaving as if making up for something. How embarrassed it made you, to have your thumb hover uselessly over the call button so many times. You often thought about calling Wade at times like this, though you never did.

The sight of the ceiling makes you sick, curling back on your side and squeezing your eyes shut. Begging- praying, for a moment of solace. Anything. You were sure that if hell was real, it'd nestled itself in your own muscles. Somewhere under your bones- somewhere you couldn't claw out no matter how many times you'd clutched your chest. Even if you'd clutched hard enough to draw blood, no more grounded with the feeling of it smudging your skin and your clothes. When fatigue pulls at you like a ship dragging its anchor among the coral- even sleep couldn't seem to save you.

Your phone was discarded somewhere beside you- you'd tried to play something to no avail. Unsure if anything would help, as you'd tried everything from music to meditation videos, hell you even scrolled your white noise app for something. None of it was as bad as silence, eventually settling for some nature noises. You didn't bother trying to call Wade this time, even if you never did anyways. He'd gone on a mission and was supposed to be gone another week. You had enough common sense and brain power to put that together.

Between it all- you hadn't noticed the noise at your window. Far too distracted by the task of staying together. Gripping your arms tightly, as if you were afraid you'd fall apart if you didn't hold on tight. That maybe some part of your soul would slip through the cracks. Thoughts were louder than thunder, your parents weren't there to comfort you and hell you were sure god wasn't either. Sobs raked at your chest and never left, in constant limbo against the very flesh of your throat.

Knocking rattles the glass and the cheap painted wood, Wade's usual warning that he was coming one way or another. He was used to a lack of an answer- before though, it was attributed to how often you'd have your headphones in. He'd find you so he could sneak up, and pull you in his arms when you least expected it. And whether he knew it or not, probably when you most needed it. So when he eventually shimmied your window open, not to find the sound of your hums nor even the appearance of light under your bedroom door. Pillows and blankets were strewn, far more than you'd usually allowed even on messy days.

It didn't take long to be drawn to the sound of labored breaths just beyond your bed. Audibly struggling to bring air in or out of your lungs, like an alien learning how to breath for the first time. He ventured cautiously, peaking around the bed to see you. Your hair is tousled, you're sweating through your shirt and your eyes are puffy. He'd never seen you so- frantic. Unnerved.

He wasn't even sure how to approach it. Afraid that he'd set you off.

It took a few moments- maybe too long, frozen in thought. Maybe that alone was a start- breathing not in accordance but maybe in succession. Your lungs fought for something to hold onto, struggling with the way that air couldn't ever seem to really fill you. If Wade were to catch up, you'd have to slow down. But, when have you ever really done that? You seemed to have a thing for running.

He eventually decided to bite the bullet, carefully kneeling beside your body and placing a hand on your shoulder. Impossibly slow- one would wonder if it was really him piloting his body now. It may not be. He himself had experience with this, he had many of his own problems. But never did he see you like this. You'd always seemed to have control, often fixing whatever the hell he'd done that week. You'd seemed so- stable. So, when at the feeling of his touch you jolted, it pulled at his heart.

"Wade," You croaked out, surprised. Obviously. He didn't speak. What was he supposed to say? He'd normally make some stupid joke to lighten any situation- not often did he know how to seriously comfort someone otherwise. If ever.

Something about how you quivered told him you weren't just crying over some situation. Your eyes searched, not for something it seemed. As though lost, a ship off course. Something held his words back, even if he did have some joke to make.

He approached you slowly, like one would approach a raccoon in a trap. Like a cornered animal. He took off his mask- something he didn't do often. Feeling as though you really needed to be able to see his eyes, you really needed to see another person. His hands eventually found purpose at your sides, pulling you into a hug. Your legs were like jello, simply dragging along as he held you tightly. Holding you as if he also feared you'd slip out. Words didn't form on your lips like you'd tried, mouth hanging open for a moment before you only managed to break into tears again. You were embarrassed, tears soaking his shoulder. He did not relent, one of his arms around your body and one hand holding the back of your head.

"Help," You didn't even know what that was supposed to mean. How could you? The air around you seemed too thick and the wall in front of you looked wrong somehow. You weren't sure if he understood, holding you tightly still as he began to rock. "It's ok, you're gonna be alright" He forced out, sort of unsure. This clearly wasn't his forte at all. But, he was trying. Where you were sure god either couldn't find you- or didn't bother to- solace had crawled through your window. Among the thoughts and the still-present terror you couldn't seem to shake, he picked you up to set you on the bed. He'd meant to move to be in front of you. Only separating so he could look you in the eyes.

"Please, I don- please." Your voice creaks and waivers like the wood used to build old ships on their last days. Begging for something you weren't even sure of. Pleading like a man at the altar. "Don't leave, I'm sorry," You rambled on as though the words couldn't form themselves. "I'm sorry- Y/N. I won't, I can stay all night"

He pats your side comfortingly as he pulls you back in, as quickly as he can. Holds you like a lifeline. "How about I just get out of this suit, and I'll be right back? I won't even leave the room" He speaks softly, uncharacteristically so. It's just shy of a whisper, keeping his eyes on yours. In search of something your mouth can't say.

It took a minute, but he slipped out and quickly shoved on some pjs he kept on top of your dresser. He rushed back over like a kid playing musical chairs. Drags you into his arms and onto him, crashing like waves against the rocks. Sobs tear through your chest again, rattling in your ribcage somehow like the tail of a rattlesnake.

"I know, I know," He coos, but he doesn't He has no idea and he's terrified. "I'm here," He says to himself just as much as he does to you. But it's true this time, he's there and he doesn't leave.

So when he stays with you- all the while just as clueless the whole way. He listens, even if your babbling is nonsensical. If it's a lot of variations of "I'm scared" and "I don't know", he begs something to give him an idea of how to help you. You stay that way until you fall asleep, exhausted from crying. You sleep before him, as you doze off he stays awake a while longer. Playing with your hair, the moonlight cast against the two of you. His brows- or I suppose where they would be, furrow. You didn't say a fucking thing about this to him, and frankly, he was caught far off guard.

He's still there when you wake up, now asleep. Even so his hold on you is firm. His suit is strewn across the floor from the night before, both phones long forgotten somewhere on the floor among it. It still burned in your chest- threatened to crawl out, and something ugly still nestled itself in your chest. But, this time, Wade had answered a call you never made. God forgive him for not knowing what to do, he did something right. You laid against him again whilst trying to find whatever comfort you could in what you now had. You'd have to explain this once it passed, but for now, you didn't have to explain a thing. He wasn't leaving. Finally, like an anchor that finally found sand, you stopped. The wood of your boat stopped creaking and you fell asleep a second time.

♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡

Sorry again for the lack of posts! I'm slightly a little bit mid-episode but I think I'm past most of it. very scary. But- I won't rant to you guys about that. That's what writing fanfic is for. Hope you all enjoyed!

Have a good day/night, and a great life!

#fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #fiction #fan fic #comfort #help #deadpool #deadpool x reader #deadpool x you #deadpool x y/n #comfort fic #angst

18 notes · View notes

bakugouaaa · 2 years ago

Note

Please for my beloved Winter,, 9, 10, 15, 18, 20, and 22

ask meme!

9. If your OC were to imagine their idyllic life (realistically or otherwise) what would it be like?

honestly, winter wants a life of ease and to be able to rest. she wants to be able to settle down and not worry about all of the ways that the world is broken. it’s why she partially retires post 6.0 — she wants to live a life for herself rather than other people. she also desperately wants to be a mother; it’s not a necessity for her by any means, but in her perfect world. she’s settled, she’s married with kids, and she’s happy. it’s a big wish for her.

10. What piece of moody poetry or novel quote best encompasses your character?

i admittedly don’t read as much as i used to so i’m very behind on like, what poetry is what and all that. but there’s an excerpt from three women by sylvia plath i think of a lot for her:

The silver track of time empties into the distance, The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup. These are my feet, these mechanical echoes. Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs. I am found wanting.

15. What is a common misconception about your OC? (Alternatively, what do people assume about them which is either incorrect or misconstrued?)

that she’s a cold and cruel person. while she does have a very icy demeanor upon first glance, winter loves a lot and has a very big heart. she does fall into common mean girl tropes at first, given her upbringing and privilege that comes with wealthy parents - but that iciness is a guard that comes from fake friends using her only for money and status. i won’t ever call her like, overly warm or anything, but she’s definitely not an ice queen like people view her. she loves deeply and she loves fiercely.

18. What is one thing that they only let those closest to them see?

vulnerability. winter tries very hard to put on tough acts, or rather like. she doesn’t want people to see her for how she sees herself. she thinks she has to be a perfect example of heroism. she thinks she has to be strong and steady. so when one gets to know her on a level deeper than what she puts on for the public, they do see into like.. the more vulnerable side of her that’s just. so very tired.

20. What was the moment at which they knew they were in love, or was it a slow buildup?

rubbing my little hands together. with aleksei, it was a slow buildup after the initial shock she felt when their eyes met for the first time. at the time, she was with orrick, and as you know that relationship was just for show at best and extremely toxic at worst. so, fast forward to the end of a realm reborn, when the world feels like it’s broken for her for the first time. while she has river with her, and alphinaud and tataru, she still feels incredibly alone, because it’s her first time losing everything. she doesn’t think much on romance. she doesn’t think much on anything beyond survival and the next step that comes in the path she and river were guided upon. but then there’s aleksei. a like mind and someone who seems to see beyond the facade. it’s the first spark of something, it’s the first time she thinks of him beyond a mere acquaintance. the more time they spend together, the more spark she feels - soon enough, it’s a full blown fire. while it was a slow build, it definitely came rushing forward all at once. every smile, every passing glance and every written word - she treasures them all. and, she keeps every note he’s written.

22. What is some advice or guidance they received that had a big impact on their lives or outlook? Was it a positive or negative impact?

genuinely. i don’t think winter has ever received guidance or advice of any sort that has bettered her, or really made her worse? there is that bit about like, the legacy of parents etc, but like.. she had already decided for Herself so long ago that she was never going to be her parents. even if she was given advice it’s like... a 25/75 chance she’d take it lmao. we love to see it <3

#nedsseveredhead #i think about winter and aleksei and go insane btw the way i want them to kiss so bad #winter has. a lot going on in her brain. and i didn't word everything right but just know she is always 2 seconds away #from having a complete mental breakdown in a certified hashtag girl moment #anyways. yeah #winter dorne #river dorne #(mentioned)#aleksei nightsbane

6 notes · View notes

tonesplash · 4 years ago

Text

its thanksgiving get nasty (18+)

pairing: edward cullen x reader

summary: you get bored at thanksgiving dinner. unfortunately for edward you wore sandals

warnings: smut,brief footjob, thanksgiving dinner, edward kind of chokes on corn, reader doesn’t like their family, mild injury, fingering, innappropriate use of vampire speed, technically exhibitionism and public sex?? bad dirty talk, and cousin-shaming, reader is afab and might be described as female im not sure

a/n: i wrote this in 24 hours so any sloppiness is not my fault

masterlist

(c/n)= cousins name

When you told him thanksgiving with your family would be boring, you’d meant it’d be for him, looking forward to his reaction to being on the receiving end of your bloodlines ridiculousness while you’d get dinner and a show. But, as it turns out, your family just so happens to get along with Edward much better than they do with you.

The seating situation is a little unconventional, since because your boyfriend-snatching cousin stole the open seat next to Edward before you even made it back from the bathroom, leaving your only viable option directly opposite of him. On the bright side, you had the option of kicking his leg when he’d said something to embarrass you.

Bless his soul, he’d done his best to bring you into the conversation but apparently, anything you had to say about your relationship had been relayed verbatim to the family group chat you weren't even in by your mother. So, after the third time you’re talked over by the aforementioned horny cousin or some other nosy relative on you’re bored out of your mind.

Everyone had gotten over your piss poor table manners years ago, or were just completely ignoring you at this point because there were no protests when they’d brought the turkey out and you’d stayed slumped low in your seat like a child in church.

Twitter had stopped refreshing ten minutes ago, and when you finally resigned yourself to tuning back into the conversation, your mother was showing Edward your baby pictures again. Idly swinging one bare foot under the table, your bare toe grazes the drape of his dress slacks under the table when you get an idea.

You’d lost a sandal earlier after Edward had pinned it under his shoe in a vain attempt to stop your pinching and dirtying of his slacks with your filthy soles. You scoot a little further forward in your seat to reach out and press your arch flat against his shin.

Edward doesn’t visibly react, just shifts his leg away, leaving yours to slip to the floor until you reach up again to plant your heel on the seat of the chair. The conversation lulls for a moment as everyone says grace, and he uses the opportunity to grab your ankle and send you a warning glare over the top of your phone.

You meet his gaze and boorishly eat a spoon of mashed potatoes, shrugging as if he couldn’t read in your mind exactly what you were about to do.

Your cousin asks about his mom car again and when you roll your eyes Edward flicks the outside of your fibula, sure to bruise, and you crinkle your nose, pinching his marble thigh between your toes as best you can through the material.

“Well my father thought it was necessary for my siblings and I to-”

While he talks, he's soothing the spot he flicked, playing in the stubble leftover from your shoddy shave job this morning, and the absent affection gives you the final motivation to further push your luck. You tease the seam of his left leg with the very tips of your toes, coaxing the unnatural heat of the venom to build in the crotch of his pants, the coolness of the rest of him making it seem even hotter in comparison.

He inhales on a forkful of corn, almost taking it down the wrong pipe, and you fight a smile around the bowl of the spoon as he flawlessly recovers and finishes the thought. You idly wonder if you could be that smooth someday. For now, you press further, pressing a toe against the seam over his cock, stroking up and down as slowly and consistently as you can while stretched under a table because who would’ve thought that footjobs are kind of an athletic feat.

Edward taps insistently at your leg, harder than he normally would, and you have to hold back a laugh at the idea of him splitting the table because he can’t take a little footsie action. You press forward again, arch encompassing his hardness through the fabric, toes curling against his pubic bone when-

“Ho-oly shit!” Searing pain shoots up from your ankle, and you double over, using everything in you not to shout, Edwards dawning mortification going unnoticed as everyone at the table turns to you at your unexpected outburst.

“(Y/n)?” Your mother doesn’t seem that happy to have dinner interrupted, and you clutch your stomach as a quick cover.

“Uh, my bad.” You snicker nervously at the sudden attention, bravado gone. Your face feels red-hot. “I actually need to use the bathroom, I think,” you lick your lips and slide out of your chair. “Lady problems.”

The table erupts in a cacophony of gags and groans as the notion of a menstrual cycle is brought up in casual conversation, and it gives you the perfect cover to retreat to the upstairs bathroom. It takes you a minute to make it up the stairs without causing a scene, and just as soon as you close and lock the door behind you and settle down to weep in peace, he’s there, jiggling the doorknob like it’s a drug bust.

“Let me in.”

You’re apparently taking too long because as soon as your injured foot touches the floor, he forces the lock and slips in, shutting the door a little too fast to pass as human.

“Jesus! Edward, are you trying to lose our deposit?” You lean around him to check for a handprint but he doesn’t respond, wordlessly setting you up on the counter, kneeling to examine your injured ankle, cool fingers soothing to the sore skin. You sit in silence, idly swinging your other leg to distract yourself.

“How'd you make it out?” You can't imagine they’d let the guest of honor go so easily.

“You forgot your bag, I told them I’d just bringing it up to you.” He places your bag next to you as evidence. “Maybe you should start carrying menstrual products for when you actually need them.”

Of course, he breaks your foot and wants to lecture you on responsible uterus care. Edward sighs, taking your foot with the gentlest touch and whispering a kiss into the skin. “It’s only a sprain, but I’m still sorry.”

“S’Okay.” Your face burns, not expecting his guilt. “Serves me right, huh?” You titter, poking his side with your uninjured foot. He swipes it up before you can start again, halfheartedly laughing with you.

“Let me wrap it before you get any more ideas.” You hand him the compression wrap from the medicine cabinet, and he gets to work. The wince you give at the pressure is more reflex than anything, but the anxious expression on his face tells you he wasn't going to let this go easily.

“Y’know…” You poke at him again. The playful contempt in his golden eyes gives you the go-ahead to make your case. “If you’re really feeling torn up about it, seeing you wow my family like that got me a little riled up.”

“Really.” Edward kisses the secured wrapping and releases you, standing to frame you against the counter.

“I’m serious, impressing them isn’t easy, (C/n) is probably shaving in the guest room to steal you from me right now, just thinking about it has got me a little hot under the collar.” You run your hands over his back and through his hair, nuzzling into the crook of his throat.

“You’re laying it on pretty thick, don’t you think?” His hands smooth over your exposed thighs sending a shiver up your spine. You think you've got him, but he's such a tease sometimes you can never really be sure.

“Depends. Is it working?” You still, bracing for some line about ‘responsibility’ and ‘your family waiting for you.’

But then his hands are under your skirt, hooking into the sides of your underwear and pulling them down your thighs, leaving them to free-fall to your feet. You clutch his auburn hair in your fingers at the shock of open-air against your cunt.

“Do you think I could let you go back to that table smelling like this?” His sweet breath washes against your ear as he huffs a soft laugh. “I’d rather not go downstairs and pretend to care about football when I know you’re here, hot and ready for me.”

You can’t resist him any longer, pulling him close and kissing him with the desperation of a woman who needs to be back downstairs before dessert. His thumb teases over your cunt at first, swirling over your swelling clit and teasing your hole before he finds a focus, using the thumb of his free hand to hold your hood back as his slicked fingers grind the bud into a frenzy while he sucks your tongue into his mouth.

It’s all you can do to hold your breath while he touches you, cool fingers building a knot in your belly, smooth and steady as they batter you up into a frenzy. He adjusts his hand, his ring finger pressing into you and bringing a low ache from rushed preparation, but you welcome it, thighs shaking with the effort to stay open for him as your mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. Edward breaks the kiss to let you breathe , seemingly unbothered until-

“(C/n) is coming.”

“Wha-” A particularly deep stroke has you biting your lip as you struggle to concentrate. “What the fuck does she want?”

“She’s going to ask you where I am.” His expression doesn’t match his words, still completely concentrated on ruining you despite the obvious issue.

“And what am I supposed to tell her?!” You hiss back right as she reaches the door. His mouth closes over your pulse point and you don't think you've clenched that hard before in your life.

“Hey (Y/n)? Have you seen Edward?” Her voice is enough of a mood killer that you have to shove your face into his throat to ground yourself in the moment. He adds a second finger, gaining speed, and you pray and hope to any god listening to this that she can't hear the squelches through the door.

“N-no.” You rack your mind for an excuse. His scent is making it harder to concentrate. “I think he went out for a smoke?” Nice one.

