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milfsloverblog · 3 months ago

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Secret Benefits (part 9)

(Previous parts here)

Sugar mommy!Larissa Weems x fem!reader

N/A: Huh you’ll probably hate me after reading this chapter. Please send all complaints to my lawyer (myself, but less evil). Enjoy and don’t forget to reblog and let me know what you thought :)

The aroma of garlic and simmering herbs filled the air as you slipped on the apron Larissa had handed you. “A cooking class?” you mused, tying the strings around your waist and glancing at her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting this.”

Larissa smirked, adjusting her apron with effortless elegance. “You did say you were tired of the usual dinner dates. I thought something hands-on might be more entertaining.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “And here I was thinking you’d take me to the opera or something equally extravagant.”

“I do enjoy surprising you,” she admitted, smoothing down the front of your apron before reaching for your hand. “Besides, I rather like the idea of cooking something together. It requires teamwork.”

The instructor called for attention, launching into a demonstration on making fresh pasta. You focused on kneading the dough, your hands working through the soft mixture as Larissa stole subtle glances at you. Every now and then, her fingers would brush against yours, a gentle reminder of the connection you had built over the past two months.

Larissa maintained control in the ways you had come to cherish. When your dough wasn’t coming together properly, she stepped behind you, her hands settling over yours, guiding your movements with a quiet authority that made your breath hitch. “Like this,” she murmured against your ear, her voice low and firm. You followed her lead, pressing and folding as she directed, your body instinctively responding to her presence.

As you shaped the pasta, she remained close, ensuring you executed each step properly. When the instructor walked by and complimented your technique, Larissa gave you an approving nod, as if the praise was hers to grant. It sent a familiar warmth through you, a mixture of pride and something deeper, something that kept you tethered to her.

When it came time to cook the pasta, she didn’t hesitate to take control of the process, ensuring everything was done to her exact standards. She plated both portions herself, serving yours with an air of quiet satisfaction. “Taste,” she instructed, offering you a fork.

You obeyed, savouring the bite as her gaze lingered on you. “Delicious,” you murmured, though you weren’t entirely sure whether you were referring to the meal or the way she was looking at you.

Later that night, as you curled up on the couch in Larissa’s quarters, she received a message that made her posture stiffen ever so slightly. You raised an eyebrow, setting down your wine glass. “Bad news?”

Larissa hesitated before exhaling softly. “Morticia Addams is back in my life.”

Your stomach tensed. “Morticia Addams. As in… your Morticia Addams?”

Her lips pressed together in a tight line. “She’s hardly mine anymore.”

“And why, exactly, is she back?”

“Her daughter, Wednesday, has enrolled at Nevermore.”

When Morticia arrived at Nevermore, she carried herself with the same effortless grace that Larissa remembered far too well. She was dressed in black silk, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in waves, and when her gaze met Larissa’s, a slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

“Larissa,” she purred, stepping forward as if no time had passed at all. “You look radiant, as always.”

Larissa kept her expression composed, her hands clasped in front of her. “Morticia. It’s been a long time.”

“Far too long,” Morticia agreed, her gaze sweeping over Larissa in quiet appraisal. “I must say, it feels almost poetic to be back here. Nostalgic, even.”

Larissa inclined her head. “I imagine so. Though I trust this visit is more about Wednesday than nostalgia.”

“Of course,” Morticia said lightly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the… familiar comforts of the past.”

Larissa’s jaw tightened. “Wednesday will be in excellent hands here.”

“I have no doubt.” Morticia tilted her head, watching her carefully. “I heard something interesting, you know. A little rumour that you have someone special in your life.”

Larissa’s expression didn’t waver. “I do.”

Morticia’s smile sharpened. “How lovely. I must admit, I never imagined you settling down. It suits you.”

Larissa exhaled slowly. “Is there anything else you needed?”

Morticia chuckled, reaching out to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from Larissa’s sleeve. “Not at the moment. But I do hope we can catch up properly some time. Perhaps over dinner?”

“I’m afraid I’ll be quite busy.”

“Shame,” Morticia murmured, her fingers lingering just a second too long. “But I suppose I’ll see you around.”

You took a slow sip of your wine, considering your next words carefully. “How did she react to seeing you again?”

Larissa’s gaze flickered away. “She was… familiar. As she always is. But when she learned I had a partner, she became rather insistent on reminiscing about old times.”

You set your glass down, tilting your head. “How insistent?”

A pause. “Flirtatious.”

Your fingers curled against the cushion beneath you. You had never met Morticia, but you knew of her. The way Larissa had once loved her. The way she had never quite spoken of what had been left unresolved between them.

“And does she know about me?”

“She knows I have someone.” A shadow of something unreadable passed over Larissa’s expression. “She doesn’t know how young you are.”

Your lips quirked, though there was little humour in it. “Do you think that would make a difference?”

Larissa sighed, reaching for your hand. “I think it might only encourage her.”

A sharp sting of irritation settled in your chest. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“She doesn’t matter,” Larissa said firmly. “You know that, don’t you?”

But the uncertainty gnawed at you. Because Morticia was beautiful, poised, and had a history with Larissa that you couldn’t compete with.

Before you could say anything else, Larissa’s phone buzzed again. She sighed, picking it up—and you watched as her expression shifted ever so slightly.

“Is that her?” you asked.

Larissa hesitated before nodding. “Yes. She says Wednesday is adjusting well.”

You leaned forward. “And?”

Larissa hesitated again. “She invited me to dinner.”

Your jaw clenched. “And what did you say?”

“I haven’t answered yet.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken. Finally, you exhaled sharply. “If you go, I want to know everything. No secrets.”

Larissa reached for you, pulling you into her warmth. “No secrets,” she promised.

But as you curled into her, the uncertainty remained, lingering in the quiet space between her heartbeat and yours.

The next Saturday night, Larissa found herself sat across from Morticia in a dimly lit, upscale restaurant. The atmosphere was intimate, the soft murmur of other patrons filling the air as the flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the table. The crisp clink of silverware on porcelain seemed too sharp in the silence that lingered between them.

Morticia, ever the picture of elegance, was dressed in a black silk dress that flowed effortlessly around her as she shifted in her seat. Her eyes were dark and calculating, and though she wasn’t actively glaring, there was a weight to her gaze—a silent challenge that Larissa could feel pressing against her chest.

The tension between them was palpable, thick with unspoken history, old feelings, and years of silence. It had been far too long since they'd last shared a space like this, and Larissa wasn’t sure whether it was the familiar ache or the unpredictability of the evening that was making her feel so unsettled.

“You look stunning, Larissa,” Morticia said, her voice low and smooth, as if they were still in the intimate world they had once shared. “You always did know how to wear power with such grace.”

Larissa gave a tight smile, sipping her wine to give herself a moment of distance. “Thank you, Morticia. It’s been a while.”

“It certainly has,” Morticia agreed, her eyes never leaving Larissa. “Too long, I think. So much time… wasted.”

Larissa’s throat tightened at the subtle implication in Morticia’s words, and she quickly took another sip of her wine. The alcohol burned down her throat, but she welcomed it—the warmth spreading through her chest was a welcome reprieve from the cold knot of nerves that had settled in her stomach.

Morticia leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering even more as if sharing a secret. “It’s strange, don’t you think? To see you so… settled, so sure of yourself. I remember a time when we used to be sure of each other.”

Larissa forced her focus on the glass in front of her, her fingers wrapped tightly around it as if it could anchor her. “I’ve always been sure of myself.”

“Mm.” Morticia’s smile was knowing, sharp. “I don’t doubt that. But you’re different now. I can see it. You’re not the same woman I once knew.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Larissa felt the edge of something, something that might have been guilt or longing or both, but she refused to let it show. She took another long sip, the liquid making her feel both warmer and more exposed.

“I’m still the same person,” Larissa said, trying to keep her voice steady, though there was a crack in it that she couldn’t quite cover.

“I’m sure you are,” Morticia replied, leaning back in her chair, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “But I wonder, Larissa, do you still remember all the little things we used to do? The late-night conversations, the way we’d talk about everything and nothing all at once.”

Larissa froze, her hand momentarily tightening around her glass, her mind flashing back to those nights—those endless hours when everything felt easy, when she’d lost herself in Morticia’s laughter and their shared secrets. But that had been so long ago, before the distance had formed between them.

“It’s been a long time,” Larissa said softly, her voice almost too quiet.

Morticia’s smile deepened, and she tilted her head, as though studying Larissa with the same intensity she always had. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How time can change everything… and nothing at all. The way we can slip back into old rhythms, as if no time has passed.”

Larissa looked at Morticia, her breath catching for just a moment. She didn’t know what was happening, but something—something about the way Morticia was looking at her—was stirring old feelings she had tried to bury. The air around them felt thicker now, charged with something Larissa wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

She could feel the warmth of the wine spreading through her, blurring her thoughts as she took another long drink. The words felt like they were slipping past her, too heavy to hold onto. She was losing control—losing her grip on the composed exterior she worked so hard to maintain. And Morticia knew it.

“Larissa…” Morticia’s voice was a velvet whisper now, one that tugged at the edges of her consciousness. “Do you ever wonder what could have been? I know I do.”

Larissa’s heart skipped a beat, and for a second, she was back in that place where everything had once felt so effortless between them. Morticia’s fingers brushed against the stem of her wine glass, just shy of touching her hand, but it was enough to make Larissa’s pulse quicken.

Her breath was shallow, her thoughts clouded by the alcohol, by the proximity. She could feel Morticia’s presence like a weight pressing down on her, heavy and demanding. It was the same pull she’d always felt—a gravitational force she couldn’t escape.

And without thinking, without really understanding what she was doing, Larissa took another drink, almost too fast this time. The burn of the wine felt sharper, more intense, as it slid down her throat, and it was only then that she realized she was already tipsy, her nerves disjointed in a way they hadn’t been in years.

Morticia’s eyes flickered, and Larissa could feel the moment shift. There was something different in the way Morticia was looking at her now—something more predatory, more deliberate.

“You know,” Morticia said, her voice barely a whisper as she leaned even closer, “I’ve always wondered what it would be like if we gave in to the tension between us. If we just let go and did what we always wanted.”

Larissa felt the heat rise in her cheeks, her heart pounding in her chest. But the words were already slipping from her lips before she could stop them. “We can’t. It’s not… I can’t…”

But Morticia’s lips were already close to hers, her breath warm against Larissa’s skin. The air seemed to crackle between them, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Larissa didn’t realize what was happening until it was already too late. She was kissing Morticia, her mind too foggy to process it, too drunk on the wine and the years of unresolved tension to stop. The kiss was slow at first, tentative, as if neither of them wanted to admit what was happening. But soon, the pressure grew, and Larissa found herself caught up in it, her heart racing faster, her pulse louder in her ears.

When they finally pulled away, Larissa’s breath was shaky, her head spinning from the wine and the kiss and the way Morticia was still looking at her—like she had won something, like she had always known this moment would come.

Larissa blinked, trying to make sense of the whirlwind inside her chest. “What… what did we just do?”

Morticia’s smile was soft, almost affectionate, but there was a sharpness behind it that Larissa couldn’t ignore. “We did what we’ve always wanted to do,” Morticia murmured, her fingers lightly grazing the side of Larissa’s face. “And now, Larissa, you have a choice. What happens next is up to you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unresolved, as Larissa sat frozen in the moment, her mind racing to catch up with the sudden reality that had just crashed into her.

And as the evening wore on, the uncertainty lingered in the space between them, even as they finished their dinner in silence.

Larissa opened the door to her quarters, the familiar warmth of the space immediately enveloping her. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she stepped inside, and her eyes quickly scanned the room, landing on you sitting on the couch. You were curled up in one of her oversized blankets, a book in your lap, but you looked up when you heard the door close behind her.

You gave her a soft, knowing smile, but there was an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place, a tension in the air that wasn’t there before.

“How was dinner?” you asked, trying to sound casual, though you couldn’t hide the slight edge to your voice.

Larissa paused, her coat still draped over her arm as she stood in the doorway, seemingly caught off guard by the question. She was suddenly aware of the quiet hum of discomfort between you two.

“It was fine,” she replied, her tone carefully neutral, though her voice carried a hint of something unspoken. She shrugged off her coat, folding it with deliberate care as she crossed the room toward you. “Business, more than anything.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly as you watched her movements. “Business with Morticia Addams, right?”

Larissa’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second, but you were watching her closely enough to catch it. She didn’t let the moment linger, however, quickly smoothing over the brief hesitation with a cool smile. “Yes. She’s here because of Wednesday, you know that already.”

You sat up a little straighter, a frown tugging at your lips. “And how is she? Morticia, I mean. How did she react when she saw you again?”

There was a long pause, and Larissa finally sat beside you, her gaze distant as she smoothed a hand through her hair, a nervous habit you’d come to notice in her when she was sorting through something complicated. “She’s the same as always,” Larissa said finally, her tone clipped. “Graceful, poised... she knows how to make an entrance, as you’d expect.”

You studied her face, sensing that there was more she wasn’t telling you, but you didn’t press further just yet. “And was she...?” You let the question hang in the air, not needing to finish it for Larissa to know exactly what you meant.

Larissa hesitated, her fingers tapping absently on the edge of the blanket you were wrapped in. “She was... familiar,” she said carefully, as if choosing each word with caution. “And it seems like some things haven’t changed.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean by that?”

Larissa’s expression flickered briefly with something unreadable, but she quickly masked it with a tight smile. “She’s still the same, just more... insistent. In her own way.”