“Really? I didn't smell anything on him...” If all your blood flow hadn't been centralized below the waist at this point you'd’ve asked how the hell she knows what he smells like. He's fully abandoned your clit now, leaving it to pulse in the open air while three of his fingers push and pull at your pelvic floor.

“That's cause he unh-” You slap a hand over your mouth to stop the moan before it can be recognized for what it is.“-he vapes!” Edward pulls back from your throat to look at you incredulously, but it's a little hard to be ashamed when he's nearly wrist deep inside you.

“Oh… Well, let him know if you see him that they’re playing charades and I need a partner. You know how it is.”

You forget to reply, too enthralled watching him spit onto his unoccupied fingers and mash the coolness against your clit, causing you to nearly spasm off the counter, losing the sensation as he silently laughs at having to hold you steady. She seemed to have taken your silence as an admission, as you can hear the door at the stoop of the stairs swinging shut after her. Thank God.

“Rub your spot, Sweet, come on, we have to be quick.” He kisses your temple and laughs a bit maniacally at the little whimper that escapes when you bring a hand down to your clit. “Surprisingly, she’s having trouble picturing me in a vape shop.”

You whine around a bitten lip, too far gone to listen to his ribbing. You’re building up to overstimulation with the sloppy way you’re rubbing yourself, and he must feel it too, because in the next second, his fingers are vibrating.

“Come on, (Y/n), don't you want to finish up here and mop the floor with them?” You hadn’t even realized how hazy your vision had gotten until he grabs your chin and levels your lidded eyes with his and says your name again. You nod sluggishly for him, not hearing a word. He laughs again, smiles wide. His teeth are pretty.

“If you cum right now;” The buzzing grows stronger, your free arm spasming under you as you support yourself. “I’ll rub you raw after on the ride home. You just need to come right now and win charades with me.”

The buzzing inside grows too strong, and your vision goes white, pulsing in long pulls around his fingers as hot waves of sensation spread from your head to your toes.

Edward kisses you, soft and slow, swallowing any whimpers tempted to escape as you come down, abandoning the counter to clutch his sleeve as the twitching reduces to a tremor.

“Oh my god.“ You laugh, planting your face into his collar as you catch your breath. “I can't believe you used charades to make me come, I'm never gonna forgive you.”

“I heard the top prize is a ten dollar gift card to…” He squints and checks again. “The Google Play Store.”

“Ew, what could you even do with tha-”

“(Y/N) come help with plates!” Your mother shouts up the stairwell, totally fucking up any release you just had.

“I guess I should run down to the corner store;” Edward smiles, helping you to stand on wobbly legs and smoothing your skirt down. “Don't want to blow your cover.”

“(Y/N)! Plates!”

“Oh my god;” Your eyes may never return from the back of your skull. “Meet you downstairs?”

He kisses you sweetly one last time, pulling you close and wiping the sheen of sweat off of your face.

“Downstairs.”

With that, he heaves himself out of the narrow sill, and you busy yourself cleaning up as fast as you can.

You just catch him hopping off the roof, and coming around to the front yard. He'll hear you no matter the volume, but you still shout the warning;

“Stay away from my cousin!”

#edward cullen x reader #edward cullen imagine #edward cullen #Twilight FanFic #twilight smut #twilight imagines #twilight x reader #twilight x you #the twilight saga #reader insert smut #reader insert fluff #reader #thanksgiving #dinner with parents

1K notes · View notes

the-kaedageist · 3 years ago

Text

Spoilers for the Exandria Unlimited finale

Of all the ways that Orym had imagined a member of their group falling to the siren call of the circlet, Opal using its power to save her sister had been very low on his list. Now, he was faced with the reality of just that as he watched her transformed face through the flickering flames of their campfire.

He had been prepared to deal with Dorian, with Fearne, even with Dariax, had any of them made a move for the circlet—but Opal? This was a possibility that he wasn’t quite sure he had a plan for.

When he’d joined up with the group, he hadn’t even dreamed that Opal would become his closest friend of the five. She was young, somewhat brash, a bit disagreeable. She could be cutting with her words in the way of the absolutely young and immortal. She was full of false bravado and faked confidence, hiding all the while that she was just a nineteen-year-old human girl who loved so desperately.

Now she wore the circlet, and Orym feared he’d lost the most valuable friendship he’d found since leaving home, since losing—

“Nancy!”

Opal appeared next to him all at once, startling him out of his maudlin thoughts. “You look sad. Are you ok?”

Orym glanced around the fire at the others, realizing that the group had begun settling in for sleep while he’d been mulling over the circlet. Dariax and Dorian were curled up together off to one side, murmuring back and forth in soft voices. Orym flashed to a similar memory of his own, of sharing soft truths under the safety of darkness. He was happy for them, but he also couldn’t watch them for long without it becoming too much. Fearne was on the other side of the fire, sitting in the spot that Opal had vacated and playing with Little Mister. Although she pretended that she wasn’t paying attention to himself and Opal, Orym caught the way one ear flicked in their direction.

He loved these ridiculous people, so much.

“Nancy!” Opal said again. She reached across him to tug at his wrist, turning him towards her. The moment their eyes met, she assumed a serious expression. “Daughter. Tell me your troubles.” The effect was ruined a moment later as she giggled.

Orym felt slightly nauseated just being near her. He wanted to blame his anxiety, but he suspected it had far more to do with the circlet she wore.

“I’m worried,” he said at last, barely above a whisper.

“You’re always worried,” Opal told him, her eyes wide and guileless. It was hard to reconcile the young woman in front of him now with the dark specter who had murdered Myr’atta Niselor without a second thought. It was less the murder itself that truly troubled Orym and more the fact that it had been done with the power of the circlet.

“I’m worried a bit more than usual,” Orym confessed. “I think we should still try to remove that.”

Opal’s hands reflexively went to the circlet at her brow. She looked thoughtful, a rare enough state for Opal that Orym let her take a moment to gather her thoughts. “I told the Spider Bitch that I didn’t want power,” she said at last. “I meant it. I just wanted to help Ted.”

“I know,” Orym told her. And oh, didn’t he know that feeling so well, that all-encompassing love that meant he’d do anything for one person? But Orym’s person was lost, no matter how hard he’d tried to protect him. The least he could do was protect this new family of his with the same ferocity.

Even for him, Orym wasn’t sure he would have put on the circlet. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about that fact.

“I think it’s ok,” Opal continued. “She’s in my head, but she mostly seems annoyed at me. She called me off-putting.” She seemed comforted by this fact, as though the spider queen’s distaste could save her from the dark fate of becoming her Champion. Perhaps it could. Orym knew little of gods and magic, other than the bit he’d learnt at Keyleth’s side.

“I’m afraid that she’ll wait,” Orym said. “That she’ll be ready for a moment of weakness. You don’t crave it now, but it is the way of all of us to want power when we feel most powerless.”

Opal shook her head. “Nancy, my little pessimist,” she said fondly, leaning over to press an affectionate, motherly kiss against his forehead. “Nothing will make me feel more powerless than watching Ted be turned into a monster in front of me.”

“I’m actually an optimist,” Orym objected.

Opal laughed; he wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either. Maybe she was right. Perhaps he had changed after the events of the past few months. But he still looked at the dawn and saw potential; he still took in the world around him and found beauty and wonder. He had lost everything and maintained that; was that not the true root of optimism?

A little justified worry about a dangerous vestige of the Divergence hardly changed that.

“Just be careful, okay?” he said. “If you start feeling yourself change because of it…if you ever feel tempted to use it…”

Opal took both of his hands in hers, turning completely in his direction and regarding him with utmost solemnity. “You’ll be the first person I’ll tell if it starts to be too much,” she promised before amending, “well, probably the second. The first would be Ted.”

This time, Orym was the one who laughed. “You think you two will stop arguing long enough to discuss the circlet?” he teased.

Opal frowned at him in mock-offense. “Excuse you! Ted and I have a complicated relationship!” She laughed. “You might be right though.”

Orym wasn’t sure he felt comforted, exactly, by Opal’s reassurance. It would take long months of watching her continually fight back the spider queen’s influence, using the circlet only on the behalf of others and presenting a joint force with Ted to stand against the corruption, before Orym would truly begin to believe that perhaps, this young human woman could wield the circlet in relative safety.

“Fearne’s taking first watch,” Opal said. “You should get some sleep.” She squeezed their joint hands. “I promise the circlet isn’t going to change me, Nancy. You’re not going to lose me.”

He’d already lost so much, but he had to try to believe she was right, at least until time proved otherwise. He nodded.

“And if it does start to change you, we’ll be here to stop it,” he said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. It was worth it for the small smile that Opal gave him, her expression so young and vulnerable that his heart ached on her behalf.

“Good night,” Opal whispered, releasing his hands and getting to her feet. She made her way back to her own bedroll and curled up into it, murmuring something to Fearne as she prepared for sleep.

Orym went through the motions of getting ready to rest, laying in his own bedroll and closing his eyes.

He never stopped thinking about the circlet.

#exandria unlimited #orym #orym of the air ashari #orym exu #opal #opal exu #exu opal #exu spoilers #cr spoilers #I knew from the moment the nancy joke continued throughout the series that I was going to write opal & orym friendship fic #and here it is #I'm nothing if not predictable #I just adore these two so much #the double o's

132 notes · View notes

crybabykiko · 4 years ago

Text

Szn’s Creamings

Miya Osamu x Fem!Reader

Warnings: oof a lot sorry- eggnog(its delicious and you’re all just mean), corruption if you squint, clandestine sex I guess? Choking, fingering, oral (m & f receiving), nipple play, the Miya accent, improper use of Christmas decorations, bondage, unprotected sex(you should know to expect this from my writing by now), vaginal penetration, squirting, creampies/breeding, use of the word daddy like ONCE, cum eating, a dash of overstim for optimal flavor, ahegao (😌) aaaaand snowballing (aka spitting cum in someone’s mouth) swearing obviously ummmmm shit man idk anymore I’m 999% sure that’s it- good shit below da cut

Wc: 2.5k

A/N: Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and a VERY Happy Holiday no matter your culture’s festivities! This is part of my collab with my lovely friends in The Sewer Server- @rat-suki ty anu for organizing it all! I’m love u. This fic was written in an eggnog & fireball induced blackout, and is singlehandedly fueled by lust for Osamu’s Dorito body and my love for Steak n’ Shake.

Cheese-on’s Greetings Collab mlist here 🎄🎁🐁

“This... is it?” He cocked an eyebrow at the concoction, the red and green sprinkles bleeding dye into the whipped cream, the sad cherry on top sunken into it.

“This is what you’ve been goin’ on about fer the last 3 weeks?”

This- was an eggnog milkshake. A wintertime classic, and a staple at the local diner in your hometown. Simple enough. It didn’t look like much- in fact, it honestly wasn't. But to you, this shitty, artificially-flavored diner milkshake encompassed all the joys of holiday magic into one tall, frosted glass. You could count the years you spent in this diner, knocking them back. You’ve grown of course, but the nostalgia always stays the same. Having Osamu come to your hometown for the holidays was a pretty big step in your relationship, sure, but including him in the milkshake tradition usually reserved for your best friend? That was even bigger.

“You haven’t even taken a sip, you ass,” you giggled, putting your own straw to your lips, reveling in the cool flavor that was coating your tongue. Pure sugar, just a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon- perfect as always. You pushed the glass over to him, urging him to try for himself. He took in a large drink, letting it rest before clicking his tongue a few times and looking over at your eyes- eyes that were aglow with anticipation and gingerbread men? No, that was just the reflection of the gaudy tinsel that adorned the booth you sat in.

“Soooo?”

“Not bad,” he sighed, pushing the glass back your way. Always anticlimactic.

“But I could definitely make one that’s better.”

“I’d like to see you try,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him.

One thing you knew he could never resist was a challenge. Grabbing his wallet, he slammed some bills on the table, whisking you away from the diner in 2 minutes flat, the milkshake an ever present memory, like that of the favorite Christmas gift from childhoods passed. You didn’t think he’d take it that seriously, but you also knew that Osamu took everything- especially food- seriously.

Even still, the drive back to your parents’ was a calm one, like every night adventure. The only difference was the bitter cold in the air, and the soft crooning of songs about Santa Claus on the radio. The only thing was- you just couldn’t stop pressing your thighs together….

“Put it away, sir.” you said jokingly, shifting your current position on the couch. Miracle on 34th Street shown on the small screen of the television as you flicked through what seemed like every Christmas movie ever made with the remote. The feeling of his cock starting to stiffen at your back told you everything you needed to know; that Osamu wasn’t interested in whether or not Santa Claus was real, or whatever the ‘true’ meaning of Christmas was- he was solely interested in the meaning of that which currently resided between your legs.

A sneaky had drifted under your shirt, breath hitching in your throat as his thick fingers rolled one of your nipples, the soft tugging leaving you mewling as the sensation traveled down to your now throbbing clit. You leaned into it for a split second, but you were bought back to reality by the sight of your family’s Christmas photos on the fireplace mantle. There was no way in hell you could get fucked in front of a photo of your grandmother. You swatted Osamu’s hand away.

“We can NOT do this right now-” your words fell on deaf ears as his hand snaked up your thigh, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake as he settled them right above your stomach, fiddling with the drawstrings of your shorts.

“My mom and dad are literally upstairs….” The words left your mouth faintly your body lurching toward him.

Again, you tried. A valiant attempt. It wasn’t a lie- they most certainly were upstairs, presumably fast asleep, as they had been up there for almost two hours now, leaving you and Osamu to watch a few corny Christmas movies- or so they thought. But he saw through your objections. Hearing the way your voice softened, seeing how your chest wavered as he got closer and closer to your face, he simply couldn’t contain himself.

“It’s not my fault ‘ya wanted to stay here,” he huffed, large hands seizing your own, pushing away their protests as he passed his thumb up and down your clothed slit. You bit your lip in an effort to silence the moan that was bubbling its way up and out of your mouth. You had started to become feverish, your own state of vulnerability apparent as Osamu used one arm to pin your wrists above your head, sending your lower half flailing and bucking up into his free hand as you whimpered desperately for his touch.

“You want it, don’t ya, little love?” Little love. The one pet name you could never resist. Almost like a switch, you moaned a particularly needy, not-so-hushed “hmmhm- yes, daddy,” that definitely would have blown your cover. Luckily, Osamu’s thick fingers worked their way into your mouth to silence you, your lips immediately wrapping around them and obediently sucking to heed his words.

“Just be s’quiet as possible,” his hushed tone came out in a low baritone. He pressed a finger to his lips, pointing another up toward the ceiling from the couch of your parents living room.

Keeping your arms restrained, your boyfriend’s free hand pushed past your layers of clothes, your saliva coated his fingers, providing just enough slickness to enter your hole with ease, gently curling against that soft spot right inside. You were so warm, so needy, easily molding into his touch as he watched your eyes widen within his. You fixed your mouth to open, but it hung there as his fingers worked, your cunt sucking them in manically.

“F-fuck,” you could barely manage that. “Please I-hmph- please…”

“Use yer words, little love,” he cooed, the tone of his voice was sickeningly slow as he teased you, slowing his fingers down. You bucked your hips in protest, pouting and wiggling underneath him to feel some form of friction.

“Stop Squirmin’.” His demeanor shifted immediately, darkening at your perceived disobedience. The hands that held your wrists met your throat, a half gasp escaping you as he gently squeezed, your face softening into a pout.

“I said- use yer words.”

“Please, please fuck me,” you squeaked. “F-fill me up.”

“Then we gotta find a way t’keep ya nice n’ still. Will you be good fer me?”

You nodded. You always were. Osamu’s ability to render you a compliant, malleable toy for him to fuck was astounding. You could spend the rest of your life being his obedient little thing without a care in the world or a complaint.

“I know ya will,” he pressed a kiss to your lips. “My little love’s always s’good…”

You knew you were in for it- but you didn’t expect this. It was a little different from your normal setup, but at the same time, the rush of excitement built in the pit of your stomach just as it did the first time ‘Samu ever bound you. It just so happened that there were some discarded lights nearby the Christmas tree. You could see the glimmer of an idea in his eyes as he plugged them in, smiling as the glow lit up his face. He looked at you on the couch and wiggled his eyebrows- as much as you wanted to laugh out loud, you weren’t in the position to be picky about your rigging tonight. You had to make do.

“It’s…. festive?” You could tell that even he was amused. But amusement aside, the desire that built between you, the stored tension of having not touched each other for almost two days now was clearly screaming to be addressed. His large hands made a bite in the wiring of the lights and they quickly found themselves around your wrists, the illumination beautiful, but also kind of blinding this close to your face. With a kiss to your lips, he moved from your wrists and down toward your torso, trailing an interesting track of holiday cheer into a harness around your chest and tying in your back. Your arms were bent forward at the elbow, snugly enough so that you could wiggle your fists, but your wrists were of no use.

Pushing you onto your knees, you felt the press of your boyfriend’s hand against your back as he repositioned your arms and elbows to place you on all fours. Cool air immediately hit the skin of your lower half as you felt him pull your bottoms off. You wriggled your hips in an effort to help, but instead your flesh was met with an aggressive strike. Managing to catch your discomfort in your throat, a lowered hiss bared through your gritted teeth, soon followed by a sharpened inhale as you felt the presence of him towering over you.

“Been thinking about the way those cute lips were wrapped around that straw all night,” he panted, palming his cock through his sweats. You could see how uncomfortably hard he was- it lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t wait to serve him, you couldn’t wait to feel the weight of his thick cock against your tongue- and stretching your pussy past it’s limits.

“I bet’cher sweet mouth wrapped around my cock would look even prettier, don’t ya think?”

His words hit at your core. Your mouth began to water in anticipation as he pulled himself out of his sweats, gently pumping before lining up at your mouth.

Delicately, your tongue swirled down the slit of the head, plush lips wrapping around the pink bulb. Osamu’s hands guided your head down the length, drool sliding out of your mouth and down your chin, where it dripped onto your chest, riddled with bright multicolored light. Slowly, he fucked himself with your throat, allowing you to adjust to his girth.

“Yep,” he exhaled deeply, hissing at how warm your mouth felt around him.

“Ev’n prettier.”

His motions sped up as he bobbed your head up and down, the slight saltiness of his precum going down easily, leaving you practically begging for a full load. You always craved him on your tongue- he tasted much better than any diner milkshake could. The soft gargling of his assault on your throat slowed to a stop as he pulled you off, leaving you gasping for air. Licking the drool from the corners of your lips, Osamu kissed you passionately before throwing your bound body onto the couch.

You clenched haphazardly around his cock as soon as he entered you, head flying forward with the force of his thrusts. His arm held you upright, parallel to his chest as his cock pistoned in and out of your hole.

“‘S-sa-ah!~ ‘Samu- ffuck!” Your eyes snapped shut as he fucked into you. His breathy grunts resounded deep in your ears, sending jolts of molten lust down your spine, chest heaving as you tried keeping your voices down. Your hot, wet cunt sucked him in deeper and deeper each time he entered you- your urge to milk him for everything he had was only made more apparent by it.