You swallowed hard, the thought of Morticia pressing into Larissa’s life again stoking a mixture of unease and jealousy that you didn’t want to admit even to yourself. “Insistent, how?”

Larissa sighed, leaning back into the cushions as she closed her eyes for a moment, her posture stiff. “She’s always been good at making things complicated. But that’s all it is. Complicated.” Her voice softened toward the end, almost as though she were reassuring herself more than you.

You wanted to believe her, wanted to trust in the steadiness of her words, but the knot of doubt in your stomach was tightening with every passing second. Morticia’s return felt like an echo of a past Larissa hadn’t fully closed, and you couldn’t help but feel like a part of her still lingered there, in that space between them that you couldn’t even touch.

Still, you nodded, trying to push down the uncertainty. “So, no more dinners with her, then?”

Larissa chuckled softly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No more dinners. Not unless it’s strictly necessary.”

The tension between you both hung heavy, unspoken, yet undeniable. You leaned your head on her shoulder, a quiet surrender to the comfort of her presence, though you knew that something had shifted—something between you, and something between her and Morticia that was too fragile to ignore.

As the silence stretched on, you closed your eyes, letting the soft rhythm of Larissa’s breathing settle you, unaware of how deep her past with Morticia would bleed into your present together.

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Taglist: @raspburrythief @weemssapphic @readingtheentrails @principal-weems09 @kimiinou @winterfireblond @im-a-carnivorous-plant @geekyarmorel @h-doodles @witchesmortuary @m1lflov3rrr @dumbasslesbi @crow-raven-crow @fridays-coven @lilfartbox1 @shawncantwrite @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @gwens0girl @aemilia19 @the-bagel24 @lvinhs @thefutureisus2020 @gela123 @a-queen-and-her-throne @rando-mango @wheresmyboo @my-silver-spring @hillary-nicks @ablsk @natasha29romanoff @tallvampirelady12 @canyoufeelmyheartsayinghi i @i-love-nerdy-stuff @jasperobsidian-blog @i-write-sometimes-maybe @brienne-the-brave @slytherinthepms @non-binary-frogking @wife-of-gwendolinechristie @anjo-iludidoefudido @imnotafruitt @opheliauniverse

#gwendoline christie #larissa weems x reader #secret benefits #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems

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abysstrap-ran · 5 months ago

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❖ Piltover Winters (Jayce/Viktor Headcanons)

A/N: I realize I always come back to writing around xmas. Erm, anyway. Have you guys seen Savior Viktor??? Delicious. *I don’t actually know if it snows in PnZ but it’s December so let’s live a little.

❖ Viktor

If you're cold, chances are he's freezing too because of how cold he usually runs.

Will forget his scarf. Sometimes, in his work-induced haze, he also forgets that he's not dressed for the weather and walks out of the lab only to get blasted in the face by the sheer COLD, grumbling and sniffling as he retreats back inside. Hence, he appreciates the heater and the fireplace in his academy-funded apartment very much.

While he might not be the biggest fan of the winter chill, he’s amazed by snow since it never reaches the part of the Undercity where he grew up.

Give Viktor a cup of hot chocolate, and his eyes will light up. He won’t admit it, and very few know about it, but much like his love for sweetmilk, he is very much a fan of hot chocolate. However, he doesn’t opt for it too often because its sweetness will irritate his throat, so he takes it every once in a while. He’ll be in a good mood the whole day if he does get a cup, something that Jayce capitalizes on if only to see him smile.

This man can not get up in the mornings, preferring to burrow deeper into the blankets or closer to a heat source where it's warm and toasty. You’ll have to drag him out or coax him out with a cup of hot beverage.

His body does him no favors in this department. The ever-bearing cold makes his joints ache worse, so it’s safe to say that his leg does not like him very much.

Once he gets the back brace, the screws permanently etched onto his spine will hurt, especially in the deep of winter. He’s gotten used to it to a degree, but sometimes it renders him somewhat immobile. It is also hard to navigate through snow with a crutch. This is why you’ll almost never find him outside during the winter months, though that hasn’t changed much from the past. Even if he has to go outside for some godforsaken reason, he’ll make them short and snappy trips at best, or send Jayce, who would be more than happy to do so, in his place.

❖ Jayce

Snow is not his forte, considering how he nearly died in a blizzard as a child. But, it has grown on him slowly over time. Though, you won’t find him outside when the snowfall turns heavy.

He may not show it, but he loves the seasonal festivities. He fondly remembers hitting the attractions and festivals with Caitlyn back when they were both younger, and would sometimes do the same again, if only for the nostalgic factor.

The man of progress might be busy, but Jayce the present-giver works doubly hard. You may barely see him out of his lab, but he’ll make the time, sometimes out of thin air, to get everyone presents.

Coat? What is a coat? This guy’s a furnace, he’s fine (not really) but he will claim he’s fine if you ask. Will happily let anyone he's close to cling to him for his warmth, or laugh and give them his scarf so now they're like a two-scarf coat rack. Paints a rather funny picture to be bundled up in an abundance of scarves.

Probably has to participate in a lot of winter social events due to the council. Dutiful as he is, Jayce will attend those societal gatherings, but you bet he'd whine the next person's ear off by the time he's dragged to his mandatory 3rd dinner/gala or something similar along those lines. Sometimes, if he gets bored, he sneaks back to the lab when no one's noticing… until Heimerdinger pops up when he least expects it. “There's a time and place for innovation, my boy! But tonight's a night for the outdoors, don't you think?”

Will oftentimes be the first one up in the mornings because he knows he has a packed schedule and he'd better get up or else. When he doesn't get up due to it being a lazier day, he'll hog ALL the blankets, curling into a ball and going back for another snooze, much to your chagrin.

#Viktor x Reader x Jayce #Viktor x reader #Jayce x reader #viktor arcane #Jayce arcane #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #viktor #jayce talis #Arcane #Arcane imagines #Arcane reader insert #league of legends #Arcane fanfiction

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mncxbe · 1 year ago

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You look... familiar

𝑫𝒂𝒛𝒂𝒊, 𝑭𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒛𝒂𝒘𝒂, 𝑹𝒂𝒏𝒑𝒐 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

~ In which you're Oda's little sister and join the Ada~ consider this an Oda appreciation post

°☆○

𝑫𝒂𝒛𝒂𝒊

he'd be so surprised and conflicted; he had no idea that one of the closest friends he's ever had had a little sister

you don't even have to introduce yourself for him to know who you are. the auburn hair, deep brown eyes with that distant look, the curve of your nose and brows were unmistakably his

he pretends to be unbothered by your presence but deep down he's torn to pieces. why didn't Oda tell him about you? Where have you been all this time? How comes you joined the ADA? Did you know who he was?