“I can feel you baby,” He purred into your ear. “So fucking wet.”

Osamu released you from his hold, letting you fall forward into the couch, one hand pushing your head into the cushions, the other roughly kneading at the flesh where your ass and hip met, digging his nails into the flesh as he began to carnally pound into your pussy. Each stroke hit your sweet spot with a ridiculously precise skill. Your muffled sobs echoed into the cushions of the couch as he drilled you, never once slowing the rate in which his hips snapped into yours. You wouldn’t be surprised if the smacking of his skin against yours woke your parents at this rate- you couldn’t be bothered to care with your orgasm this close to the horizon.

Somehow you managed to free a hand from your twinkling ties, immediately pushing it to your clit to rub it feverishly. The squelching started up shortly after, your ears beginning to ring as your throat squealed itself raw into the deep void beneath you. Osamu pulled you back by your hair, pressing his lips to your ear and clasping a hand to your mouth.

“Keep rubbing that pretty pussy, sweet girl, so fucking close to cumming fer me, aren’t ya?”

You could only whine in response. He softened the hand on your mouth, muffled words spilling out.

“I’m gonna cu-ah-cum! Please let me cum!”

“Hmmm? Gonna cum? Did I hear ya right, little love?” He knew what he was doing, egging you on like this.

You were mere milliseconds away from losing it, the edge pulling up to you so close that you could barely collect yourself as you began to feel yourself slip over it- eyes whiting out as Osamu gave you the go-ahead.

“Just let me c-” he finished your sentence for you.

“Cum.” It was a simple word, a simple command. But the way it hit your ears: the way the low growl tore through your body- you didn't stand a chance. The warm wetness of your release sprayed against his abs, trickling down your thighs and pooling into the upholstery. Your eyes crossed, face contorting further into lewd bliss as a scream tried to escape your mouth- but only silence hiccuped its way out.

“Good fucking girl- now take this, baby. Take it all…” God, he was the devil.

Fucking you through it- your boyfriend chased his own high, cock twitching inside as the vision of you wrapped in lights blurring into colorful stars as he spilled into you, his load coating your insides with a mass of sticky, soothing heat. You both collapsed into each other, bodies writhing as you caught your heavy breaths.

As he slipped out of you, Osamu lifted your hips to his mouth, sucking in the mixture of his and your own release, savoring it on his tongue. Your puffy, fucked-out cunt spasmed at the contact, the sensation overwhelming as you tugged at his steely grey locks, snapping his head back.

“Hmmph- s’too much ‘Samu!” Your thighs clamped together as soon as he released you.

Humming a soft apology, he moved up from your lower lips to the upper ones, pushing his tongue past them, spitting arousal across your tongue. You swallowed the mixture greedily, smiling against his lips. You could still feel ropes of cum pouring from your spamming hole and leaking onto your thighs.

“Whaddaya think?” The words were slurred against the skin at the crook of your neck while he peppered your skin with kisses.

“Delicious.” You looked at him with a smirk, mind still hazy as your body shook its way through a few more aftershocks.

“Told ya I could make a better milkshake.”

As he said it, laughter broke out between the two of you. Your chest struggled against the harness, as it was still pretty tight. Osamu unplugged the decorations, gently untying you as snow fell outside your living room window, the faint jingling of bells filling the room again as the tv light illuminated you both.

Taglist Starseeds (check ur privacy settings if your url is in bold): @honey-makki @crushzone @yumekosgamblingroom @boujiesav @onesingleravioli @ushijimasfarmhat @trouvelle @nekoma-hoe @right-shoe-jpg @atsumusc0ck @ukeis @nivky0-0 @animoozies @charmarsmith

#cheese on’s greetings #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #hq smut #osamu smut #osamu x reader #daisy’s red light district 🚨#haikyuu headcanon #hq headcanons #hq writing #haikyuu writing #haikyuu fic #hq fic

792 notes · View notes

howisavedtheworld · 3 years ago

Text

enough | hanamaki takahiro

genre: heavy angst to fluff, a *lil* bittersweet lmao, timeskip!hanamaki takahiro x fem!reader/gn!reader, established relationship

warnings pls pls read: money problems, cursing littered in a lot of places, mentions of feelings like depression, exhaustion, loneliness, crying, etc., blood mentioned *once* (it’s from a callus, it is nothing extreme but i want to state it explicitly anyways) if there’s anything else brought to my attention ill fix accordingly

a/n: hi!!!! it’s been like two weeks since i’ve posted, i’ve been in a slump, but i’m going to genuinely try to be more consistent and kind to myself abt wat i create! also every thing i’ve ever written on here is ib my personal experiences

heads up tho, i havent read the manga and this is just my dramatized take on his life post-time skip and certain things may be inaccurate

enjoy!

also proofread at 4 am lol

wc: 1385

PLS GIVE THIS FIC A CHANCE ITS NOT ALL SAD I PROMISE

if hanamaki takahiro were to say he’s “tired,” one would deem it a grave understatement.

he’s not just tired.

he’s drained.

for starters, he’s worked three back to back shifts and it was barely reaching wednesday. monday at the deli was tough, considering he spent twelve straight hours packaging and stocking prosciutto and mozzarella sandwiches and arranging bags of kettle-cooked chips by flavor across the aisles of the store.

tuesday was even harder, the double shift at the restaurant hitting his already fatigued body like a brick. it was tiring enough to run around speedily clearing dishes and wiping down tables for six hours but it was absolute overkill to then spend the entire night cleaning the restaurant and prepping it for the morning crew.

6:39 am.

that was when takahiro finally left the restaurant, forcing his sluggish sore limbs to make the trek to the train station for the long ride back home.

in truth, the word “tired” barely even scratched the surface.

but he needed the money.

he needed it badly.

bills were always lingering on the brim of takahiro’s mind: the rent, the light bill, the water, the electricity. it left with him the constant urge to move, to work, to always be on the lookout for his next paycheck.

and of course, this wasn’t the best arrangement nor was it the life he’d hoped for.

of course, regret encompassed him, bound itself to his very being.

he wished he went pro after his glory days at aoba johsai, that he’d tried a little harder to be something. maybe then he’d have the opportunity to play in argentina, to travel the world, or to get signed by a sports brand just for the sake of it.

of course, he always felt a pang of jealousy for the ones that made it big.

even the ones who didn’t.

the ones with stable incomes, who could sustain themselves with only one job, who owned compact sized cars, who could actually save a single dime with hopes of eventually going on vacation.

deep down, he was jealous of them, too.

and he wondered, as he finally stepped foot on the train heading north, feeling the ache in his heels settle, if this would ever feel like enough.

if working two jobs back to back would ever amount to any feeling of satisfaction, if it was okay that he would only ever be remembered as the guy who didn’t go pro, who never got his degree, who was barely getting by.

he really didn’t think so.

because how could it be enough?

how could he have nothing to show for the life he lived?

sometimes, takahiro felt almost as if he was cursed. that life had dealt him the worst of cards just to see him crack underneath the pressure.

a lot of times, he did.

he had his fair share of low moments: the time he found himself shedding tears in the back of the deli, hiding behind loaves of rye bread and cold cuts hoping nobody would catch him.

or the time he bandaged his own bleeding foot by himself at the restaurant because his calluses broke open and everyone else was simply too busy to help.

in these moments, hanamaki felt so alone.

as if the world had forgotten him, had continued to spin on its axis, leaving him alone to figure out its rotation.

in these moments, he really just wanted to run away from it all.

to quit his jobs and just disappear for some time.

but he couldn’t.

because hanamaki takahiro had also learned that in every shitty day or moment, there was a flip side.

there had to be a sliver of hope in the midst of darkness.

7:32 am.

that was when hanamaki got home.

he stood for a moment, fumbling with various receipts and trinkets in his pocket before he finding his keys and opening the door.

it was quiet.

he could only hear the whirr of the shaky air conditioner and the hum of morning birds outside the bay windows of the living room. he took one step inside, wincing at the ache in his legs and sharp jab of pain up his spine.

locking the door behind him, he slipped off his shoes before the silence was broken.

“baby?” your soft sleepy voice rang through the apartment, making his body jump.

he was sure you’d be sleeping by now.

“hey, babe.” he let out a exhale of relief that you were the source of noise. “sorry if i woke you.”

you sat up from your position laying on the couch, shaking your head incessantly while wiping the grog from your eyes.

“no,” you quickly spoke. “i was waiting for you.”

his heart skipped a beat looking at you, your eyes half-lidded from exhaustion with dark circles underneath them, your hair completely disheveled from your awkward sleeping position on the couch, and you wore his old seijoh jersey that was too large and slipped down your shoulders, the hem falling just above your knees.

you looked at him, offering a soft smile before beckoning him over to you. “work must’ve fucking sucked, c’mere.”

and you were so right.

it was awful.

he took lengthy strides over to you before dropping onto the couch, his head finding its way to your lap.

your fingers instinctively reached to stroke his soft locks and he sighed, leaning into your touch.

“are you hungry?” you murmured. “i made udon earlier. it’s cold now so you’ll have to warm it up.”

he was hungry, desperately so after not having a moment to get even a small snack in at work, but he wanted to stay here for just a little longer, pressed into you, feeling the pads of your fingers against his scalp, smelling your conditioner and listening to the softness of your voice.

he shook his head, and you laughed, knowingly nodding. “okay, you can eat it later.”

“how was work for you?” he questioned, eyes fluttering closed at serenity of the moment.

you hummed, fingers still locked into his hair. “shitty. you know, usual bullshit with customers. but i think with my next paycheck, we’ll make the rent.”

his eyes snapped open to look up at you, and you were staring down at him, an excited smile on your face when you locked eyes.

and takahiro knew you had hopes and dreams, that you wanted to go back to school and get your degree and have a normal job, and eventually buy a house and car, and maybe have kids, but you always said that part wearily, claiming you both should start off the family off with a pet first.

he knew you wanted something different. you’d told him.

but even now, in this moment as he stared up at you, saddened by the fact that the future you hoped for was nowhere in sight, there was no inkling of disappointment in your eyes, no what-if, no questioning of if it was enough.

you looked at him like the life you had was all you’d ever asked for.

as if of course it was enough.

before he knew it, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

your eyes widened and you moved a hand to his cheek, wiping the tear away.

“i love you.” he stated, a few more lone tears sliding down his face.

your face softened before you squeezed his cheek with your hand.

“hey.” you beckoned him to sit up.

he followed, sitting up to face your frame on the couch. “don’t cry ‘cus we made the rent. there’s always other bills you can pay. if that’s what you’re worried about.”

and he laughed, nodding while tears spilled over his irises and he watched you through bleary eyes, wipe each one away and pull him into an embrace.

“i love you. you know that, right? i’ll always love you.”

hanamaki takahiro realized that in this lifetime, he doesn’t need a sports deal, or a compact car, or trips to argentina. even if life were to always be this hard, if he was always teetering on the in-between, if this was all the universe had to offer him, that was okay.

because it had granted him you.

and you, alone, were more than enough.

#hanamaki takahiro x reader #hanamaki takahiro fluff #hanamaki takahiro angst #haikyuu! x reader #hanamaki fluff #hanamaki angst #no bc its almost 5 am and im working tmrw

91 notes · View notes

thran-duils · 3 years ago

Text

Key to the Garden (P.1)

Title: Key to the Garden (Part One) Summary: Dark!Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Witch Reader (main pairing), but on the side, Dark!Tony Stark x Reader, Dark!Sam Wilson x Reader, Dark!Zemo x Reader. Y/N lives in one of the many fringe covens with her family along with a few other small families that did not want to be roped into the powerhouse coven community, Shield, ran by the Maximoff, Stark, Wilson, and Zemo witch and warlock legacies. Y/N’s grandmother had a run in with the coven community in her youth and she is mostly mum about the incident, but makes it clear that Y/N should stay as far away as she can from them. But when the Shield community discovers where their community is and demands they send someone to teach at their school for upcoming magical beings with threats and when it is demanded that someone from the Y/L/N family be the volunteer, Y/N does not resist to make sure no one else is subjected to them, much to her grandmother’s dismay. Little does Y/N know that a particular head in the community had been searching for them for a very long time and she is going to satisfy a very, very long held grudge. Word Count: 1,893 Warnings (more may be added): Non-con, dub-con, emotional manipulation, imprisonment, orgy, forced pregnancy, death, violence, 18+

Introduction || Part Two || Masterpost mobile || Fanfic masterpost

Your grandmother grasped your hand tightly as you told the soldiers you would go with them in her stead. Your grandmother had foolishly thought that you would allow her to go from the coven to the Shield Academy, the place she had warned you about since you were able to walk. Locking eyes, you saw the terror in her eyes and guilt washed over knowing you were making her feel that. But you were also doing this for her so she did not have to go. She deserved to be able to relax in her old age and live out her days protected in your coven. You had decades upon decades ahead of you.

Tearing your hand from hers, you told her, “Be well. The willow rejuvenates.”

Tears that had been gathering at the corners of her eyes spilled over as she saw you turn away, being guided into the carriage to take you away.

<><><>

Wanda came down the spiral, stone stairs from her tower in a rush. The servants of the academy went against the wall when they saw her coming, backs straight, giving her a deep bow. The hallway was at least fifteen feet across, more than enough space, but it was done out of respect and custom. They would be berated if they walked past her or any of the other leaders. The custom was not bestowed upon merely the teachers.

Turning the corner to face a flight of stairs, she spotted Sam waiting at the bottom. He was waiting for her having known she had been up in her tower for the better part of the morning.

“Heard that they’re back with two carriages from the other covens,” Sam said to Wanda, falling into side beside her as she walked.

“I didn’t see a second, but I saw the one,” Wanda replied.

“Was it who you were hoping? Was it Elena?”

“No.”

Sam’s face screwed up in confusion and said, “Well, maybe they screwed up.”

“They didn’t,” Wanda said clipped, which only served to confuse him more. She sensed his bewilderment and she offered tightly, “I know she’s from the right coven. It was like I was seeing a ghost when she came out of the carriage.”

Sam ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, contemplating as they turned a corner towards the front door. The students in the hall parted seeing two of their leaders, giving them curt bows that Sam and Wanda ignored in turn. Much like with the servants, they were not equals to their leaders.

In quieter tones, Sam asked, “Well, do you think she is going to be able to provide the same—”

“I’m not sure, Sam,” Wanda cut in sharply, an air of annoyance about her.

She was high strung, that much was clear to Sam. She had been ever since she had figured out where Elena was and sent their soldiers out to retrieve someone from the coven, preferably Elena. Wanda had given instructions to suggest her, wanting Elena to make the decision on her own because she knew how altruistic Elena was. She wanted Elena to choose to come back to her, even if it was through unscrupulous means.

The other leaders of the academy – Sam, Tony, and Helmut – knew of the shared past with Elena and Wanda. She had not shared the finer details of their relationship past they had worked together, but Wanda knew the men were not daft – they could discern the intimacy that Wanda and Elena had shared. Had shared… before Elena pulled away, taking her power and just as important, her affection with her, leaving Wanda alone.

When Wanda stepped down into the entrance hall and was faced with this woman, she felt her skin was on fire. All the past touches, and late nights wrapped in each other’s arms came rushing back to her. It took everything in her to not stride forward and encompass the woman to her as if she was coming back from a long journey and was finally back home safe. Wanda only outwardly flinched in her fingers in her inner turmoil.

The young woman’s features were even more strikingly similar to Elena up close. A picturesque witch that threatened from the moment Wanda laid eyes on her to drag her under her spell. Wanda’s lips parted, feeling as if her breath was stolen from her. She was stronger than this, she need not fall under this woman’s spell. But her nose, her lips, the hair… it all tugged at Wanda. The eyes were different though. That may be for the better, Wanda thought to herself. It would help her to prevent herself from confusing the two completely and allowing her past feelings to overtake her in the presence of this woman.

Behind the woman trailed a Cross fox that was curiously looking around the entrance hall. Wanda admired the coloring of it. Its face and legs were black, with trails of black throughout the rest of its orange fur. It was sleek, its eyes piercing. She would need to be careful around this creature.

The woman came closer to Sam and Wanda, reading the signs from the surrounding guard that they were the people she needed to be greeting with how they were standing erect and leaving them their space. She smiled warmly and Wanda felt a pang. The smile was so similar to the one Elena used to give her lovingly.

“Thank you for the comfortable carriage,” the woman said in an even tone.

Wanda saw past the civility though; she was not happy she was collected and taken away. And that was only prodding gently at her mind because she was unable to penetrate further. Wanda’s jaw ticked; Elena had certainly trained her family against mind manipulation; she was going to be unable to capitalize on that. The girl had a solid wall up and all Wanda could do was scratch at the surface.

She gave a curt bow and Wanda gave a tight lipped smile in return. Sam was ever careful about his reactions, gauging what he should do depending on Wanda. Sam bowed his head in acknowledgment towards the girl.

“Your name?” Wanda asked.

“Y/N.”

Wanda savored the way the name would roll off her tongue, her mind flashing to whispering the name in late night corridors, beckoning her to her chambers.

“I’m Wanda. This is Sam. We are two of the four leaders at the school. The others – Tony and Helmut – you’ll meet later at dinner. Along with the other teachers of course.”

“Pleasured. I’ve heard a lot about the reputation of this school. I sadly never attended due to the nature of my coven.”

“Every coven has their own rules, and we respect that.” That was a lie. Wanda wanted every coven under her rule, but it served her now to lie. “You must be tired. Can they gather your things, and you can come inside to have us show you to your quarters?”

Y/N patted her thigh and ordered, “Ember.” The fox came to her side and sat down obediently.

“An impressive choice for a familiar,” Sam told her. “Not very conspicuous to have one trotting after you.”

With an amused smile, Y/N told him, “Oh, she is not a familiar. She’s my pet. My familiar Nyx is somewhere. My cat. She took off as soon as I opened the door, but she will come back. Is that frowned upon?”

“No, familiars are allowed to roam as long as they don’t cause trouble,” Sam answered.

“I promise she won’t. I’m not expecting danger here.”

She was calculated that much Wanda was gathering right now. That last sentence especially was insinuating she was on her toes with the flash in her eyes, ready for them to betray her.

Wanda gestured towards the front door, “We can give a brief tour on the way to your rooms. They’ll bring your things, don’t worry about that.”

Y/N walked forward, the fox following behind. Wanda was taking note the fox looked extremely protective of Y/N. She would soon have to figure out how to separate them or gain the fox’s trust. The latter seemed more likely if she played her cards right.

On the way to her rooms, a long-haired white cat came running up the hall and came to stride in front of them, tossing looks over its shoulder at Y/N, Wanda, and Sam.

Wanda’s brow furrowed; she had never seen this cat before. And that is when she realized it was Y/N’s familiar. The cat was leveling Wanda with a hard gaze even in its brief glances at both her and Sam; it did not trust them, She could sense that.

Playing it cool, Wanda gave a little chuckle, catching Y/N’s attention.

“You named a white cat Nyx,” Wanda commented, amused. “You’ll need a sense of humor around here.”

<><><>

After settling Y/N into her chambers, Wanda had brought Sam away to go towards the south tower where Tony and Helmut were prepping for the spring equinox. Spell bags were scattered along the table, ones they would hand out to select students and allow them to cast them themselves to they could bring renewal to the academy.

Tony caught sight of them entering and noticed her demeanor. “What’s going on?”

“The new recruits we sent for are here.”

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” Helmut questioned, a layer of confusion in his tone at Wanda’s stiffness.

Wanda grabbed a handful of jasmine petals from the stone bowl at the end of the room, heading towards the alter. “We are still going to need a sacrifice. Maybe a handful until she gets on board.”

Tony shrugged, “We were expecting that. But light at the end of the tunnel. With Elena here now, you’ll have to work less eventually.”

“She’s not here,” Wanda clipped, her body stiff with her frustration.

Tony’s brow furrowed, “What?”

“She didn’t come.” It sounded like it was difficult for her to admit that. Like she had personally failed.

“Then what is going on?” Helmut asked, taking a step forward towards her away from where he was prepping.

She held a hand up and he stopped. His eyes flicked to her palms, knowing what she was capable of. The three men were powerful, but they could not hold a candle to her if they took her on on their own.

“The plan is going forward as we planned.”

“How without Elena?” Tony asked, sounding short of patience now.

“I have her blood still.”

“Did you go drain her?” Tony asked, his tone getting tighter, breeching on sarcastic. He was an impatient person and had little room for the appetite to put up with people toying with him.

“No,” Wanda said dismissively, walking past them to go throw her petals into the alter for good fortune and protection.