his thoughts are plagued by unanswered questions but as soon as you walk up to him and extend a hand for him to shake his mind goes blank

he shakes your hand, searching for any sign of recognition in your eyes and sighs in relief when he doesn't find it

he can play the role of your funny, goofy colleague without a worry. you don't know about the past

that night he barely sleeps, he's lost in deep thought; but he promises himself that he would protect you no matter what. he owes that to Oda, to himself and in a way to you

over the next few months he tries not to get too close to you; the sight of you alone is enough to resurface some memories he'd rather keep hidded, but he does his best to be friendly and keep you safe

I don't think he'd ever open up to you about him knowing Oda and if you ever bring up the subject he'd simply brush it off

𝑭𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒛𝒂𝒘𝒂

at first he doesn't know who you are but he vaguely recognises your family name

he wasn't close to Oda so your presence doesn't affect him too much, but he does find the coincidence quite uncanny. out of all the people who could've joined the Ada it had to be the sister of the boy he saved all those years ago

Fukuzawa doesn't treat you any differently; after all, you're just another employee, but once he notices the strange way Dazai acts around you he can't help but wonder if there's more to you that he doesn't know about

probably runs a background check or something and ends up finding out the whole story so now he has to live with it (+1 trooma)

𝑹𝒂𝒏𝒑𝒐

much like Dazai he feels nostalgic when he sees you

you resemble Oda so much it hurts, but he doesn't let it show

overall, Ranpo does his best to help you get used to your new job, takes you with him on different cases and even shares his sweets with you

he doesn't ask much about your past since he knows it's a sensitive topic for you but if the subject of Oda is ever brought up he's gonna tell you he knew him for a while and that he was a wonderful person

Ranpo would get many of those deja vu moments when you wear clothes that belonged to your brother or use the phrases he did; in a way he likes it. it feels like part of Oda is still with him

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bsd headcanons #ranpo x reader #fukuzawa x reader #dazai x reader #dazai bsd #bsd fukuzawa #bsd odasaku

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mollywog · 3 months ago

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Does Peeta have any preferences with regards to Katniss’s hair?(one braid, 2 braids no braids)

Preference? No.

For me it’s not a preference so much as him appreciating her postwar recovery based on her hair.

I headcanon Katniss cutting her hair postwar (for several reasons) and I imagine Peeta is so happy to see a sign of her shedding the past and moving forward.

And later when she complains about the length and ends the rant with, ‘I can’t wait until it’s long enough to pull back’ he releases a sigh of relief to hear her thinking of the future.

He bites back a smile at how her first tiny ponytails stick out in the back and how she’s constantly touching them as if to make sure they’re still there.

The first time she decides to braid it again, it’s not long enough for one, so she parts it down the middle and braids two and its nostalgic and bittersweet for them both.

Eventually she can put it in a single braid again and he marks the passing seasons by its length, surprised by how quickly it grows.

He revels in the tangled tresses when they’re the sign of a restful night (or other amorous activities) rather than the neglect he returned home to in the beginning.

He beams the first time (swiftly following ‘so after’) that she pins it up in the old way that the married woman District 12 used to back in the day.

And he marvels at the strands caught in their infants’ grasp.

But Peeta’s never preferred Katniss’s hair more than when the first white strand pops out of nowhere: a sign of all the years the odds had conspired against.

Anyways, here’s a shameless plug for a tiny one shot I wrote: Two Braids

#everlark hc #everlark fanfiction #thank you for the ask!!#nonny #anon #ask

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thebestjjenthusiast · 4 months ago

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narcotic

where y/n run away from her home country a few years back, forgetting her past completely and starting a new life in the OBX. along with the pogues - her family, she spends all of her time having fun, and a part of that routine is the rivalry between them and the kooks, and the endless flirt with JJ.

masterlist | 00 | 01

y/n is a person that if youd ask one of her friends to describe her to you, theyd say shes creative, confident but mostly, friendly.

when shes talking about her friendship with the people around her, you can just understand that she values it more than her own life.

although kildare is a small island, with beautiful sights and a beach about ten feet away from you at all times, whenever she gets the chance to sit on a rooftop and enjoy life from far away, she seizes it. whether it means spending her time on there with her dear friends, or alone.

its not rare for her friends and she to argue about what movie theyre going to watch on their free nights. while sarah is arguing with kie about whether theyre going to watch a romance-comedie or a national geographic documentary, she just hopes a tom cruise movie will pop up in the recommendations so she can watch her favourite genre -with her favourite actor- thrilling, adrenaline-rushing, adventure movies.

its often for people to want to get to know her better, befriending her, and so they throw compliments all over her. mostly about her looks, her style and her aesthetic but she never seems surprised. what touches her heart as a compliment is any compliment about her personality. and that goes for the people around her too of course, she would rather not say anything if its not about someones personality.

as y/n is from a small european country, which is the home of every pretty olympian god’s statue, she admires whenever she comes across one. she didnt always use to enjoy observing them, but after she went away, every little thing that reminds her if her origins and her home makes her nostalgic.

you can easily catch y/n listening to her favourite rock albums whatever shes doing. whether thats getting ready, taking a shower, studying or even moving from one room to another.

one day, the friendgroup was discussing, “if we were a mythical creature, anything, what would we be?” they had all agreed on kie being a mermaid, jj being an alien (from mars specifically), pope a mummy and y/n a vampire.

a lot of her previous friendships and relationships with people in general have suddenly stopped, the moment y/n started sensing that someone is being ignorant. shed always complain to her closest friends about how much she hates ignorant people, and the feeling that comes with that that makes her feel invisible.

whenever the weather in the obx is a little chilly and breezy, y/n would be at the patio, music being almost not noticed by anyone a foot away from her, but she would enjoy listening to her favourite song, “everybody’s chaning” by the keane and just sitting back and relaxing.

another deep conversation shes had with john b on a very late night, they agreed that if their lives were a book, y/n would be the villain. but not in the actual villain way, in the way that in the beginning the reader would have a gut feeling about her but in the end theyll end up loving her more than the hero itself.

lastly, the obx is where y/n belongs. if she were to be in another place, she’d grab her belongings and catch the first ferry to the obx and run to the château in an instant.

and that pretty much sums up y/n as a person and a friend.

an: okayyyy first time tumblring how do we feel? is that good? anything would be appreciated, from support to suggestions to hate. i want to know how to be better and hyyave some motivation doing something nice with my time (because im bored of just reading rafe aus when im a jj girly but i think ive read EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM!!!)

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darkwicks · 4 months ago

Text

Until Spring Day Comes Again

Or, the one where you reunite with an old friend.

PAIRING.⠀Bachira Meguru x Reader

CONTENT.⠀Gender-neutral reader; Tokyo Ghoul AU; gender-neutral reader; ghoul!Bachira, angst, childhood friends, memory loss, blood and gore, cannibalism, violence, grief, brief suicidal behaviour, there is no happy ending sorry. slightly ooc Bachira. </3 get in loser we're getting doomed by the narrative // ~5,1k words

A/N.⠀Just a quick little gift for my good friend @hiperacid2 who picked up Blue Lock recently ^_^

available on AO3 | reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!