Sam came up beside Tony and Helmut, hands in his pockets. Out the corner of his mouth he said, “The granddaughter came. Wanda is in a tizzy. She expected a crone, and she got the fertile, spitting image.” Tony and Helmut both were heedful at the mention of fertile and Sam did not miss it, a smirk breaking out. Finally turning his head, he met Tony’s eyes and then Helmut’s briefly each before walking forward and grabbing the jasmine petals to offer.

~~~

Marvel tags: @coconutqueen21 @undecidedsworld @holl2712 @agustdowney @biiskuitx @buttercupfangirl @namjoonwatcheshentai

Fic tags: @ivybarns

#dark!wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #dark!tony stark #dark!sam wilson #dark!helmut zemo #dark!baron zemo #dark marvel #my shit #tony stark x reader #sam wilson x reader #baron zemo x reader

114 notes · View notes

bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

Text

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Six: mixed reunions Words: 4.2k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin, Daisy & Basira Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

Basira seems happy to see you, Jon writes.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Or read below:

(cw for mentions of gun and knife violence, mentions of death/murder, mentions of blood)

Stars are just beginning to fill the sky when there comes a knock at the door—two crisp taps, unhurried, but with a heavy insistence that has Martin standing from the couch quickly, mumbling, “I’ll get it,” and crossing the room while Daisy and Jon watch from where they’re still sat on the couch.

“Hel—oh, yes, come in,” Martin says as he opens the door and Basira immediately pushes past, her eyes scanning the room in front of her with a firm intensity. “Nice to see you too,” he mutters as Basira’s eyes find Daisy, and a wide-eyed expression crosses her face so quickly Jon can’t pin down what it’s meant to be.

“Daisy,” Basira says, and then she’s across the room and standing in front of Daisy, hand halfway outstretched towards her. “It’s… it’s really you?”

Daisy’s hand twitches where it’s clasped in Jon’s. He gives it a subtle, reassuring squeeze. “It’s really me,” she says quietly.

Basira’s eyes scan Daisy’s face, the outline of her body, as if searching for imperfections. After a moment, her eyes find Daisy’s again and she nods, as if confirming something for herself. “Right,” she says, retracting her hand and dropping it to her side. Next to him, Jon can feel Daisy tense slightly, though her face remains carefully calm. Basira takes in a deep breath, lets it out, then steps forward and wraps her arms around Daisy’s shoulders, bending down at an awkward angle to do so.

Daisy goes rigid for a moment before softening. Her hand slips out of Jon’s as she tentatively returns the hug, her hands ghosting across Basira’s shoulder blades and her fingers tracing the hem of Basira’s hijab. Basira exhales again sharply, gripping Daisy a little tighter as she does so, and says, “I thought you were gone.” Her voice is even, but there’s a layer of desperation underneath it that makes it sound choked at the edges. Jon suddenly feels very out of place, and he tries to subtly shift towards the other end of the couch to give them space.

“I was,” Daisy says, voice muffled by the fabric of Basira’s hijab. “But now I’m not.”

Basira laughs a bit unsteadily. “Right,” she says again. “I… I wondered if you were back. Didn’t want to think about it too hard, though. Just in case.”

Daisy is quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly Jon almost doesn’t hear, she says, “I’m sorry, Basira.”

Basira grips her tightly for a moment more, then pulls back so she can study Daisy’s face. “Don’t be. You didn’t force me to do anything. I made you a promise, and I kept it. That’s just how it was.” She exhales slowly. “Besides, none of that matters now. You’re back, and that’s a good thing. God knows there’s enough that’s wrong in the world right now.”

Daisy sits very still, a strange sort of tension keeping her rigid. “You’re… not angry?”

Basira frowns. “No. It was hard, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t you, Daisy. You were trying to be better, before, but you did what you had to, and so did I. It’s just how it was; no point in being upset about it.”

Daisy looks down at a point just beneath Basira’s eyes. “Yeah. No point,” she echoes. After a moment, she says, “You’ve been… okay, then?”

Basira’s lips purse. “I’ve been managing. Finding my own way. Dealing with…” She waves her hand in the air, an encompassing gesture, and Jon doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick over to him. He’s not particularly fond of it, though he fights back the scowl. “It’s been a mess.”

“You said it’s been bad,” Martin says, coming up behind the couch with four mugs of tea carefully balanced in his hands. He passes the first one to Jon with a thin-lipped smile, then to Daisy and Basira in turn. “What does that mean?”

Basira sighs and blows across the surface of her tea in an attempt to cool it. “Well, after you… reset the world? Which we’re going to have a long conversation about, by the way.” She looks pointedly at Jon, who looks pointedly back and takes a sip of his tea to hide his glower. He’s still a bit irritated about the whole… group decision situation. Maybe more than a bit. “I woke up in the Institute, still sitting at the same bloody desk I’d been working at when everything went to hell. I knew something was off straight away, because that feeling of being watched? It just wasn’t there. Didn’t matter how, didn’t matter why—it just wasn’t. So I assumed that the plan worked and the Fears were gone, but I didn’t know yet that we’d been thrown back in time or whatever. Got up and started looking around, trying to figure out where Georgie and Melanie went. Yeah, it was weird that everything looked the same, but I’d seen weirder.”

Basira takes a long sip of her tea. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Daisy shift, setting her still-full mug on the side table and tapping her fingers on her thigh in a rhythmic pattern. He thinks, for a moment, about reaching out, but instead, he just curls his fingers tighter around his own mug. “The place was pretty empty,” Basira says finally. “Before the change, the blood and stuff was all cleaned up about a week after that last attack on the Institute, and then it was just me and a few others. Rosie, a couple of people from Artefact Storage. The people who’d survived and who weren’t smart enough to just… stay away. Rosie was still at her desk. She looked like she’d seen… well. She looked like she’d seen what the rest of us had seen. And…”

Basira exhales slowly, and for the first time, she looks… hesitant. Like she’s not sure she should continue. After a moment, Martin says, “And what, Basira?”

Basira looks down into her tea, her jaw set. “And him. Elias. Jonah. Whatever. Just… sitting behind his desk when I opened the door to his office. Like nothing had even fucking happened.”

A shock of something simultaneously icy cold and red-hot laces up Jon’s spine, and he nearly drops his mug. He looks at Basira with wide eyes, even as he thinks that it makes sense, of course it makes sense, everyone who died while the world was wrong came back, of course he would too, why would it be any different. He remembers the sensation of the knife tearing its way through Jonah’s throat, the heat of the blood as it had dripped down his hands and wrists, tries to juxtapose the image of Jonah lying dead on the Panopticon floor with the image of him sitting alive and well and breathing behind his desk once again, and feels sick. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the exhalation rips its way harshly out of his throat like it’s been punched out of him. He barely feels Daisy’s hand as it wraps around his, barely feels it as she takes the mug of tea from him and settles it on the floor so it won’t spill. He registers the brush of another hand against his arm, and he hears Martin’s voice from beside him, saying with concern, “Jon? Breathe, love. It’s all right, just breathe.” Then, to Basira: “Christ. He’s alive?”

“Was alive,” Basira corrects, and just like that, all of the air crashes back into Jon’s lungs and he takes a deep, rattling breath, his eyes focusing on her face as it twists into something that might be called a smile if one were being generous with the definition. “I… I didn’t really think. Just pulled my gun and pointed it at him. No Eye, no contract. No reason not to kill him. I wasn’t planning to shoot him, not really, but then he started rambling about- about apotheosis and failure and second chances, trying to convince me that there was no need to be hasty, that we could work something out. Called me Detective again. Just the same slimy bullshit, but without all the bravado and without the collateral.” Basira sighs and looks up from her tea, glancing at Jon with something unreadable on her face. “Melanie was pissed that I didn’t let her stab him.”

Jon makes a choked noise that he thinks, after a moment, might be a laugh. It’s devoid of any amusement, though, and might be bordering on hysterical. Beside him, Martin says quietly, “Shit. Well, uh. That’s… that’s good, at least?”

Basira grimaces. “Sure. It’s great that the bastard’s dead—again, I guess, assuming that you did kill him before everything went back to normal—but things are still a disaster back in London. I’ve been trying to keep them from tearing down the whole Institute, though don’t ask me why I even care about the place after all this. People are angry.” Basira taps her fingers on her thigh in thought. “It’s… probably for the best that you guys ended up out here, actually. Things haven’t been good for the people in charge of domains. They got ahold of Simon Fairchild, and it… it wasn’t pretty. There’s been some chatter about leniency towards the less actively malicious former avatars—I think that came up after they found Callum, actually, which… yeah, that’s a whole thing—but…”

Basira shrugs. But people wouldn’t be so forgiving towards the person who ended the world, Jon thinks with a wry, twisting feeling in his stomach. He fiddles with the notebook where it sits on his lap, but he doesn’t open it. After a moment, Basira continues, “So that’s the state of things, basically. Even though everything’s technically fixed, there’s still a lot of damage, and Georgie, Melanie, and I have been handling it as best we can. Though I think Melanie’s of the opinion that we should just let the entire Institute burn. She’s probably right, but…” Basira shrugs. “It’s just a building full of scary stories now. Might be able to make some use out of it.”

“Right,” Martin says with a sigh. “That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah,” Basira says, sounding weary. “It’s… it’s nice to have a break. To just appreciate the fact that everything’s better now, you know?”

Better for us, Jon thinks bitterly, and he can feel the edges of his mouth twitching into a scowl that he forcibly represses. He doesn’t think pointing out that they’ve condemned an infinity of other worlds to suffering for their own peace of mind would be beneficial, given they’ve already driven that argument into the ground and then some. Besides, he thinks as he rubs his thumb over the spine of the notebook, that would require him to open the notebook and writing it down, and Basira doesn’t know about his voice yet. He’s too tired to hear whatever surface-level pity she might be able to conjure up for him.

“I’ve missed you, Daisy,” Basira says, an increased vigor in her voice as she turns to face Daisy. She looks like she wants to reach a hand out towards her, but she doesn’t. “It’s been… hard. Being alone with all of this. I’ve had Melanie and Georgie, but I… I could use my partner.”

Daisy stares at her for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is slightly more hoarse than usual. “You want me to come back to London with you.”

Basira nods, a slight frown forming on her face. “Do you… not want to?”

Daisy is quiet for a long moment. Her eyes stare down at the floor, focusing on nothing at all. “I don’t know,” she says finally, the words tense and choked, like the honesty of them pains her. “I… I need to think.”

Basira watches her for a few seconds, something stiff and rigid on her face. “All right,” she says at length, a touch of surprise and resignation lacing her voice. “That’s fine. I can’t stay past tomorrow, though—I have to get back and deal with what’s going on back in London. If you don’t want to…” Basira’s mouth flattens into a line. “It’s fine. I’ll understand.”

“It’s not—” Daisy cuts off with a frustrated noise, almost a growl. “I just need to think.”

“All right,” Basira says again, more placating this time. “I… won’t rush you.”

It’s quiet in the room for a long moment. Finally, as if at a loss for anything else to say and falling back on instinct, Martin offers a tentative, “Would… anybody like something to eat? You’ve been traveling all day, Basira, I don’t know if you’re… er, hungry or not.”

Basira stares at Daisy a moment more. Then, she sighs and says, “Sure, why not.”

“Great!” Martin says, sounding relieved. “Let me just… I’ll see what we’ve got that’s quick.”

He stands, and Basira stands in tandem with him. “I’ll help,” she says. “I’ve got some… things I want to talk to you about. And then after we eat, we’re going to discuss…” She gestures in the general vicinity of Jon and Martin. “Everything.”

Jon curls in on himself slightly. Martin just sighs and says, “Come on, then.” They disappear into the kitchen, and then Jon is left with Daisy on the couch, the faint clatter of cupboards opening and dishes rattling settling into the background.

Now that they’re alone, Jon reaches over and bumps his hand against Daisy’s, a silent question. When she turns her hand over, he takes it in his, threading their fingers together and squeezing firmly. With his other hand, he awkwardly flips the notebook open, ignoring Daisy’s sound of amusement as he clumsily takes his pen in hand and balances the notebook at the same time, and writes, Are you okay?

Daisy pauses for a few seconds before responding. “Yeah,” she says simply.

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When it becomes clear that she’s not going to, he writes, Basira seems happy to see you.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Again, Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

Jon raises an eyebrow and gives her hand another gentle squeeze. After a moment, Daisy continues, “Even after the coffin, there had been this… weight, between us. I knew she was glad I was back, but I could also tell she was disappointed. She tried to hide it but, heh, she’s always been easy to read for me. She wanted the person I was before, and I knew that, deep down, she was frustrated that I wasn’t that person anymore. I was never… angry with her about it. I understood. Basira’s practical, always likes to have the upper hand. And me choosing to ignore the Hunt… it wasn’t practical. Not for her. She was happy to see me, but she also wished it was a different me. It just… feels weird that it’s not the same now. I’m different, and Basira doesn’t like different. She doesn’t like change.”

There’s been a lot of change lately, Jon writes. Then, while Daisy’s reading his words, he continues, She went through a lot after you were gone. With everything that’s happened, the world the way it is, I

Jon pauses, and Daisy waits as he taps the pen on the paper, leaving little half-formed dots of ink where it makes contact. After a moment, he sighs and finishes, I think she’s just glad that you’re back. Whatever version of yourself that may be.

Daisy looks towards the kitchen. There’s the gentle murmur of voices, too quiet to make out any words above the sound of things sizzling in pots and pans. “Maybe. I… don’t know.” There’s a pause, and then she says, quieter, “Maybe she’s just glad that I’m not a monster anymore.”

When Jon goes to write, she squeezes the hand of his she’s still holding tighter, shaking her head. “Don’t. It’s… complicated.” She’s quiet for a long moment, looking away from Jon and focusing on the faint light streaming in from the kitchen. “The parts of me that she valued the most,” she says at length, “the ones that made me a good partner, that made me strong—they were all that was left by the time she found me after the change. They were all Hunt. And I knew when she looked at me, when she pointed her gun at me, that she saw me. Not the Hunt, not some… monster. Me. But I don’t… know if she believes that it was really me.”

Daisy grimaces, like she’s not happy with the words. Carefully, giving Daisy time to stop him if she wants, Jon writes, You don’t know if she accepts that all the worst parts of yourself are still yours.

Daisy is quiet for a moment. “Something like that,” she says finally. “She… she said it wasn’t me. That the person she hunted through the apocalypse wasn’t me. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell her that it was. That it is. It feels like…” Daisy blows out a breath. “Basira’s good at compartmentalizing. It makes her a good partner, a good… hunter. But if I go with her to London, and she just… puts everything that happened during the change behind us, I don’t think things are going to last.” Daisy huffs out a laugh. “She’s stubborn. I like that about her. Can also make things… difficult.”

Jon laughs through his nose and writes, Yeah, Martin’s like that too sometimes. He hesitates, then continues, So what do you want to do?

Daisy studies his face for a moment. “What do you want me to do?” At his look of surprise, she continues, “I can see it on your face. You have an opinion, so just… spit it out. Write it down. Whatever.”

Jon scowls. I do not, he begins to write, before his hand stills, leaving the sentence incomplete. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and scratches the words out with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. Next to them, he writes in thick, dark lines, I want you to stay. Then, quickly after: But you should go with Basira.

Daisy reads the words and hums. “Why?”

Because she’s your partner, Jon writes, irritation and a strange sort of sadness mixing in him and twisting his lips into a grimace, and because she needs

“I meant,” Daisy says, bumping her knee against Jon’s to cut him off, “why do you want me to stay?”

Jon blinks at her, surprised. He looks down at the paper, holds the pen tightly for a moment, and then writes in careful, neat letters, Because I like you. Does there have to be another reason?

Daisy hums and, after a moment, shakes her head. “No. I guess not.” She bumps her knee against Jon’s again, a bit firmer this time. “Thanks. But you’re wrong, you know. About Basira.” Daisy looks at the kitchen again, where the sizzling has stopped and there’s the faint clattering of dishes. “She doesn’t need me. She’d be fine without me. Always has been.” She sighs. “And so would you.”

Jon nods and squeezes her hand. I know, he writes.

Daisy sighs again, leans her head back against the couch. “I think,” she says after a moment, “that… I have to do what’s right for me. Not me and Basira, just… just me.”

Jon is about to ask what that entails when Martin’s voice floats over from the kitchen, telling them that the food’s ready. Daisy doesn’t say anything more as she stands, snorting softly as her maintained grip on Jon’s hand pulls him to his feet as well, and together, they head into the kitchen.

The first half of the meal is spent in relative quiet. Basira keeps shooting looks at Martin, who returns her gaze with something firm and unyielding. Jon shifts in his chair and nibbles on his cheese toastie, trying very hard not to grab his pen and start tapping it on the table just to fill the tense, awkward silence between them all. Finally, Basira finishes her sandwich, looks at Martin again, sighs, and says, “Martin filled me in on what happened.” Then, at Martin’s glare: “What? I’m not talking about it. I’m just… acknowledging it.”

“Good,” Martin says, pinching his toastie just a bit too firmly between his fingers. “Because there’s not much to talk about. Which is why we agreed not to talk about it.”

Irritation washes over Jon, and he tries to squash it down. He can’t help the way his knee starts bouncing under the table though, and he takes a sullen bite of his toastie. Not much to talk about. Sure. For a moment, he entertains the thought of dropping the sandwich unceremoniously, grabbing his notebook, and scribbling out, Thanks for asking for my input before telling Basira your version of events and saying that there’s nothing to talk about, but he pushes the thought away and takes another, bigger bite to distract himself. It’s fine. Martin’s… Martin’s right, it’s not the time.

(He’s still upset that he didn’t even get the slightest say in the matter. It’s fine.)

Rationally, Jon knows that Martin is just trying to avoid what would probably turn out to be a long, spiraling, extremely upsetting conversation-turned-argument. Irrationally, he wants to push the words we’ve condemned a thousand realities to hell; are you happy now? into Basira’s face and watch her try to defend herself. Was it worth it? he wants to ask. Was it fucking worth it, just so you can have your happy ending?

He doesn’t ask. He knows what her answer will be, and he doesn’t want to hear it right now.

It’s fine.

“So,” Basira says, not so much breaking through his thoughts as driving a battering ram through them, “the Fears are gone. For good. And they took your voice with them.”

“Basira,” Martin hisses.

“Just making sure I’ve got all of my bases covered,” Basira says defensively.

Jon glares at his plate. He sets his sandwich down, suddenly no longer hungry. He takes a deep breath, looks up at Basira, and nods. His fingers itch towards his notebook; he keeps them still.

“Hm.” Basira taps a single finger on the edge of her plate. “That… that makes sense, I guess. What with Annabelle’s whole… thing.”

Jon’s stomach squeezes. Throat tight, he nods again, looking away. His eyes land on Daisy, who’s sitting beside him and watching Basira with something unreadable on her face. Her toastie is sitting on her plate in front of her, completely untouched. Then, stiffly, as if preparing herself for a difficult truth, Daisy says, “I... know a little bit of BSL. Picked it up back when I was still a PC. It’s not much, but… it’s something.”

Basira looks at Daisy, her finger stilling on the side of her plate. When she speaks again, it’s quiet, and she doesn’t sound surprised. “You’re not coming with me, then.”

“Sorry,” Daisy says roughly. “Just… need a bit of time. Soon, I promise, just…”

“… just not now,” Basira finishes. “It’s… all right. I understand. Honestly, with things the way that they are out there right now, it… it might be for the best. Just until things settle down.”

“Yeah.” Daisy picks at the edge of her toastie. “You’ll… be safe, though?”

Basira takes a deep breath, and when she lets it out, her lips settle into a smile, thin and bordering on humorless but still warm in its own way. “Always am.”

Daisy laughs a little, just an exhalation of air through her nose. “Right.”

It becomes clear that none of them plan to eat more, so Martin and Jon clear the plates and stack them in the sink while Daisy and Basira sit at the table. Basira says some things to Daisy in hushed tones, and Daisy responds under her breath, and Jon takes wet dishes from Martin and wipes them down with a towel and stares out the window into the darkened sky and focuses on the sensation of cloth under his fingertips so he doesn’t lose himself in the inky black swirling thoughts that are threatening to drag him down.

“Hey,” Martin says quietly by his side, letting their fingers brush as he hands him another dish. “You all right?”

No is probably the honest answer. Jon is sure that Martin can see it on his face even as he nods and busies himself drying the plate in his hands. To his eternal gratitude, Martin doesn’t push, even as his mouth flattens and he continues scrubbing the dishes in the sink with careful, methodical motions. Jon is sure that, at some point, something will crack and Martin will push. Push until it all breaks and shatters and crumbles into a million tiny, sharp pieces. But for now, Jon dries dishes and scratches his thoughts into the back pages of his notebook where they’ve begun to pile up into messy tangles of words and emotions and focuses on the fact that, when Basira leaves in the morning, Daisy will still be here.

That, for now, he thinks, will have to be enough.

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #basira hussain #martin blackwood #my writing #my fic #before tag #4.2k... how did this chapter get so long ;___;

48 notes · View notes

stevesharrlngtons · 4 years ago

Text

just a little downhill.

mickey x reader

summary: after a hard day of work, mickey comes home to a very unwelcome and unexpected guest: his little brother.

word count: 4.5k

a/n: mickey and his brother goodness! as briefly discussed, kevin’s face claim is pete davidson (: and if you’re curious, here is another discussion of mickey’s parents. i hope you enjoy and if you do, i’d love to hear it (:

Although Mickey had been out from under his parents order for years now, he never seemed to shake the responsibilities they had assigned him.

When Mickey was old enough, with a high school diploma under his belt and not much else, he escaped two towns over to flee his parents and their needs. To, at the time, do his best to escape their overbearing asks and assumptions of him. He took very little when he fled in the night; a few articles of well worn clothing; his box of drugs and corresponding paraphernalia; an envelope of mementos of his relationship with you; and you, as well. You both escaped your grim situations with wild eyes and hearts, between flurried kisses and giggles, you made your way to your new lives.

Now, all these years later, you both were still shacked up in your cozy ground floor apartment, with it’s warped tiles and shag carpets, and Mickey had never been happier. Sure, he worked a demanding manual labor job and he had few future prospects, but he was on his own and living with the woman he loved. To Mickey, there truly wasn’t anything better than that. He suspected he could be forsaken to any living conditions, demands or labor, but as long as he had you by his side, he would be happy as a clam.

You were the one who kept him sane. The one who taught him how to float instead of thrashing in the water. The one who taught him the gentle caress of love. The one who was the only salve for any and all problems that were thrown his way.

And when it came to his chaotic life, he needed your healing touch more often than he would like to admit.

Because while the distance between him and his turbulent family offered excuses for why he couldn’t invariably swoop in and save the day, the milage didn’t often deter his parents from calling on Mickey whenever they needed something. Their expectations still held true no matter the separation.

Mickey was expected to come over and soothe tensions when their fights reached a volume to where the neighbors got involved.

Mickey was expected to drop everything, no matter the circumstance, to help wrangle their old mutt whenever he escaped and began to terrorize the neighborhood kids.

Mickey was expected to drive the hour to their trailer whenever there was an appliance that needed fixing. Usually after his father had stormed off in frustration when he couldn’t do it himself.

Mickey was also expected to fix a litany of other things that his parents refused to call in an expert about, but had no problem pawning it off on their son (even if he was no more qualified to fix things then they were).

But above all, Mickey was expected to look out for his little brother. To watch out for him, and to take care of him when he couldn’t take care of himself. This had always been his most fervently requested task, and possibly the one he resented the most.

And when he came home to find his fuck to of a little brother with his back against the brick siding of Mickey’s apartment building, a joint between his lips and his head angled toward the sun, he knew his everlasting duty to care for the kid was about to rear its ugly head once more.

Today was just an exceptionally bad day for this to happen.

Because before he even saw Kevin’s face, it had been a day where he had just wanted to come home, lay his head on your lap as you pressed delicate kisses to his skin. He needed to be enveloped in your soothing smell and coaxed into relaxation by your voice. He just needed you, because today had been awful. The last thing he needed was to deal with any member of his fucking family.

The day started off with the buddy he carpooled with burning a hole in his brand new seat cover on the way to work. Then it was announced that OSHA would be monitoring their site they were at for the morning, which meant nothing got done and the crew was way behind schedule. When lunch rolled around, Mickey dropped his sandwich on the ground, which caused his coworkers to start an uproar of teasing and laughter whenever he was around. And, of course, after he was already in their crosshairs, his drill decided to stop working, which only fueled the other mens mocking.

And to make it all worse, his mother had been calling on a loop since noon. He refused to answer, not wanting to deal with her drunk ramblings or vicious criticisms, which just meant that the calls kept coming. Now that he thought of it, he was sure the sudden vibration in his pocket had been the reason he had dropped his sandwich in the first place.

Thanks mom. Fuck you.

“The fuck are you doing here, Kev?” Mickey grunted from around his cigarette as he approached his front door.

“Didn't Ma call?”

“I don’t answer her calls sober,” he shoved his key into the lock and pushed the door open with his shoulder.

As the door opened, Mickey cringed as Kevin quickly sprang to his feet and pushed past him into his home. He had expected it, but it still made his stomach drop as it happened. When Kevin planted himself somewhere, he was often hard to peel back up. Last time Kevin had come over to beg for money, he didn’t leave for four days, leaving a permanent lanky body print in Mickey’s couch.

“Can’t really blame you for that,” Kevin chuckled as he collapsed onto the living room couch in a huff, “we didn’t invent The Scale for nothin’.”

The Scale referred to the made up increment system the two invented in middle school on how high they had to be to pleasantly deal with their parents. Their mother was usually a Bill and Ted and their father was always at very least Cheech and Chong. The brothers sometimes would still refer to The Scale when they were going through a spurt of getting along. But this was not one of those times.

Mickey hadn’t seen Kevin on an unencumbered social call in over two years. Kevin used to visit every weekend; to party, play video games or just spend time with his older brother; but now it was only under the guise of extorting money (that Mickey really didn’t have to give) or in a search of a place to crash while he was on the outs with their parents or whatever girl he was currently seeing.

Because of his mother’s incessant calls and Kevin’s mention of her, he assumed it was the latter this time.

“Yeah, well clearly you’ve already started,” Mickey grouched, as he tilted his head to the blunt that was still between his brother’s lips.

Mickey was anything but a prude, but when his deadbeat brother came swaggering into his home with no humility or shame, smoking pot and bogarting his couch, Mickey suddenly turned into a stuffy Christian mother, sticking his nose up and huffing at the mention of any illicit substance.

“Oh, I’m sorry man, you wanna hit?” Kevin asked, completely oblivious to his brother’s annoyance.

“What are you doing here, Kev?”

Kevin’s eyebrows raised at Mickey’s bluntness and whistled low under his breath, before settling back against the couch.

“Take the stick out of you ass, Jesus Mick,”

“I’m serious, Kev. What is it? Spit it out, I had a long fucking day. I don’t have the patience to deal with this.”

“You sound like dad,” Kevin chuckled, smoke billowed from his mouth as he propped long legs onto the coffee table.

His tolerance for Kevin running thin already, Mickey marched over to the couch and shoved his legs from the coffee table with haste. Kevin’s eyes grew wide with surprise and slight betrayal when he looked at his brother again.

“I’m not fucking around, Kevin! (Y/N) is gonna be home any minute and I want you gone when she gets here,” Mickey raked a hand through his tousled locks and went in search of his work coat to find a new cigarette.

“(Y/N) loves me,”

“Yeah, because you prey on her kindness. Now tell me what it is or I’m calling dad to pick you up.”

That seemed to scare him enough to reveal the reason for his visit.

“I need a job.”

And there it was. Mickey let out an encompassing sigh as he turned his back to his baby brother. This wasn’t the first time Kevin had asked for a job, and Mickey doubted it would be the last.

Others might applaud his brother’s initiative to better himself and search for personal contacts to find him work, but Mickey knew better. He had tried to help him get a job more times than he could count, and Kevin always did something to fuck it up.

Whether it be never showing up, being high on the clock, failing drug tests or fighting with customers and coworkers, something always went wrong. Mickey had burned many a bridge to defend his brother from these employers, because no matter how insane Kevin made him, he was still his brother and he would be damned if anyone said a bad word about him. Other than him, of course.

“Yeah? And what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?” Mickey challenged.

“Talk to Stephen,” Kevin replied simply.

“Fuck no!” Mickey almost laughed, “Man, I need this job, I can’t have you fucking it up for me.”

“I won’t! I won’t fuck it up!”

“Yeah, ok. Whatever you say, Kev.”

“I’m being serious!”

“No, no way, dude. No, Kev. I can’t lose this job. I got bills and shit, now! Did you know you have to pay for garbage pick up at a place like this? Because I sure as shit didn’t! We can’t even bury it like dad did,” Mickey lectured, “and y’know what? I got a girl, one I’d really like to fucking keep. Which means actually keeping this stupid construction job to keep paying for fucking garbage. I can’t have you gettin’ us both canned.”

“I’ve changed, Mick. I have!” Kevin reinforced when his brother rolled his eyes, “I’m twenty four now. I got like, perspective on stuff, and shit.”

“Kev, -“ Mickey started, but didn’t continue as he heard a key in the front lock.

Seconds later you appeared, hair piled high on your head and still adorning your work uniform. Even with his brother pissing him off and the weight of an awful day on his shoulders, Mickey couldn’t stop the goofy smile that spread over his face when he saw you. Worn from a hard day and in your boxy hotel maid get up, you were still the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on.

“Hey, baby,” Mickey said as he crossed the living room quickly to greet you.

“Hi, baby,” you looked up at him, a similar lovesick smile on your lips as Mickey wrapped you in a crushing embrace.

You craned your head back to capture his pouted lips in a kiss. They will tinged with more nicotine than usual, and you knew something was off before you pulled apart. Your hands had begun to inch toward Mickey’s nape when you heard movement on the couch. When you pulled away, you saw him

“Oh, hey, Kev. I didn’t see you there, honey,” you offered him a kind smile as you moved to rest your cheek on Mickey’s chest.

Mickey tried to keep the scowl off his face as his brother grinned at you.

“How ya been, (Y/N/N)? Man, it feels like it’s been ages!” his brother charmed, pushing up from the couch to come meet you for a hug.

When you pulled away from Mickey to do so, Mickey swore you were taking a part of his resolve with you.

“It has, you don’t come ‘round like you used to,” you said, parting from Kevin to smoothe your hands over his broad, boney shoulders. As you inspected Mickey’s baby brother, you spied something new, “this a new addition?”

You poked the ridge of black ink peeking out of his t-shirt, just below his collar bone.

“Awh, yeah. Yeah it is,” Kevin pulled down the collar of his shirt enough for you to see the tattoo that joined the ranks of his many others, “it’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Oh,” you said, a little surprised by the choice, but admiried it nonetheless, “I like it. It’s nice linework. Can’t say the same for the rest of ‘em, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, very funny!”

You winked up at him before you removed yourself from his orbit to return to Mickey’s. Though, on your way back to your man, you saw the firm look of displeasure on his face, and that face was directed firmly at his brother. You stopped in your tracks and traded glances between the two boys, one angry and one bashful, before you spoke.

“Alright, what’s goin’ on?”

“What do you think is goin’ on?” “Nothin’.” the brothers spoke in unison.

You turned your gaze hard at Mickey. He let silence hang in the air for a long beat before he spoke.

“Kev is lookin’ for a hand out. But what’s new?” Mickey scoffed. He planted a swift kiss to the crown of your head before he walked past the both of you to the kitchen.

“Hey, fuck you man! All I was asking for was help!” Kevin shot back, he turned quickly on his heel to face his brother.

“I can’t give you any fuckin’ help, Kev! Look what I got,” Mickey waved widley, “there ain’t shit here to give!”

“You could give me your contacts, I could start sellin’ the shit you have left from -”

“You aren’t taking my contacts and you’re not touching the shit I got from Georgia. That’s mine to do what I please with,” Mickey bellowed, yelling louder than you’d ever heard before, “I don’t need you fucking up the relationship I have with my clients, either.”

“Clients,” Kevin said in a mocking, posh accent, “their fucking drug addicts!”

“Yeah? And what the fuck are you, again?”

“What the fuck am I? What the fuck are you, man?”

The two had slowly begun to advance toward each other in their squabble, and now were only a pace apart. You knew if they were to get any closer, fists would be thrown. It wouldn’t be a good fight, neither boy had ever been good in physical altercations. The fight would likely consist of misthrown punches and cheap shot kicks, but that didn’t matter. You didn’t want either to get hurt or take anything too far.

“That’s enough!” you shouted over their bickering, “Mick, c’mon. Come talk to me in the bedroom, please.”

Mickey’s angry expression faltered the moment he looked over Kevin’s shoulder at you, “Baby, I can handle this.”

“Mickey. Bedroom. Now.” you had already started to head that way, and Mickey knew if he wasn’t right behind you, he’d be in deep shit.

With a petulant sigh, he followed you down the hall to the bedroom and shut the door behind him when he entered. You had sat on the edge of the bed and Mickey found his place to slouch against the opposite wall.

“I can’t deal with him, baby. I can’t deal with his bullshit anymore,” he said, defeated.

“He’s your brother, Mick. You love him. And sometimes the people you love need more help than you do.”

“But that’s the thing, he needs so much more. He takes and he takes and he takes, and somehow, he still needs more. I can’t give him anything else. No one can. He’s more of a fuck up than I am, and that’s saying something,” Mickey puffed.

“You’re not a fuck up, Mick,” you frowned, your brows peaking with heartache.

Mickey gave you a pointed look, “I kinda am. You don’t gotta sugar coat it.”

You stood from the bed and crossed the short space between you two. When you reached him, you wrapped your arms around his waist and nestled close to his chest. Mickey accepted your embrace easily and gratefully.

“You are not a fuck up, baby. You have a good job, you have a good life. You provide for me, for our little two person family. And you make me happier than I ever thought possible... you simply aren’t a fuck up because no man I love could be,” you smiled at the tail end of your sentence.

You propped your chin on his chest like you had minutes earlier and looked deep into his green eyes, both soft and brimming with adoration.

“I fucking love you so much, you know that?” he smiled, little crow's feet growing by his eyes as he did.

“I do. And I love you, too.”

Mickey sighed, relaxation soothing his muscles at the sound of your confession. He gently pressed your cheek back to his chest and reveled in the feeling of your body against his.

“But really, baby, what are we gonna do about Kev?” you asked after a moment of calm.

Mickey’s brows furrowed, the pressure behind them intense and blaring.

“He’s not our problems, baby. He’s an adult.”

“He is. But he’s also a sweet kid with a good heart, and he just needs some extra help. And I think we should try to help, at least the best we can.”

Mickey’s head made a thud as he collapsed to the wall behind him, “baby, we can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep bailing him out. We can’t keep bailing them out.”

The image of his parents popped behind his eyes, both fragile and gray and somehow even crueler than ever. He didn’t want to spend his life being their eternal whipping boy, cleaning up their messes when they couldn’t. And that included the mess they had made in his brother.

“This isn’t about them, alright? Fuck them, you know precisely what I think of your parents,” you frowned, and Mickey felt his heart pick up with pride at your protectiveness, “but you also know what I think about Kevin. He really is a good kid deep down. He’s talented. He just needs a little more support before he’s gonna feel comfortable jumping out on his own.”

“He still drives me fucking insane…” Mickey retorted.

“He’s your little brother, of course he does.”

“Baby, he really does. You have no idea how much that little shit gets under my skin.”

“Oh, c’mon! You love him! He’s like, sad, high, tattooed Big Bird,” you giggled as you heard a grumble vibrate in Mickey’s chest.

“Yeah? Well, then what am I?”

You pulled away from him once more, but only far enough to look him in the eyes.

“You’re like, strong, sexy, smart Big Bird,” you said, your voice a seductive purr as you placed a few chaste kisses to his jaw, “or Snuffleupagus.”

Mickey’s face twisted in confusion and slight disgust, “why?”

“Because he was always my favorite when I was a kid.”

And his expression instantly extinguished into one of warmth and tenderness. Emerald eyes bathing you in liquid love.

“You just never stop being cute, do you?” he grinned.

“Nope,” you said, letting the work pop from your lips.

He placed a gentle kiss to your forehead and took a deep breath of your pheromones; your sun bathed skin and your sweet smelling hair. And as he let his lips stay perched on your skull, he realized that he would do anything for you, no matter the request. He had had this feeling many times before; of his overwhelming and striking devotion to you; though it never ceased to rattle his swelling heart in his chest, and remind him the exact reason he was put on this earth: to make you happy.

So, if you wanted him to try and help Kevin, then he would. It was the least he could do for all the happiness and love you brought to him.

But, if he was being honest with himself, there was always going to be a part of him that wanted to nurture his baby brother in any way he could.

Somewhere in his mind and his heart, Kevin would always be the small blushing bundle handed off to him in a dingy hospital room. It was one of his first formative memories, his little brother wrapped in a white blanket as his mother’s groggy eyes looked upon both of them. Mickey had never held a baby, let alone a newborn, and the tiny writhing creature looked very strange to him, red and angry and crying.

A month before Mickey’s mother would give birth to Kevin, their father had stormed out of the house, and by the time her water had broken he had still yet to turn. So pained and afraid, his mother had piled Mickey in the car after her and drove them both to the hospital. A cigarette in one hand, while her other gave the steering wheel a death grip. As she groaned with contractions and cursed at the traffic, she said something to him that he never forgot:

“You are the real man of the house, Mickey-honey,” she said in her graveled voice, “this little boy is always gonna look up to you. You gotta live up to that.”

And that message had bounced around between his ears as his mother, alone and in extraordinary agony, gave birth to his brother. Who as he had held him in his tiny spindly arms, Mickey knew that he would keep him safe forever. No matter what.

A part of that soul promise to his blood now seemed to be finding Kevin a job to keep him afloat. To keep him out of trouble and away from falling down the path their parents had. He honored past his past self in that moment, continuing on with the pledge to keep his brother safe.

“Fine,” Mickey muttered to your skin, “we’ll help ‘im.”

“Really?”

Mickey simply shrugged.

You moved your hands from where they had been secured behind his waist to come and cradle his cheeks, “you’re a good man, Mick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he played off, eyelids fluttering.

“The best man I know,” and you kissed him tenderly, the soft feeling of your lips electrifying him.

He hummed when you pulled away, but with more anguish than pleasure.

“Let’s get this over with,” Mickey said. He quickly untangled himself from you and exited the bedroom before you could even process your post kiss haze.

“Kev,” Mickey called, finding his brother laying down on the couch now, the television remote in his hand as he flipped channels, “get the fuck up.”

“Hey, woah, listen Mickey, alright? I’m sorry! I am, I’m sorry,” Kevin began, stammering nervously.

Mickey could tell that his brother was trying to save face. That he was trying to bargain for his help, and that he believed that Mickey was coming back to tell him to leave and never come back. But he didn’t stop him, Mickey thought Kevin deserved to squirm a bit.

“I know I’ve fucked up, like really fucked up over and over again. But I got this this time, ok? I’m like, I’m ready for, I don’t know, a fresh start. I’m ready to do better.”

Mickey simply crossed his arms as his brother stared up at him with heavy set brown eyes. They were flickering around the room, scared to look at his older brother who loomed over him. Mickey was sure he was searching for you, knowing he could always grovel at your feet for sympathy.

“Fuck! What am I supposed to say, stop being such a-“ but Kevin stopped himself before he finished, knowing it likely wasn’t smart to start name calling the person he was asking a favor of.

“No, no, continue. What am I being? Hm?” Mickey raised an eyebrow.

Kevin’s jaw tightened, “.... a really, good guy.”

His pained voice would have made Mickey laugh if he wasn’t wearing a stoic persona. It reminded him of when Kevin was forced to apologize as a child, their dad’s hand pulling up his ear as he spat out an apology.

“Imma ask around, alright? Been hearing about some landscape work a buddy of mine has been talking about. I’ll call you tomorrow.” he finally said, putting his anxious brother out of his misery.

“No shit?” Kevin asked with a suspicious lilt.

“No shit. And if you get the fuck out of my house in the next five seconds, I might even put in a good word for you.”

“Fuck,” Kevin exhaled, his body deflated like a balloon against the cushion, “you have no idea-“

“Nope, I don’t,” Mickey interjected, “and I don’t want to. Now fuck off, dude. My lady is home and I don’t need you here.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, alright!” Kevin said as he was shooed off the couch and to the door, “thank you, (Y/N/N), you hear me, babe?”

You heard the commotion from the bedroom and popped your head out to watch Mickey escorting Kevin out. Stripped down from your uniform and now bundled in a pair of Mickey’s thread bear sweatpants and his favorite Scorpions t-shirt.

“You look gorgeous, by the way! So good, does Mickey tell you enough?” Kevin had widened his gangly limbs in the door frame to keep his brother, who was shoving him quite hard, to stop him from leaving.

“He does, Kev. I promise,” you grinned at the brotherly exchange as they threw jabs at each other, “I’ll see you soon, honey.”

“Bye, (Y/N/N)!” was the last thing Kevin got out before Mickey slammed the door in his face, not worrying about if there were stray fingers left behind.

“That fucking kid…” Mickey said under his breath, locking the deadbolt with a resound click.

You pushed away from where you had leant against the wall and walked toward him, “my man… my sweet, strong man who has such a big heart and helps out his family.”

You plastered yourself to his back, bringing your hands down to fiddle with the hem of his shirt, “my man who provides for me,” you pressed a kiss to his shoulder, “for the people he loves,” one to his trap, “who is the best person I’ve ever known,” one to his neck.

Mickey whimpered under your ministrations, caught up in the whispered pleasure of your lips and nimble fingers that greedily took inventory of his torso.

“You’re really tryin’ to start something, huh?” he chuckled as you began to suck on his pulse point.

“And if I was?”

As soon as the last syllable left your mouth, Mickey had twisted around to take handfuls of your thighs to hitch you up around his waist.

You couldn’t hold in the excited giggle that bubbled from your chest as he marched you both back toward your room in quick succession. His long strides getting you both back between the sheets in no time. All thoughts of dropped sandwiches and burn holes and faulty equipment and pesky little brothers, gone. Now, there was only you, and that was just the way Mickey liked it.

if you follow me you know that i have been going through a major writing block and a creativity dry spell, so while i don’t think this is my best work, it is fun and silly and soft and nice to write (: if you enjoyed, i would really love it hear it <3 ‘til next time!

#mickey x reader #mickey villains #mickey villains x reader #mickey villains imagine #mickey villains imagines #mickey villains fanfic #mickey imagine #mickey imagines #mickey villains fanfiction #bill skarsgård fanfiction #bill skarsgard imagine #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgard fanfiction #stevesharrlngtonswrites

90 notes · View notes

chronicallylatetotheparty · 3 years ago

Text

Random WIP that May or May Not be an Excerpt from a Fic I Haven't Started Writing Yet. (Rough draft)

Adrien dodged Kagami's sword, maintaining the space between them as she advanced. He knocked away another swing with his staff, circling around their invisible center, stepping back to keep out of reach.

"You always do this, Adrien!" Kagami accused, sword swinging downward.

"Do what?" Adrien kept his voice light even as he brought his staff up to block.

"Hide behind your mask!" She lunged forward.

"Which one? I've got a dozen." Sidestepping her attack Adrien swung at her.

Bracing one end of her blade with her forearm Kagami blocked. Her eyes hardening further. "Even now you play at the Fool. You can't be honest with me now just like you couldn't be honest then!"

Adrien let his facade fade as he swung his staff again. A hint of anger in its strike; taking satisfaction in Kagami's surprise. He leaned forward. "I was always as honest as I could be, Kagami."

She kicked his feet out from under him. Adrien realizing he overextended too late as his back hit the roof. Kagami pinned his arms above his head as she straddled him. "Is that what you call it? You couldn't even be honest with yourself! You couldn't face yourself, Adrien!"

Tail swinging towards her face, it startled her enough for her grip to loosen. Flipping their positions Adrien pinned Kagami's arms beside her head. "What did you think I was doing!? I opened up to you! And you said No!"

"Because I was right!" Kagami pulled her legs between them and kicked out at him.

Adrien flew back as Kagami scrambled for her fallen sword. Snatching it up, she jumped away just in time to avoid Adrien's counterattack. His staff leaving spiderweb cracks on the floor where he landed.

"You don't get to tell me what I am!" Adrien's staff slammed down on Kagami's raised sword. "You don't get to decide for me!" His advance left no opening as he backed her up to the edge of the roof. "I do!"

"What decisions!?" Kagami thrusts her sword centimeters from his face. "You weren't deciding. You were avoiding the problem just like always!"

Kagami's sword spun out of her grasp and suddenly Adrien was holding her own blade to her neck. Heartbeat in her ears she swallowed. But refused to avert her gaze. Even with her feet on the ledge she would challenge him.

Adrien's chest rose and fell with heavy breath. His eyes staring straight at her. "... You're right."

Kagami blinked, of all Adrien's potential replies she wasn't expecting that.

"It was easier to pretend. It was... safer. But I didn't pretend to love you. And I'm not pretending now." The tip of her sword eased back from Kagami's neck.

She stepped slowly away from the edge. "So, what? I'm just supposed to forgive you for lying because 'you're sorry'?"

"How many lies are you telling, Kagami?" Adrien snapped. "How many friends are you lying to right now by being here instead of where you said you'd be?" He took a calming breath; keeping the business end of her sword between them. "... No."

"What?"

"I don't expect forgiveness. I am sorry. I'm sorry I ever followed their rules. Sorry it took so long to see. But I'm not sorry about lying. I'm sorry for me. Not for you."

"Oh, thanks!" Kagami kicked her sword out of Adrien's hand and tackled him. As they rolled on the ground she grabbed his discarded staff. "That's just what a girl wants to hear!"

Adrien grabbed his staff as Kagami pressed her full weight onto it. "So sorry saving Paris was more important than making out!"

"That- That is not-" Kagami couldn't remember the last time words failed her. But she could remember the raging heat in her chest.

"For so long I felt guilty!" Adrien shifted his hands so that they gripped Kagami's. "About everything! Every action I took was 'wrong'!"