A sunny spring afternoon. Grassy fields. Gentle winds and swimming clouds in the sky. A soft hand holding your own.

Every once in a while, the same memory came rushing back and sent you into a nostalgic void, endlessly drifting through its space and time with no chance of returning. It was a memory that was preserved so well yet was missing so many fragments. You’d hear children’s laughter. You’d hear the sounds of birds chirping, the distant noises of dogs barking. You’d hear the leaves rustle in the tall trees and the wind brushing against your cheeks. You’d find yourself back in the exact atmosphere every time, but you couldn’t see who this memory was shared with.

Your companion in the dream was faceless. All you knew was that you were both young and couldn’t be much older than seven years old. His name escaped you every time you tried to think of it. No matter what you did, you couldn’t remember, and so this close friend of yours was missing an identity. You had wondered a handful of times if this was a fake memory and if your mind was just playing tricks on you. After all, your memory wasn’t as good as it used to be. Sometimes you couldn’t tell if things truly happened or if it was just your perception warping every memory you’ve had. Typically, these missing pieces and gaps didn’t bother you too much, but it was this memory in particular that always weighed heavy on your mind.

“Will we be best friends forever?”

Just who were they? Who was the companion who made you feel so loved and cherished? A pang of guilt strikes you when you mull over it too much. What kind of friend were you if you couldn’t even remember them?

“Duh! Until the day we die!”

You knew it was useless to overthink these things. If a memory was lost, then it was lost. And in the world you live in now, there was no time to regret. In a world where ghouls lurked in its darkest corners and survival was the topmost priority, there was no time to fall behind. Your life had fallen into a cycle that you had no hope of breaking free from.

“I’ll always protect you, sunny!”

Somehow, you still trusted his words. It was rather silly, considering you couldn’t even remember who made this promise, but you knew it was one made in earnest. Maybe you’d come across him again one day, as unlikely as it was. Twenty years was a long time. It was possible that he would have already forgotten about you as well. But a small part of you held out hope that your memories would come back. Years of hurting had taken away many memories you held dear, shielding you from something unknown. Now and then, you’d wonder if he was still alive, or if he had fallen victim to a ghoul’s gluttony. You sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case.

No one really knew how ghouls came to be. Some said it was a virus. Some said it was the result of a failed experiment. Some said that ghouls have existed for as long as humans have; they were only hiding in the dark. Either way, the streets of Tokyo have not been safe in the past three years. Mortality rates surged to an all-time high and violence became increasingly more commonplace. Gruesome could not begin to describe what these ghouls left behind. Blood and entrails were scattered across the ground, and missing limbs and broken bones were placed like decorations. Slippery and hard to catch, ghouls spread into the countryside, to neighbouring countries and eventually, other continents, and in response, an international task force was formed.

The International Ghoul Hunter Association had headquarters in every major city and countless agents who were prepared to keep their homes safe. Still, the mortality rate for some of these agents was high. Some ghouls were more than capable fighters and it wasn’t known until recently that firearms were futile against them. To kill ghouls, you’d need the power of another ghoul. And so, weapons made out of ghoul flesh and bones were manufactured. Thanks to the innovation, agents died less, and people’s homes were safer.

This, however, was not the case for Tokyo.

It was one of the most ghoul-infested cities on the planet. They were scattered all across the country, wreaking havoc and feeding off of the weak. It was nearly impossible trying to locate all of them. The ones that were apprehended would never answer any questions. The remaining ones continued to live among humans undetected, but the crime rates said so otherwise. Cannibalism and murder were at an all-time high, and all that the Association knew about it was the name of the leader of the pack: Ego Jinpachi. He was a slippery one, hard to catch, yet so influential and powerful that his underlings were spread out all over Tokyo.

They called themselves Blue Lock, and they were sworn enemies of the Association. Their ghouls were seemingly well-trained. They never left behind any evidence, not even the smallest trace of DNA. Their faces were kept a mystery because of the masks they wore. Instead of having their biometrics, the Association instead had to make do with their own intel and code names. The King. The Wild Card. The Raptor. These three were some of the boldest S-ranked ghouls ever known to the Association. Ego Jinpachi himself knew as well how much the Association was struggling. He’d encourage his ghouls to go bigger and give it their all while leaving ghoul hunters with nothing.

The increasing crime rate and stalemate in the investigation were taking a toll on Director Mikage. This much you could tell from the way he was pacing around the room with his head hung low. You looked away from the ticking clock on the wall and back to him. You were summoned not too long ago for a seemingly urgent issue, but he hadn’t uttered a word since you came in. All you could hear were the birds chirping outside and the dull thrum of the air conditioner in the ceiling. Briefly, you wondered if he called you here to inform you that you’ve been laid off. You were quite sure your ghoul-hunting career was stellar, especially for someone so young, but his silence did nothing to quell your anxiety.

The other hunters seated in the conference room must have thought the same as well. You watched as Isagi fiddled with his fingers while the younger Itoshi mostly looked indifferent. You shifted in your seat, itching to ask the Director to say something, but decided against it. It was clearly a major issue if he’d summoned the top brass of the hunters.

After a torturous period of waiting, Director Mikage finally returned to his spot and firmly placed his hands on the table, his shoulders hunched and his expression weary.

“We’ve been getting a lot of complaints,” he said. “From grieving and angry loved ones. We need to find Ego Jinpachi and take him down as soon as we can. I’ve called you all here today because I have a new plan. All eyes are on us.”

“It’s not all hopeless, y’know,” Karasu spoke up. “We’ve caught a handful of B and C ranks. Cooped up in the lab, all of ‘em. And my squad’s still investigatin’ the latest trail he left.”

“The S ranks are still at large,” Itoshi Rin retorted. “Your squad’s not working hard enough.”

“I don’t see you doin’ it.”

“I’m doing more than you.”

“You little—”

“Gentlemen. Please.” Director Mikage interrupted them with a pointed glare. Gentler this time, he continued his explanation. “We’re outnumbered, and you all are the best of the best. That is why I am assigning you all to different wards.”

“Weren’t we already doing that?” you asked, raising your eyebrows.

“We’ve been sending whoever’s convenient. We need something more permanent.” He picked up his tablet and adjusted his glasses, beginning to read the list out loud. “Kita ward: Karasu Tabito and Otoya Eita. Nerima ward: Isagi Yoichi and Itoshi Rin. Shinjuku ward…”

Before long, he called your name.

“You’ll be stationed here in Shibuya with Mikage Reo. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. Your missions have been sent to you through the system. You’re dismissed.”