Kagami tried to pull her hands away but Adrien merely held tighter. "You're not the only one with a strict parent!"

"Tomoe doesn't change the goalposts when you get too close!" Adrien's breath left him as Kagami kicked his abdomen.

Jerking away from him Kagami caught her breath, fingers clenched around his staff. "You think that made it easy?" she panted.

Coughing as he rose to his feet, Adrien held a hand over her target. "Not easy. Different. I was saying something..."

"Y-"

"Don't interrupt. You know how hard it is to keep your train of thought on track."

Despite herself, despite her instincts warning her not to, Kagami let Adrien collect himself.

Finally, Adrien straightened, looking at her right in the eye. "I've spent so long feeling guilty about our breakup. I'm not going to spend any more on it."

"... That's it?" Kagami demanded. "A fancy way of saying I was never your most important priority!?"

"Am I what's most important to you?" Adrien shot back.

"Yes! You were!"

"I'm not talking about back then! I'm talking about now!" Adrien spread his arms to encompass all of Paris. "Can you really say I'm your first priority, Kagami?"

"No, of course not."

"Why?"

"Because I have a duty!" Kagami set her stance. This reunion had drawn out unwanted memories, unresolved issues. And they've distracted her long enough. "And that duty takes precedence over everything. Even you."

Adrien smiled sadly. "So does mine. Uproar!"

Kagami's eyes widened as the Monkey's staff started to glow. She jerked her hands away as the Uproar materialized into an action figure of Ryuko. Snapping her head back to Adrien she-

He was gone.

Scanning the rooftops and the streets below for him proved fruitless. Kagami rushed for her blade and its sheath, bringing the sword-cane together. She stood there, waiting. Adrien's Uproar and staff vanishing a few moments later.

But the tension in her shoulders didn't leave her even as purple light signaled her detransformation and she fed Nooroo, Kagami felt... defeated. Yet, the shame she associated with failure did not come. She felt drained, far more than just physical exhaustion.

Duty takes precedence over everything. Even you.

Kagami started suddenly as an idea slid into place. For too long she'd held onto bitter resentment. Heartbreak that could only come from the loss of a friend. Her first friend. That had hurt more than their relationship crumbling.

Adrien said he didn't expect her forgiveness. And yet...

Duty takes precedence over everything. Even you.

Vision blurring as her eyes watered, Kagami gave a rueful smile as she realized the resentment was mere embers of what it once was. "Selfish jerk," she breathed.

"Kagami?" Nooroo hovered uncertainly, worry etched plainly on his features.

Kagami offered her palm which he settled on. "I'm okay." It didn't feel like a lie. "I'll be okay."

Satisfied for the moment, Nooroo fluttered his wings against her skin. Her smile softening at his support.

Duty takes precedence over everything. Even you.

It didn't matter that she forgave him. Kagami had a duty to Paris. To Ladybug. And she was obligated to see it through.

#adrien agreste #kagami tsurugi #monkey!adrien #villain!adrien #butterfly!kagami #ml au #ml angst

41 notes · View notes

iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

Text

Coming Home

Request: Hi! If you're accepting request would you write a Harry Potter x muggle!reader?💖 I don't actually have a plot idea, but could it be fluff and cute please? I feel like there's not enough muggle! reader inserts... Thanks in advance, have a nice day or night! 💕

A/N: I agree with you 100% anon, there isn't enough muggle!reader inserts! So here you are, fluff and cuteness. I know I usually write Harry as an auror but I changed him to a healer for this. Also I shamelessly refer to The West Wing in this because I am in love with Josh Lyman. Enjoy!

Pairing: Harry Potter x Muggle!Fem!Reader

Warnings: some swearing (I think?) but other than that, tooth rotting fluff hopefully

Word count: 1.1k

Harry leaves his final patient of his shift with well wishes and promises to check in first thing on his shift tomorrow. He can’t help but smile as he makes his last notes on their chart, placing it in the rack for the night shift to read.

“What’s got you smiling, young man?” The triage nurse, Diana, asks.

“In 15 minutes, I get to go home.”

She chuckles, “Have you got someone waiting for you?”

Harry smiles, thinking of you sat at home, “Would you believe it, I do.”

“Harry!” Diana admonishes, “Why is this the first I’m hearing of her?”

“She’s a muggle. I didn’t want to say anything or let anything get out in case of age-old prejudices.”

She shakes her head, understanding, “Go on, get yourself home to your girl. Bring her in soon though! I want to meet this special lady.”

“Definitely, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Diana waves him off, wishing him a good night.

Harry decides to apparate home; it’s the fastest option and after the shift he’s had, he wants nothing more than to get home to you and spend the evening on the couch. It was a relatively quiet, no major emergencies, but it was a long one.

He’s careful to apparate to the bottom of the street and walk to the house. Mr and Mrs Jenkins at Number 23 have a tendency to peek out of their curtains and report to the neighbourhood gossip chain. They would have a field day if they ever discovered he was a wizard, Harry thinks, unlocking the front door.

The tension in his shoulders leaves as he steps into the house and breathes in the scent of night jasmine and citrus – a scent so uniquely yours that the instant it washes over him, he knows he’s home.

Harry follows the noise of the television and finds you curled up on the couch under a blanket; completely engrossed in the tv show currently playing. It’s become a recent favourite of yours and he’s happy to indulge you with it.

Harry leans against the doorframe and allows himself a single moment. A moment where he can take in his feelings for you. From the moment he arrived at Hogwarts, he was told stories of the strong love his parents felt for one another, and he would never admit this to Ron for fear of having the piss taken out of him, but he silently hoped he would fall in love with the same intensity and passion.

And then he met you.

By accident; it was a complete accident. Harry was walking through the park, clearing his head after a particularly tough shift, when he was knocked off his feet by an overfriendly Border Collie. You came running up to him, apologies already falling from your lips. He waved them away; it was okay, nothing was broken so there was nothing to worry about. There wasn’t anything about you that stood out to Harry as marking you as a witch. In fact, it was the opposite. You were a muggle – completely ordinary but as Harry watched the relieved smile make its way across your face, he knew you were some sort of magic.

When asked about the next part, you always claim that you don’t know what came over you – you just knew you had to see him again, so you gave him your number and it blossomed from there. Harry admitted early on in your relationship that he had to have a phone installed so he could actually talk to you.

The credit theme of your show starts to play, and Harry is snapped out of his reminiscing.

He taps your shoulder, saying, “Shuffle up.”

You startle, releasing a breathless laugh as you realise it’s Harry. You shuffle forward, making enough room for Harry to slide into the space behind you. His legs encompass yours, you lean back against his chest, sighing happily as Harry’s arms wrap around you.

“How was work?” You ask.

“Long. I missed you.” Harry replies, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“I missed you too. Can I do anything to help?” You asks, rubbing a hand on his leg.

Harry loved your selflessness; he loved all of you, but your selflessness – how you are always read to drop everything to help him, how you do help him when something throws him back to his adolescence. He had been honest with you from the beginning of your relationship; wanting no secrets between the two of you. He told you everything - from being a wizard, to the second wizarding war, to training as a healer so he could help people. He fell in love with you the very moment you accepted him for how he is and promised that you would always be there to help through the hard days.

Harry sighs, his arms tightening around you, “Let’s just stay like this for a little while.”

You wiggle against him, more than happy to remain in this position, “Now that I can do. There’s another episode of The West Wing on.”

He can’t help but chuckle at you as you settle down for the next episode.

He sits there, utterly content with his life. His fingers trail invisible swirls on your arms and he silently relishes at your shiver. He shifts your hair to one side so he can place a targeted kiss to your neck that will have you humming in satisfaction.

You realised a month into your relationship that Harry was touch starved; on the receiving end of very little affection from his family as a child and it followed him to his adulthood. He needed to be touching some part of you whether it was a hand, an arm or a leg – as long one bit of you was pressed against one bit of him. You loved it; the circumstances of it broke your heart, but you were happy to indulge him, wanting the contact just as much as he did.

He sits there, completely and wholly in love with you, and suddenly he’s thinking ten years into the future where you’re still beside him as he wakes each morning but there’s a silver wedding band on your left hand and there’s only a moment of peace before children and dogs are running in demanding breakfast and kisses.

It knocks the breath out of him; just how much he wants it. Just how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, raise children with you – do it all with you.

A plan starts to form in head, but it will require assistance from Hermione and Ron, and approval from Diana at work.

For now though, he presses a row of kisses up the length of your neck, to tug on your earlobe whispering an “I love you.”

#harry potter x reader #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #Harry Potter #harry james potter #harry potter drabble #My writing #harry potter oneshot #harry potter imagine #harry potter fluff #fluff #harry fluff #harry x reader #cute

397 notes · View notes

irgmugurg · 4 years ago

Text

Natural with You - Belphegor

There is a certain beauty to their ebony horns and darkened wings. Something so intimate about the side you rarely see. But now, right now it's just yours...

And you couldn't be happier. __

Each chapter is an exploration of relationships, demon forms, and emotions. Starting with Belphegor and going from there.

you feel so kind within my arms

Word Count: 1394

Warnings: Fluff and a tiny bit of angst

There’s a certain way that the Devildom sky hits the room just right that makes the sleep hidden behind your eyelids unbearable. The faint hues of amethyst fading into rough shades of emerald and ginger that make you feel home, make you feel loved and coddled all at once. You hum quietly, to no one but yourself (a reminder you’re alive, a reminder you’re here in this space). This is something you’ll never be able to forget, even when you go back to the Human Realm, and your met with the amazing sights and feelings that it have to offer.

This, the way the soft warmth of the hellfires drift through the air, a tinge of smoke and bitterness. The soft buzz of creatures that slither and swarm the skies, animals you’ll never fully understand or know. The small, ever alive chatter of the demons that wallow in their sins. But even then, even with the wholeness and chaos that the Devildom holds, you can only find yourself embracing its grasp (but you aren’t scared, how could you be so scared of something so beautiful and new?).

You drape what’s left of your blanket over your side, settling into the abundance of sheets of limbs. Belphegor responds, curling further into your side (something that doesn’t fuel you with an unnerving fear, and you can’t help but be thankful) . Like this, you almost forget the reality that was almost yours. Filled with blood, tears, and hearts that would never be whole. You try not to think about it, really, though as you look at him now it’s hard to believe it ever happened. It’s hard to believe that he could ever have hated anything so fully. It’s hard to believe that these hands (the ones that hold you so tenderly, with callouses that feel so right against yours) are the ones that have hurt you so deeply for crimes that weren’t anyone’s fault.

You used to stay up at night (a time where nothing felt warm and home was beyond reach) and wonder how you (the other you, the one to suffer for the criminal act of breathing) had to have felt. You had only felt a sliver of it, the full encompassing pain that ate at you, the way he hissed, and sneered before shattering you. When the pain had taken you whole, swallowing everything in its path, you woke up, still in the stairwell.

Sometimes if you aren’t careful the dread still sneaks up on you. The feeling of impending doom, of an impending death that should have been yours. The thought that you should have still been there, in Mammon’s arms and atoning for your sins.

Belphie shifts again, tail swishing before curling against your shin. And well, things have changed. So many things have changed. You had hated him, with a passion that could have only rivaled his. You had screamed and cried for hours. You had lost yourself in a sea of grief and trauma. Until he finally apologized, honestly (not his half-assed attempt at a shortcut). With such remorse and a fear (for you) that you hadn’t expected. When he realized he couldn’t just ignore what he had done. When he realized that you had remembered. When he had looked you in the eyes and you could only see a sadness that you finally broke down your walls and accepted it. Until he broke them more with snarky comments and the brattiest attitude. Until he made sure you were warm at night with the fluffiest of blankets. Until he’d protected you against the demons that would haunt you. Until he’d lay his head on your pillow and smile, bangs pushed back and stars in his eyes as he told you how he and Lilith would joke together. Until when he touched you, you had only felt love.

And maybe it was the Angel in you that made things easier but after months things came easier. You would laugh at his jokes and accept his blankets. You would tell him your own stories about loved ones long since passed. The hatred that boiled in your gut simmered and a certain fondness grows (though sometimes you try to deny it still).

As you lay, the branches and leaves deviating into many different paths above you and Belphegor twisted around you, almost as if a newborn calf. You swivel to your hip, facing the sloth. The sky looks more beautiful here, shining softly against his pale cheeks that you find yourself staring. The ting of colors the drape across his face in waves makes you press a hand against his forehead, a soft caressing touch. You take a moment to be. To feel the moment around you, the present that you’re in.

His eyebrows are furrowed, only so slightly that you’d never notice otherwise. Eyelashes, long, dark, and beautiful pressed gently closed (there is no malice here, only love and a certain wholeness) . His skin is cool once it presses against you, limbs a blurry mess of sheets and skin, but warms as if to fit perfectly with your heat.

But that’s not what warms you. You doubt he knows it but when he sleeps with you his demon form takes hold. You had asked Beel about it once, and he only smiled through crumbs and said ‘Belphie tries to hide it but with you, he can’t stop himself.’ and you had the feeling he wasn’t talking about the horns and tail. Either way, the sight of his sleeping figure within your sheets beside you, seeing the horns roll out from beneath his hair and tail sway softly was a sight that you would never forget.

From here you could see the keratin that made the ebony curled horns, the shift in hue and layers. You pressed a finger against the curl, following the ridges. The rough bumps felt so sleek underneath your fingers. Belphegor leans closer, head tilting upward. You watch as the light only barely catches the shine, lightly bathing them in a purple hue.

His tail inches higher up your thighs, the sleek hairs of the base pressed into your waist. You held back a snort, the tails end tickling your side. You couldn’t help yourself from wrapping your hands in it. Every time you see his tail you always forget how big it truly is. You waft your hands through the silky fur. It passes through your fingers gently.

This is your moment. A time you won’t forget as forever rolls by.

Things have changed and people have been hurt but when they lead to things like this- to Belphie beside you in your bed, to Lucifer’s smiling at his brothers, to a connection that’s finally whole you wonder if this is what it was all supposed to lead too. If this is what was set in the stars. And when Belphie’s eyelashes flutter open, his eyes (a color of purple that will always be your favorite) staring up at you, you know it was all worth it.

“It’s hard to sleep when I can feel you touching me.” He sneers, the malice lost between a yawn and the soft look in his eyes.

You scoff, “You’re just so pretty when you sleep.”

“I’m always asleep.”

“And I always find myself utterly enamored with you.” You speak softly to not disturb him anymore, sleep already washing both of you in drowsiness.

His cheeks turn pink, which mixed wonderfully with the light. It makes a creamy color against his skin. “Whatever.”

You laugh, breathlessly as you curl against him. He wraps you within his arms, tail curled even tighter against you as he does. “Hmm, you can’t blame me. Can you?”

“Yes, I can.” He mumbles, sleep folding within the consonants. Then, almost hesitantly, “You make me wanna stay up. No matter how sleepy I get. It’s disgusting.”

“I love you too, Belphie.”

He snorts against your neck and you can feel his smile against your skin. When you laugh again, he does too. You’re home here.

The late Devildom sky grows darker and Belphie groans, “You wake me too early. Be quiet so I can sleep.” But when he latches his arms around you and he presses a kiss to your forehead, you can’t help but feel as if this was how things were truly meant to be.

64 notes · View notes

crybabyjam · 4 years ago

Text

ego

ship: bakudeku

rating: t

au: regency era romance, maybe?

summary: Being selfish isn't all bad.

word count: 5k

available on ao3 here, based off of art

---

Gentle light filters through a stained-glass window, and Izuku tiredly rubs at his eye as he watches squirrels chase one another up a thick maple tree trunk.

His breakfast has gone cold, plate settled on his lap as he sits on a stool he'd dragged over from the bar. The window is open, angled in a way that it paints pretty colors across the porcelain dish stained with strawberry juice and pancake syrup.

The smell of it mixes with the smell of summer outside: of sunlight through sweet tree boughs, and the perfume of freshly watered azalea bushes.

All of it together is too cloying, almost.

Izuku sighs to himself, fiddling with the half-eaten food for only a moment more before he sets it on the windowsill.

"I'm not cleaning that if it falls and breaks."

Izuku startles at the deep voice, fumbling with his own hands as he twists his head out the window.

On the other side of the wall, Katsuki rests. He's leaning against the stone, taking a rest from yard work by the ruddy stains on his knees and the dirt clinging to his forearms.

He shoves away perspiration from his brow, watching Izuku with an appraising eye, and Izuku laughs nervously.

"I won't break it," Izuku says as he moves the plate away anyway. "I'd clean it up myself, either way."

Katsuki only grunts.

His hair has grown longer over the past spring season. It was the beginning of summer, but already wisps of his sunlight colored hair tickle at his dark eyelashes. Just a bit. Izuku can see some of it clinging to the side of his face, sweat-slicked.

He glances away when Katsuki quirks an eyebrow at him. They're separated by a wall, but Izuku feels like Katsuki can see right through him at any moment.

(read more)

He gives a wobbly smile, eyes darting up again, but Katsuki has already turned away. He's rubbing at his callous-hardened palms, probably aching after working all morning.

Izuku had woken up an hour or so prior, and he remembers seeing Katsuki already hard at work in the garden.

A marble statue had gotten sun-bleached over the years, and Izuku had finally decided it was time to get it repaired. He hadn't expected them (that is, Katsuki and the other help) to get to it so soon, but they'd always been fast.

Katsuki most of all.

Others may have come and gone, but Katsuki had always stayed. He'd been with them— with Izuku— for years, even before Izuku's mother had passed and left him the estate, and knew more about the home than Izuku did, probably. More about the grounds, definitely.

Sometimes Izuku will sneak off with a good book to a quiet, untouched part of the garden, and some hours later would find flaming red eyes watching him from afar.

And, every time without fail, Izuku would find that 'hidden' part of the garden repaired the next day, in a way that he can sit comfortable in the sun for hours; fresh cushions placed upon marble benches, or grass beds cut low so that bugs can't hide in them.

Izuku can't help but be enamored with his ever-so-watchful groundskeeper.

"Would you like something to drink?" Izuku asks, quiet as if he doesn't want Katsuki to hear as he begins to walk away.

But he does hear. He turns, broad shoulders relaxing, and his eyes go dark and lidded as he appraises Izuku again.

Katsuki steps forward. The window is just low enough that he can cross his arms atop the sill and lean his head in.

"And what are you offering?"

Izuku laughs, high pitched and for too long. Katsuki watches him the entire while, and Izuku is sure his face goes red like the chopped up strawberries on his plate.

"Just… j-just a moment."

Izuku jumps up, and the stool teeters on one leg. He catches it midfall, and Katsuki's laugh is like liquid gold being poured over him, like he was a gilded ornament made to be strung up onto a glass chandelier.

He shivers as Katsuki's smooth, enticing voice calls after him, "Water's fine."

Izuku chooses his favorite glass to fill with the pitcher of water he keeps in the fridge. It's ice-cold, freezing against his clammy palms, so he doesn't bother with actual ice.

Instead, he fills it to the brim and takes carefully measured steps back to the door so that he can present it to his groundskeeper.

The glass is engraved, designed with a pale bird midflight, air jets circling down across the glass until the eye follows where it's near landing in its nest.

It reminds Izuku of the summer he had found a baby bird at the base of a tree, long ago. He was still a kid, and had cried and cried at the thought of it being stuck there until its parent got back.

He'd cried harder when he ended up stuck in the tree himself trying to put it back, too scared of heights.

Katsuki hadn't yet been hired then, but… it was a good memory despite everything. Sometimes, now, Izuku imagines if Katsuki had been there. If he would have helped Izuku down, laughing and teasing him all the while.

Izuku minutely shakes his head, both to clear it and to admonish himself. They were barely friends, after all.

"Here you go…" He murmurs, shooing the stool away with his foot so that he can lean out and place the cup directly in Katsuki's palms.

"Thank you, young master." Katsuki's voice is completely teasing as he says it, low and rough like a bass instrument being tuned.

Their fingers brush.

Izuku holds his breath as the pads of Katsuki's fingertips feel against the jut of knuckles. Neither of them move for a moment, the glass of water hanging between in limbo as neither grabs and neither lets go.

Katsuki purposefully lifts his other hand, eyes staring Izuku down to his unbreathing core. Then, he places it against the back of Izuku's. His thumb rubs a soft circle across the skin, softer compared to his own, and Izuku breathes in so sharp that his lung protests with a sharp pain.

Izuku pulls away first, with a cough.

They'd never really touched hands before. Never touched anything before, not even in passing brushes or accidental stumbles.

It was always as if the air between them was thick, impermeable. Not solid like brick, but thick like water waves, and Izuku couldn't read the tide well enough to breach the surface.

Izuku so desperately wanted to break through, and hold Katsuki tight. To promise him the world and the moon and the stars, and actually get them for him if he so wished.

But Izuku couldn't ask that of him, not when there was a very real chance of him saying no.

Katsuki's livelihood relied on their relationship, after all. He had to stay atleast somewhat cordial with his master if he wanted to get paid. Izuku was sure he thought that way, which is why he teased and darted away.

If Izuku were a better person, he'd make it so Katsuki wouldn't have to do that song and dance. Make it so he could come and go as he pleased without worry of Izuku— or give him all the money Izuku had just so he could choose his own path.

But Izuku was selfish.

And that touch, the simple brush of rough skin against skin… He couldn't let it go. Izuku would still keep him, pay him double even, if Katsuki said he hated his guts.

Katsuki laughs again, at the way Izuku jerks away. Just once, even quieter than before. And then he drinks.

His head tips back as he swallows down the water greedily, throat bobbing with each heavy gulp. Izuku watches as a drop slips past the curve of his lip and paints his neck translucent.

It trails lower, following the swell of his neck and briefly getting caught at the clavicle and pooling there. Katsuki shifts, breathing in a deep breath, and it journeys further, dipping lower and lower still.

Izuku jerks his head away before he gets hypnotized past the point of no return, eyes darting away from the shirtless groundskeeper.

The glass makes a dull sound as Katsuki sets it on the windowsill, thoroughly emptied. It stays silent between them for a moment, until Izuku nervously licks his lips.

"Back to work?"

Katsuki tilts his head, leaning back against the windowsill. He shifts up onto his toes, just a few inches, and leans in far enough that the smell of him encompasses the entirety of Izuku's head. He swims in it, eyes fluttering shut briefly before he forces them back open.

Katsuki angles close enough that the ends of his hair tickle at Izuku's forehead. Izuku tips forward, subconsciously, to chase the enticing feel.

Like this, the sun is entirely blocked, light let in only by the glass window. The colors, reds and blues and greens, overlay across Katsuki's face until he's like an oil painting come to life.

Izuku traces the shapeless shapes with his eyes, losing himself between the shadows cast across Katsuki's face and the curve of his lips.