—

The car that came to pick you and Reo up was one of the Association’s black SUVs. The chauffeur greeted you with a simple good evening when you boarded. Reo acknowledged you with a simple nod, staring out the window with his cheek pressed against the palm of his hand. You took a seat beside him, nervously drumming your fingers against the weapon case. Not a word was shared during the whole car ride until you arrived at the mission area.

The streets were desolate by the time you arrived around nine o’clock in the evening. A sense of relief came over you. Initially, there had been an uproar against the announced curfew, particularly from those who enjoyed the nightlife, but recent cases made them come around. People were unreasonably stubborn when it came to their safety or others. With your sword strapped to your back, you left the bureau side-by-side with Reo who was addressing you for the first time since you met up.

“I’ll patrol the north. You take the south,” he said coolly. “Call me if you need backup. I’ll see you later.”

He left without waiting for a reply. You grabbed your sword and started walking down the street, eyeing dark corners on high alert. It was difficult trying not to feel anxious when it was so dark out. This was different from going out for drinks with friends. This was about your survival and your ability to protect the vulnerable from merciless monsters craving for their flesh. The heels of your shoes clicked against the pavement as you cautiously observed your surroundings, checking every alleyway you walked past. The winter air nipped at your cheeks and leaves in the trees rustled with the wind.

Then, you heard it. The sound of sickening squelches and someone humming a cheery tune under their breath. Pressing yourself against the wall, you held your breath and readied yourself to attack. Your quinque was already reacting to the smell of blood in the air, eager to unravel. You peeked your head out the corner. There was a ghoul knelt over a limp body, hands digging into flesh and blood as he feasted greedily. His kagune stood tall, all eight of his tendrils pointed and curled much like a scorpion.

The Leo. S-rank. Eight tails. Ruthless and unpredictable.

Somehow, you felt more nervous than usual. This wouldn’t be the first S-ranked ghoul you fought, but there was something off about yourself tonight. Returning to hiding, you shot Reo a quick text before taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm your nerves. You could do this. You’ve been doing this for years. You had a duty to commit to.

With your sword by your side, you charged towards him, managing a deep cut into one of his tendrils. Blood spurted out of the wound as he slowly turned around, eyes wide in alarm. You prepared yourself for a duel, but he didn’t react. Instead, he stood tall and smiled, his eyes crinkling into little curved moons.

Your eye twitched. He was mocking you.

Completely unbothered by your threatening stance, he walked closer until the sword pressed against the skin on his neck. His carefree behaviour was starting to tick you off. The fact that he wasn’t fighting back was also making this more difficult. You never fought with the intent to kill; it went against regulations. You also swore to yourself that you wouldn’t fight someone defenceless or someone who wasn’t fighting back. This ghoul wasn’t entirely defenceless, but he didn’t seem to fear death or arrest at all. He was underestimating you, just like the last ghoul, and the ghoul before that—

“You haven’t changed a bit, sunny.”

You faltered. The grip you had around the handle of the blade loosened for a second.

“I was really sad when you left,” he continued. “But it wasn’t your fault!”

“What?”

“It’s okay. You can do it.” He moved closer so the blade was pressed against his skin, the smile never dropping from his face. “I trust you.”

You shook your head, brows knit together in confusion. Why was he speaking to you like you were old friends? Was this a new manipulation tactic? Ghouls were conniving creatures, you knew this. Were you falling victim to one of them?

“I promised you we’d be friends forever.”

I love you!

“Y’know, I’m glad that it’s you.”

It couldn’t be.

This was a grotesque monster taking on the form of the boy you once knew to undermine you. Your hands trembled as you stared at Bachira—no, the ghoul—with a clenched jaw. The serene, joyful expression on his face never wavered. He was looking at you with so much familiarity and love and it made you want to claw your own heart out, to destroy it into a million pieces so you wouldn’t feel a thing. Aghast, you took a step back and recomposed yourself, grabbing the handle of the blade tighter.

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” you hissed. “He wouldn’t—he wasn’t—I’m not falling for your tricks, ghoul.”

Not deterred by your hostility, he continued. “We’ll always be friends, sunny.”

Sunny! I love you more!

Before you knew it, tears sprung to your eyes and slid down your cheeks. You took a step back, feeling weak in the knees and light-headed all of a sudden. You didn’t want to believe it. Your Bachira wasn’t a ghoul. He was a bright-eyed boy with hopes and dreams. He wasn’t a violent and gluttonous creature. But even with blood all over his face, he looked so dear to the point where it was making you sick.

“No,” you whispered. “You’re not him.”

He stepped forward, gently pushing down your weapon to your side.

“You really can’t remember?” His voice was soft like he was talking to a child, but there was a tinge of sadness in his words. Still, he tilted his head and looked at you with a curious gaze. “It has been a really long time, huh?”

No matter how much you wanted to turn away, your feet were stuck to the ground. The weapon in your hand suddenly felt useless as if it was just a prop. The voice in your head told you not to believe him. Ghouls were still monsters. This must be another one of his tactics. Yet your heart yearned for him, itching to feel the warmth of his affection.

“Sunny?”

It was all real. You weren’t dreaming or being lied to. This was your childhood best friend in the flesh, covered in blood and everything you were afraid of as a child. Your heart ached. You quickly realised you didn’t want to kill him, but your rational brain still saw him as an enemy. You didn’t know how you were supposed to feel. This was someone you’d been missing for a long time standing right in front of you, but as something you swore to destroy. Happiness over the reunion felt too far away to reach. Rage felt useless. For the first time in a while, you were lost on what to do, and the violent urges were starting to grow.

Everything felt too much and the world was spinning around you. The light at the end of the tunnel was growing more and more distant. Defeated, you withdrew. The sword was sheathed, and your hands began to stop quivering. Swallowing felt difficult. You needed to scream, to destroy everything in your path, to hide yourself away from the world.

But you couldn’t.

“Leave,” you said through gritted teeth. “Leave before I do something I regret.”

Bachira softened. “You haven’t changed, sunny. I’m glad.”

As the footsteps grew more distant, you collapsed to your knees and sobbed loudly, tears freely streaming down your face as it all came rushing back. All that you couldn’t remember—it was just right there in front of you, but completely something new. Someone you used to love with all your heart had become an enemy. Someone you hoped would always be happy and safe wasn’t at all, but he still felt so close. Like he was the missing piece of the puzzle, for a brief moment, you were whole.

You barely registered the sound of fast and heavy footfalls coming towards you. When Reo stopped next to you, you tearily looked up at him, your bottom lip quivering. Whatever he was going to say went unsaid. Letting out a quiet exhale, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around you, gently helping you up. You couldn’t stop crying, and any other time you would have berated yourself for crying in front of someone, but it was the farthest thing from mind.

Memories came flooding back to you. You remembered the time you and Bachira tried making flower crowns for each other. You remembered the time you helped him with football practice. You remembered the time he wiped away your tears and wrapped you in a warm hug. You remembered the sad smile as he waved goodbye in the rearview mirror of your father’s car.

It was all too much.

Broken down, you wrapped your arms around Reo’s torso and cried into his chest, shoulders shaking with every sob. He stood quietly, returning the gesture and rubbing gentle circles against your back. Your mind seemed to shut down and no longer make itself aware of what was taken away from you. Your emotions were all over the place. There was relief that Meguru got to grow up in this world full of apex predators. There was rage, not particularly directed at anyone, and there was guilt. You knew it was irrational. You couldn’t have kept in contact with him all those years ago. Even if you could, what could you have done? You were a child. You couldn’t stop him yourself.

“Let’s go home,” Reo said softly. You numbly nodded in agreement.

—

You took the next day off.

Citing it as extreme fatigue (which wasn’t a lie, though it usually didn’t stop you from working) you spent the day by yourself, trying to piece yourself back together. You watered the wilting plants on your balcony. You finally made a homemade meal. You called your parents so you’d feel more reassured with their voices. Reo had sent you a text earlier in the day asking if you felt better and you simply said yes, thank you for yesterday. Wrapped in your blankets, you sat on the couch and mindlessly watched whatever was on the television. Before you knew it, the entire day had passed, and the sky had gone dark.

City lights in the distance glimmered in the night as you trudged over to the balcony and sat down. With a quiet click, the lighter came to life and lit the end of your cigarette, smog rising and disappearing into the air as you took a deep breath and exhaled. The hairs on your skin rose with the breeze and a shiver ran down your spine. Now that you were calmer, trying to process yesterday’s events felt somewhat easier. There was still a weight in your chest, but you managed to rationalise and stay afloat.

Whether you liked it or not, Bachira was a ghoul. Maybe he was never human in the first place. With your memories beginning to return to you, you didn’t know how to feel about him. Reunions were meant to be happy, but Bachira was a ghoul, the very same kind that took away your loved ones. You couldn’t call him a friend anymore, not when he was what you hunted for a living.

As irrational as it was, you felt betrayed. At the same time, you craved to be in his presence again and make up for lost time, but over ten years have passed. Things weren’t the same and they would never be. Everything has changed. For someone jaded about most things, the paradox you found yourself in was overwhelmingly powerful. Briefly, you wondered if it was possible to mourn for someone who was still alive. The sight of him covered in blood was fresh in your mind. He wasn’t the Bachira you knew anymore. He was a monster.

An enemy.

With a heavy sigh, you reached for your phone and dialled your friend. It was late at night, but you decided to take a gamble on her picking up anyway.

A few beeps went by before she finally did, greeting you with a musical lilt. “Hello?”

“I’m surprised you’re awake,” you said wryly. “Can you help me with something?”

“Now?” She paused for a few moments, confusion evident in her tone. “I’m not at the office.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to go.”

“Okay… so what’s up?”

“You’ve been studying ghouls for years, right? Do you know if someone can be turned into a ghoul?”

A thoughtful hum. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Have you heard of the Neo Egoist project?” she spoke again after seconds of silence. Her voice wasn’t as chipper as it had been when she first picked up. “It was really popular a few years back.”

“The football thing?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “So there’s two kinds of ghouls. Natural-born ones and artificial ones. That’s where the NEP comes in. The Mikage corporation and a bunch of companies invested in it. They wanted to create perfect athletes through biological enhancements. Basically, it was a huge research project, and they picked like, three hundred teenagers all over the country to do it.”

You leaned against the backrest, tired. “Is this safe for you to talk about?”

“I mean, it’s not like the Association’s hiding it. People just don’t talk about it anymore. It’s been years,” she continued, though she still sounded hesitant. “They ran a bunch of experiments on the athletes. It worked great, but then somehow the serum mutated and turned them into these… monsters. You know that one video game?”

“Yeah.”

“It was something like that. The artificial ghouls attacked the people working on the project and went into hiding. Only Mikage Corporation took the fall for it, so that’s why there’s a lot of, you know, distrust about Director Mikage. As for the ghouls that got away, well… we think they’re the ones that formed Blue Lock. That’s just a theory, though. We haven’t confirmed anything.”

“Did you know anyone who was in this project?”

“Yeah. Shuto wasn’t there when Kunigami had his meltdown, so he’s safe. He’s awake right now, actually. Do you wanna talk to him?”

It was a good idea, but you were too worn out to say anything more. You weren’t prepared for an emotional discussion. Taking another drag of your cigarette, you tiredly rubbed your eyes, fatigue slowly taking over your senses.

“No, it’s fine,” you breathed. “Thanks.”

“Okay! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You rubbed at your forehead, feeling drained and hopeless. You couldn’t remember if Bachira was always a ghoul or if he was turned into one. Memories of your childhood were hard to get back. They were locked behind layers and layers of protection, leaving some spots in your memory empty. After angrily putting out your cigarette in the ashtray, you went back inside and threw yourself into bed, far too exhausted to deal with the emotional turmoil.

—

The sun’s rays shone through the window, illuminating the office with warmth and light. Fellow ghoul eliminators chattered in the background in accompaniment to the sound of the printing machine. Your mind and body were beyond fatigued, but you felt the need to get back to work as soon as possible to keep yourself sane. You spent the morning in the training range, practising boxing and working on clearing the backlog of reports you had. Time passed by in the blink of an eye and soon enough, it was high noon. The reports had taken more time than you’d expected, but you felt accomplished that you managed to get a lot done. That sense of triumph came crashing down when you arrived at the last report—the one on the mission yesterday.

Your fingers ached from how long you’d been writing. A stack of papers piled up neatly by your side as the final one in front of you remained empty. You stared blankly at the unwritten report, feeling somewhat distant from where you were. Subconsciously spinning the pen with your fingers, you thought back on last night. The patrol was successful on Reo’s end. Ever the prodigy, he’d successfully eliminated not one but three lower-ranked ghouls. You, on the other hand, failed your mission. Letting him get away was a threat to your career and livelihood, so you couldn’t tell Director Mikage the truth. With a heavy sigh, you opted to write down that he evaded capture. You’d deal with the consequences later.

You glanced at your coworkers sitting at their respective desks. Some were hard at work, some seemed to be slacking off, and some were absent. The pen slipped out of your grasp as you brought your hands up to massage your temple, the lack of sleep and your diet of only coffee slowly catching up to you. You couldn’t get last night out of your mind.

The sound of your name being called caught your attention. Looking up, you found Miss Anri approaching your desk. You bit on the inside of your cheek, assuming that you were going to have to deal with the consequences now. Instead, she smiled warmly at you.

“Someone’s here to see you. He’s waiting in the lobby.”

You blinked. “Who?”

“He said his name is Bachira Meguru.”