Katsuki calls his attention back by grinning, clicking his tongue, and dropping back on his heels.

"See you around, young master."

Then, Katsuki stalks away. He stops briefly to pick up his shovel, hooking his foregone shirt over his shoulder, and then disappears around the corner in the blink of an eye.

Forgotten condensation rolls down the bird-engraved glass. A real bird sings in the distance, far beyond the treeline.

Izuku doesn't know what to do with himself in the aftermath.

His hands shake, just a bit, and he holds them close to his belly to get them to calm. And, just like he can't stop them from trembling, he can't stop the smile lighting up across his mouth.

Katsuki smells of lemongrass and honey. Sharp and sweet.

Izuku closes the window so that it stays with him a few moments longer.

---

Izuku lays himself across freshly trimmed grass, unworried at how his crisp, fresh shirt will stain. He has ever many more in his closet to romp around in, after all.

Instead, he worries about the book in his hands. The pages are small against his palms, and the spine is well worn. It's a favorite of his, and has been for many years.

He settles down into the piece of earth laid out for him that afternoon, rolling onto his belly so that he can lay the book flat, and hums happily to himself as the words wash over him.

Katsuki watches him from the house. He's settled atop the roof, just having finished repairing a few thatches and cleaning out the gutters. After he washed up, he'd take his lunch break and spend the hour or two keenly examining his mental picture of the young master, as he always does in his downtime at work.

Izuku is unaware of the eyes he has on him, by the way he twists in the grass and lets his shirt get untucked from his pants.

Katsuki has a perfect view of the strip of skin that gets exposed to the summer heat, and watches as Izuku idly fiddles with the hem, as if he's ready to take the entire thing off.

He's in a quiet part of the garden, in the small backyard rather than the vast front. He's all but surrounded by flowering shrubs and trees and dandelions that he refuses to let the gardeners get rid of. He loved to lounge on boring days and blow their white tuffs out across the landscape, to encourage more to grow.

Katsuki rolls his eyes at the thought. He'd be the one who had to deal with the shitty flowers, but it wasn't his estate. So he'd let the young master do what he pleased without fuss.

Katsuki settles back against the roof, leaning against one of the crown of the chimney spire that juts out of it.

He rests his head against his palm and watches as Izuku laughs out loud to himself and rolls onto his side, taking his book with him. His face is buried so far down in the pages that the ink might as well be staining his nose and freckles.

The pages have been rebound with leather, to keep them all together after the many years of love they've received from their owner. Katsuki feels his jaw tense for a moment, idly caught between wanting to tear it apart and replace it with himself in Izuku's hands, or turning away.

How idiotic, to be jealous of paper.

Izuku had a gentle touch, though.

Though he was rough on his hands, always nicking and grazing them with stupid actions, he was ever so gentle. He could cup an egg in his palms and go tumbling down a mountain, and the egg would be in better shape than it was before.

It was so strange, too. Despite his beansprout attitude, Izuku was a full-course meal. Strong around the middle with expansive shoulders. Large hands, strong thighs.

Though he was older than Katsuki by a handful of years, he still acted like a baby lamb, just barely taken from its mother's breast. It was astounding to watch, really.

Especially when the lambskin shed and he became a wolf. Not to say Izuku was dangerous— would always and forever be the furthest thing from that— but rather… fierce. Headstrong. Stubborn as a fucking ox and impulsive like a long-horned goat.

(Katsuki snickers, imagining a green-haired, fuzzy goat animal like that. What a sight his young master would be, if he were anything else but human.)

If Izuku got an idea in his mind, it'd be a hard-pressed ordeal to knock sense into him. Katsuki was the only one willing to try, it sometimes seems.

Yeah, well. Katsuki was never one to turn down a challenge. Not one like that, anyway.

Izuku may now own the lands, but the grounds were Katsuki's. Had been urged up by his fingers and conquered solidly by his will. Not a thing happened on this estate without his say-so, inside and out if he were being honest.

If Izuku were less stubborn, or Katsuki more nefarious… it'd probably be a problem. But Izuku was an alright master of the manor.

Was… kinder than Katsuki deserved, half of the time.

So Katsuki would treat him kind back, from the shadows. Where he belonged, as servant to his young master.

That was all he would ever be.

Because despite the way Izuku ogled him and let Katsuki get in his space, he'd never once reciprocated the advances. Never tried to get closer beyond passing by in the halls.

The closest they'd ever gotten was Izuku ducking out of the way as some extras carried furniture from one end of the estate to the other, accidentally breaching into Katsuki's personal bubble in the process.

They didn't even touch, then, but it haunted Katsuki even now— the feel of Izuku's body heat breeching against his own.

They were always orbiting one another, but never in the same galaxy. Katsuki was waiting for Izuku to reach for him, but was too stubborn to reach out first.

And he was too selfish to let Izuku go.

To quit and let him find another man to tend the grounds of his estate. To leave and let Izuku be swept up in whatever mess he did, and not care because his beautiful, fucking stubborn, eyes weren't on him anymore.

If Katsuki were a better person, maybe.

Katsuki stands up straight, tongue sour and heavy like lead in his mouth. It was time to be done with his daily glare at the estate owner.

He sighs, stretching his arms high above his head.

Izuku sits up, partially drawn by the motion in his periphery, but mostly from whatever is happening in his book. He gasps outwardly, soft but audible even from where Katsuki sits on the roof, and that is enough to startle the wildlife.

Butterflies burst from a small shrub to Izuku's front. A plethora of them, mostly in one color— must all have been from the same brood. They cyclone out of the greenery, and then lazily drift through the open air to find a new place to rest and eat at the flowers.

Katsuki growls beneath his breath at the sight of them, thinking only of the many larvae he'll have to cull lest they get an infestation all over.

That thought process stutters, though, when the young master gasps again and jumps to his feet to watch the cacophony of colors class across the clouded sky.

It's as if he'd never seen color before, with the way he drops his precious book to step into the mass of wings. Katsuki settles his chin across his hands, hugging his chin back against his palm to watch all over again.

Izuku holds his fingers out to the bugs that want nothing to do with them. They leave a wide berth around him as they flutter up towards the trees, etching an Izuku-shaped hole in their swarm.

Izuku pouts when not a one stays to give him butterfly kisses. His nose scrunches up as he does, lips soft-looking and plush as he juts the bottom one out.

Katsuki snorts and, once the last butterfly has gone to find a new branch to perch on, turns to get back to work.

---

It's been a number of days since their last significant contact, but Katsuki is (as always) a beautiful sight; resplendent even in the shade of the oak tree.

Izuku isn't sure, exactly, what excuse he could have for being out there at that moment, other than just wanting to see Katsuki in the sunlight and the shade. He was stunning.

And, at the moment, he was between tasks. As he seemed to be more frequently these days, when Izuku would sneak out of his own house and sit in the grass for no reason at all.

For that reason, Izuku was avoiding eye contact with the imposing figure he created. Even relaxed, lounging in shade as he waited for the sun to go past its apex, Katsuki was sharp like a poisoned dagger, but sweet as though he was dipped in honey.

He was alone, too.

Not that Izuku had many hired help, but generally Katsuki was barking orders at them because their work wasn't up to his standards. And, even though Izuku often had to convince him to take it easy on them, he did appreciate the effort.

Izuku could see it clearly in the cut of the landscape and the shine of his estate. Not a brick was chipped, not a hedge overgrown. Katsuki worked hard.

He deserved the break.

Izuku watched as he lifted his hands behind his head and settled against the oak tree's trunk. The bark must be uncomfortable against his skin, but he doesn't seem to mind as he lets his sweat and the shade cool him off.

And though the shade is thick, wisps of sunlight still filter through. Everywhere it touches seems to turn his skin to gold. Everything about him is magnificent, from the hard curve of his workers' muscles, to the soft of his eyelashes.

"Your stare is heavier than fuckin' lead, Deku."

Izuku startles and turns away as Katsuki squints his eyes open all of a sudden.

He feels his face go red and getting caught so easily, so soon.

There's a shift of clothing and grass, and then Katsuki stands and stretches. Izuku pointedly doesn't look his way at the soft sounds, even as something blooms deep in his tummy. Almost like the flutter of the butterflies from the few days prior, it was like he was being swarmed.

They weren't incredibly close together; Katsuki under a tree, and Izuku closer to the middle of the yard. Still, it's close enough that Izuku can feel him move without seeing.

He was coming closer.

Izuku glances up as Katsuki stops in front of him, arms loosely crossing. He has an intense look on his face, that would be stinging sharp if Izuku hadn't gotten to know Katsuki's mannerisms by now, over the years.

He's pleased. His eyes sparkle with a tinge of mirth and his lips are just barely traced with a hint of a smirk.

"Somethin' I can do for you, young master?"

Katsuki squats, slow so that he can get in Izuku's face, and the latter loses himself in the motion. His eyes dart all across the twists of Katsuki's body, as if it were being offered to him, before he catches himself and looks up at the bright sky instead.

Izuku breathes in deep. Shyly says, "Sorry…" even as he smiles.

Katsuki tilts his head.

He eyes the way Izuku's shirt, half open from the chest down, reveals the way his blush has painted across the skin of his pecs. Tilts his eyes lower to watch Izuku squeeze his thighs nervously, tensing them in the tight material of his silken pants.

"How long are we gonna keep playing this game, Izuku?"

Oh how the sound of his given name from Katsuki's lips is like a gift from the heavens. Would it be too much to hear it again, Izuku dazedly wonders as Katsuki stands straight.

He openly gapes as Katsuki watches him over his shoulder, stalking across the yard to finish up his job of the hour.

Katsuki laughs to himself as he feels Izuku's eyes on him the entire time. Always, he felt those eyes on him— sweeping across Katsuki like he held the secrets of the universe beneath his sternum.

It was a rush. A luxury that half of him felt he deserved and that the other half desperately worked for.

He shoves his boot against the head of his rake, digging it as deep as it can go in the earth. Izuku hadn't requested this but Katsuki was building him long rows of sunflowers to outline the sidewalk.

How presumptuous for him to not even consult his master before he changes the makeup of his yard, right?

But this spot was in perfect view from Izuku's bedroom. In the mornings, when the light was low on this side of the house, the sunflowers would remind him of everything good in the world.

And, after the sun has risen higher in the sky and painted the ground yellow and bright, the sunflowers might just make Izuku think of Katsuki. Was it selfish to want Izuku to think of him always?

It wasn't much off from what already happened.

Though Katsuki has already gotten into the rhythm of sowing the ground, Izuku's eyes have not left him. Katsuki can see him in the same position as before, legs curled beneath him and palms flat against the earth. His reflections in the rakes and shovels are warped, but it's still him, watching Katsuki.

Every so often, under the pretense of taking a breather, Katsuki will lift his head up and watch how Izuku's eyes crinkle at the corners as he unwittingly smiles. Watches how he blushes deep and red when Katsuki stretches a crick out of his neck and groans purposefully loud.

Sweat pools down his bare back and Katsuki doesn't have to glance up to know Izuku is following the trails they daub across the small curve at the base of his spine.

Katsuki finishes the first few rows where the seeds would need to be planted, and still Izuku has done nothing more than stare.

Katsuki wants to hold him.

A breeze dances between them, curling around their bodies and urging them closer.

Katsuki contemplates resisting for a moment, thinking first of the work he has to get done today. Second of the chance that Izuku may just be content in ogling and not actually feeling him. If maybe he was risking it all on an inkling, a hope, a dream.

He doesn't think of anything third, because Izuku perks up when Katsuki turns to him, handsome face melting from a pleased smile to an enamored, open-mouthed gaze.

Never before had Izuku seen Katsuki look like that before; never so vulnerable than he looked in that moment. His eyes were awash with want, and they were focused only on Izuku.

They both seem to hypnotize one another, all at once.

Katsuki steps forward, hesitant as the shovel lands soft in the dirt, and Izuku shifts a leg beneath him to stand.

They move together, closer.

How desperately selfish they were, to do this to the other.

Izuku shoves hair from his face, wavy like layered grooves in a cliffside or rivers cutting through a forest like a new wonder of the world. Would Katsuki want to see the world with him?

Katsuki holds his hand out to him, hands rugged and cut and harsh. But gentle, for once offering everything he could. Would Izuku be content with a rough hand such as this, holding his close?

The wind picks up and pushes them closer.

They meet in the middle.

The yard is completely open, to both the air and the stare of any help that might be watching. Katsuki doesn't care, and neither does Izuku. Not when they touch, skin to skin.

First a little, like the spill of a cup, and then a lot: like a tsunami.

Katsuki crashes his full body against Izuku and drags him down to the earth, toppling him down down down like a dragon taking out a mountain. Izuku flops to the grass with hardly a sound beyond tinkling laughter.

"Kacchan," Izuku sighs, voice strumming across Katsuki like gentle chords from an old guitar.

"Deku," Katsuki responds, straddling Izuku's waist. Their fingers are weaved tight together, like yarn in a mitten, and he squeezes down when Izuku murmurs something soft and sweet beneath his breath.

"Is this okay?" Izuku asks, as if he wasn't shoved down flat by his groundskeeper and about to be ravished like a meal for a starving man. Katsuki desperately wants to know how he tastes.

"You hold the power, young master." As always, the title is a joke, a tease. This time it was a plea, too. Katsuki lifts their joined palms and presses the back of Izuku's to his mouth as he says, "My life is in your hands."

The words wound Izuku, accidentally. If he were a better person…

Izuku's fingers loosen, but not to pull away.

Katsuki kisses them as they go, and then sucks in a breath when Izuku presses them to Katsuki's jaw and pulls him in close. He holds all of Katsuki in the palm of his hands, and he treats him gently like Katsuki always knew he would.

"Katsuki." Izuku whispers his name like a promise and the world's sweetest curse. There wasn't much that Katsuki could offer to Izuku beyond his body and his work, but he would promise it all just for him to say his name like that again.

Izuku nods encouragingly when Katsuki begins to thumb at the few buttons still done in his shirt. Katsuki was already shirtless, always was when Izuku was around.

Still, the motion of trust leaves his heart feeling thick and syrupy inside, sticking to his ribs with every beat of it. His lover trembles as Katsuki kisses across where Izuku's own hides, peeling the shirt off of him and offering him up to the sunlight.

As more and more of his skin gets revealed with each button that gets unlatched, Katsuki falls deeper in love with him.

Izuku is broad all over. His chest is wide and full, and his belly is stout and strong. His shoulders are broad as ever, and if he were ever anything but soft, he'd be imposing. Now, he's water in Katsuki's hands— or clay, ready and waiting to be lovingly shaped by him.

Izuku shivers when he swipes his fingers across the thick of his skin. He's covered in hair, dark but thin and soft. Katsuki likes the feel of it against his knuckles, and then against his chin when he leans down, briefly, to hear how his heart beats in his chest.

Izuku lets him do as he will, encouraging by the hand cradling the back of Katsuki's head. He keeps him close, desperate and clinging, but lets Katsuki explore at his own pace.

He stops breathing when Katsuki kisses at his neck, teeth nibbling at the heartbeat felt through his veins there. And he starts breathing again, deeper, when Katsuki whispers his name: "Izuku."

Katsuki thumbs at the hair sprouting from Izuku's chin, rubbing across the stubbly hairs until he's satisfied. Then he presses a kiss to it, the curve of his chin. Izuku whimpers, almost, or moans maybe. It all gets lost in the loud silence of his own head, focused on Katsuki and Katsuki alone.

Freckles dot his young master all over, carefully placed in each inch of his skin as if the painter of life wanted to be sure they were appreciated. Katsuki appreciates them happily, lips grazing them over and over and over again.

They arc all the way across Izuku's breast until they get hidden from sight by the shirt still wrapped around Izuku's arms and back.

Katsuki lets them hide away, and promises himself to give them as much attention as Izuku can stand, later.

Instead, Katsuki wants to kiss him. Wants to brush their lips together and feel the tingle of it echo across his skin, and he wants to see how Izuku would react to it. Would he still blush pretty and coyly twist away, or would his eyes go wide like he wanted more?

Katsuki has to shove his knee against the grass to get high enough again, and Izuku grunts as the weight of Katsuki comes to rest flat against his chest. His hand, at the back of Katsuki's neck, tightens briefly to keep both of them steady, and the other only idly squeezes at Katsuki's wrist when they settle in their new position.

He's waiting, breathless from the way Katsuki laved love across his skin moments prior.

His lips part when Katsuki stares at them, and he bites his lip when Katsuki doesn't instantly give him what he wants.

So, Katsuki kisses him.

For Izuku, it's like everything he'd ever dreamed. He feels like he's drowning in stardust, or like Katsuki was reaching into him deep inside and tying their souls together. It's only a kiss, but… it's everything.

It's a chaste kiss, lips against lips and barely anything more. Izuku fleetingly opens his mouth to gasp, and their tongues hardly brush before Katsuki pulls away.

For once, he's blushing in the way he makes Izuku blush every day. Instead of like gold, he's like the blooming peonies in the garden, fragile and soft and oh so beautiful.

Izuku pulls him back for another kiss. And another, and another, until they're drunk off the taste of one another. It's overwhelming and addicting, finally doing this.

Neither of them can ever go back to being the same after this. No more uncertain glances or wistful stares from the shadows.

No, now they get something better.

They get to have each other.

---

"I've never kissed anyone before," Izuku admits, softly against the curve of Katsuki's cheek when they end up just holding one another in the soft grass. The hurricane of their want passed, but who could say if it was over or if they were just in the eye of the storm.

They're twined together, face pressed to face and chest pressed to chest. Izuku can feel Katsuki's rumble when he laughs and speaks, and it's more than Izuku ever imagined.

"Mm. Me neither."

Katsuki tilts his head back to watch as Izuku hides his smile away. Katsuki brushes hair from his face so he can see it anyway.

"Guess we'll be teaching each other, hm?"

Izuku wraps his arm tight across Katsuki's chest to hold him close, as he'd always longed to do. Katsuki feels himself melt the embrace, and presses his lips to the tip of Izuku's nose just to look him directly in the eye, just as he's always wanted.

Maybe they weren't so selfish after all.

---

ao3 link

#bakudeku #bkdk #bnha #boku no hero academia #fanfic #long post #writing tag

20 notes · View notes

star-killer-md · 4 years ago

Note

bro i feel like no one really talks about how good life would be after reader and kylo like ‘settled’ down a little when there is only a little angst and its domestic bliss (yknow kylos version of it at least) and kylo like cares so much for readers wellbeing heheh i just want to be kylos long term partner

OH boy I have a lot of thoughts about this at all times.

Warning: Softness ramblings ahead and very brief nsfw, tread lightly

I feel like there aren’t that many scenarios in which Kylo would ever have the opportunity to be like ‘domestic’, but like here’s what I’m thinking:

He’s known you for a long time now--years even--ever since he became Kylo Ren. Since he grew into this new life and left the past behind. Not to die, not really, because no matter how hard he’s tried, he can’t kill the past. It’s shaped him, molded him irreparably, made him what he is, but that doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Because you don’t care. Don’t care who he was before, don’t want to force him into going back to that. Turn him into something more palatable.

And he’s never met anyone else who wasn’t interested in changing him. His masters have only ever tried to weaponize his power, and the people from his old life want him to repent and come home and act as if they weren’t the ones who forced him down this path.

But not you. Never you.

You know everything and take it all and never turn away from the bloody horror of it.

Once, in the very beginning, you’d found him in one of the abandoned sectors after he’d poured his frustration out into the unserviced control panels. He’d failed again, something inane and not worth remembering, but he could still feel the sting of hot shame and rage that boiled just under his skin. He did remember the way you looked, though.

So soft in the harsh light of the hallway, not turning away not frozen with adrenaline, just standing and staring at the blood dripping from his hand where the durasteel had sliced his knuckles apart. He remembered the way your voice sounded too, echoing in the silence.

“You’re bleeding, sir,” you’d said and offered him a bacta patch.

You always carried little things like that, he’d later learned. Pens or first aid kits or ties for his hair. You seemed to collect little pieces of all the people around you. Always afraid of being unprepared, caught off guard. He was never sure where you kept it all.

It was all downhill from there. Kylo moves quickly, latches on and doesn’t let go easily. He wants to know everything about you, wants to make sure--not that you’re worthy of him, because deep down in the pit of his stomach he’s never felt worthy of anything or anyone--but needs to know that you can withstand him.

And of course you can.

He’s convinced that you might be the strongest person he’s ever known.

From the start of your involvement he wants you with him all the time--he still hesitates to call it a relationship, that’s too mundane, can’t even begin to encompass the intensity of what he feels for you. He wants you in his quarters waiting every night, wants to see you touch you, remind himself you’re real.

And you certainly don’t complain.

After years, because life in the First Order is a complicated mess of simply trying to stay alive, the two of you can finally settle down together.

Well, as much as Kylo and anyone who’d chose to spend their life with him could.

Which is to say not very much, but you do your best.

At this point, he’s climbed the ladder. Kylo’s the Supreme Leader or in whatever other position of power he’d won through sheer force of will and he has the luxury of keeping you by his side.

His version of domestic bliss is just that, being allowed to have you without it being a weakness. He wants to memorize everything about you, all the little things like how you fold your socks, what songs you’re always humming when you do mindless tasks, or the way you drape yourself over the back of the couch sometimes like a lounging cat.

His bliss is getting to feel your skin against his, hearing your voice whenever he wants.

And gods, he’s terrified of losing it.

Incredibly, churning in his gut afraid that something will go wrong, because shit doesn’t it always? He’s not allowed to have things like this, nice things, peaceful things, happy things, Kylo Ren does not get a good ending.

Really keeping you close to him is doubly important because as long as you’re in his sight, he can keep you safe.

And he only trusts himself with that most sacred of tasks, so when you go off base, Kylo is only ever a few paces behind if he’s not glued to your side. He follows you around like a shadow, and maybe that’s all he ever was--a shadow to your radiance. Because that’s what you are, glowing all the time in the light of his adoration.

You get frustrated with him sometimes, he knows that. He knows he can be overbearing and you think he doesn’t trust you on your own and it isn’t that but--

Well he’s never been good with words. Even after years with you he can’t always communicate what he wants or why he wants it or how badly. You’re entirely capable of taking care of yourself, he likes that about you, how competent you are. He values your intelligence, likes your humor and wit and how quick you can clap back in any situation.

So he does his best not to cage you, does his best to let you flourish and basks in the warmth of you. You’re never so angry with him that your arms don’t wind around his neck when he leans into you. Never so much that you don’t cry out for him when he inevitably finds himself entangled in your body, drowning in you and savoring every moment.

When Kylo allows himself attachment--as rare as that is--it’s forever.

And keeping you is the closest to domestic bliss he’ll ever get.

#kylo ren x reader #Anonymous #dr. b answers #dr. b talks #kylo ren imagines #kylo ren asks #I hesitate to call this fluff but I guess it is #anywho #kylo with long term partner

106 notes · View notes