Your heart sank. Your mind went to frustration first—why was he waltzing into a den of predators completely defenceless? Why was he putting his safety in jeopardy by revealing his identity? You let out another sigh, begrudgingly pushing yourself off of your chair.

“I’ll go see him. Thank you, Miss Anri.”

The elevator felt like it was moving incredibly slowly as if to drag out your miserable state. Several people came and went in a dull tempo before you finally reached the lobby, anxiety bubbling at the pit of your stomach. You didn’t feel ready to see him again. A mixture of returned and new knowledge left you in a precarious position. But you were the one who left him behind first—you owed this meeting to him, as much as you wanted to avoid it.

When you arrived at the lobby, you found him sitting by one of the windows. Each step felt heavier than the last as you approached him, irritated.

“Are you insane?” you aggressively whispered, brows furrowing. “What if they find out about you?”

“It’s okay!” Bachira grinned. “No one knows what I look like.”

A prominent frown stretched across your face. “What do you want, Bachira?”

“I wanted to see you,” he said simply, jovial as always. “I really missed you, you know!”

“Don’t say that,” you sighed. You rubbed your eyes tiredly and looked at him with a forced smile. “We can’t be friends anymore.”

He pouted. “Why not?”

“Because I’m supposed to kill people like you.” You took in a deep breath and shakily exhaled, pushing your hair back in frustration. “Look, whatever you’re here for, drop it. You can’t be here.”

He offered a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Can we hang out for one last time before you go, then?”

You hesitated. The barrage of conflicting feelings was too much to bear at once, but the rational part of your mind said that you owe this to him. You moved out, left him behind—

“Mom, when I grow up, I’m gonna marry Meguru!”

Continued a life without him—

“You’re my best friend in the whole wide world!”

And you were going to continue living without him, leaving him in the past with the rest of your fading memories. You pursed your lips and stared at him, trying to search for any signs of deception or mischief, only to find nothing but love. It made you feel turbulent, craving to crawl out of your skin and hide away from everything. Was he not affected by any of this at all? Were you the only one feeling this way?

You desperately wanted to run away, but once again, you were glued to the ground.

“I can’t stay,” you said dismissively. “I have work.”

“I’ll leave Tokyo after this,” he offered. “You don’t wanna kill me, right?”

Knees growing weak, you took the seat across from him as your nose started to burn, tears forming in your eyes before you knew it. You hastily wiped them away with your sleeve and sighed sharply, meeting his gaze. He might be over a decade older than when you last saw him, but his eyes looked at you the same way. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to brush your tears away himself.

It made you sick.

“I don’t,” you uttered shakily, “I really don’t.”

He leaned over to clasp his hand on top of yours tentatively. You didn’t move away, instead intertwining your fingers with his as you averted your eyes elsewhere, not wanting him to see you cry. With a short huff, you put your other hand on top of his, the urge to keep in contact with him one way or another growing stronger with each passing second.

“I was scared I’d never remember you,” you admitted, looking back at him again. “I can’t remember anything. It’s all broken. I don’t want to forget you.”

He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Then let’s promise we won’t forget each other.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “Okay. I promise.”

He gently pulled back before standing up, dusting off his clothes and regarding you with a big smile. It reminded you of when you were kids running beneath the sunlight, chasing each other as happy laughter resounded throughout the field. It was warm, it was loving, it was home.

“Spring is coming soon,” Bachira said, voice as melodic as ever. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

With a wave, he left the building, and in turn, your life.

You buried your face in your hands, unable to hold back the tears anymore. If fate didn’t want you to be together, so be it. You knew you’d have to get over it eventually—you will, you always do—but for now, you’ll allow yourself this moment of grace.

It’s what he’d want you to do.

#all #bachira meguru x reader #bachira x reader #blue lock x reader #cw blood #cw gore #I contemplated posting this on bioticlaw but it's pretty tame so... o main it is

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chickycherrycola · 14 days ago

Note

Doesn't have to be for kinktober, but if you're still taking fic requests, I'd appreciate a lil MaStar oneshot. >///<

*cracks knuckles*

Happy MaStar Week! You sent me this ask a WHILE ago and the more I thought about it, the more a fluffy little idea took shape in my mind. The ship event finally forced me to sit down and get it out of my head and onto the page (or screen, rather), so thank you - for both the ask, and for hosting the event! One of my writing goals this year is to expand my horizons a bit and write outside of my main pairing, which can be intimidating... but I had an absolute blast writing this and I really hope you enjoy! 🌟

MaStar Week Day 1: History/Past Title: Memory Lane Word count: ~3k Rating: T Warnings: post-canon nostalgic fluff and a couple of swear words Read it here under the cut or on Ao3! Thank you to @moriohpissky and @blackbloodteeth for the quick beta-read!

As it turns out, perhaps electing to move during the height of the desert summer wasn't one of her more brilliant ideas.

It isn't the worst heat wave Maka's endured— not by a long shot— and at least this time, the apartment's small but mighty little aircon unit hasn't kicked the bucket yet. She can hear its distant clacking in the living room all the way from her bedroom, chugging out super-chilled air like its life depends on it, and Maka just hopes it can hold out for a few more weeks. If it breaks after she and Soul are gone, as far as she's concerned, it's the next tenant's problem.

A familiar pang of bittersweet nostalgia hits her at the thought— at wondering who the next people to occupy the cozy little two-bedroom apartment she and her weapon have shared for so long will be. Most likely, they'll be DWMA students, or perhaps a pair of young witches deciding to pursue a fresh start in Death City, now that its doors are open to their kind. Maybe Maka will leave a little welcome note for them, on the last day when everything is packed up.

For now, though, she shakes the thought from her mind. Reaches to tighten the pigtails at her temples as she kneels down at the side of her bed, ignores the prickle of sweat beading on her brow and on the back of her neck. One arm fumbles blindly in the space underneath her bed, fingers searching for the random miscellany she knows is lurking there— items forgotten over the years, shoved to the wayside and left to lie in wait in the dark, hoping to be rediscovered one day. Over the years, she'd gotten good at keeping her room tidy by banishing clutter to its unseen places: drawers and closet corners and the abyssal space that exists beneath her bed.

Her fingers settle on something that feels an awful lot like a box.

With some awkward contorting of her arm and shoulder, she gets it out, plucks it from its shadowy confines. It's covered in dust and is definitely worse for the wear, its corners slightly dented and its bright purple plastic faded with time, but she recognizes it instantly— her memory box.

There are still books to be packed and kitchenwares to sort through, but her curiosity gets the best of her and she opens it.

Carefully, she pries the lid off. It comes away from the box with a hollow sort of sucking sound, as though after all these years it'd forgotten what it felt like to be opened, and–-

She gasps.

The sight of her childhood photo album greets her, the one she'd thought she must've misplaced or accidentally given to her father at some point these past few years. She'd looked everywhere for it last Christmas, and yet now, here it rests, inside her memory box at the top of a stack of old letters and postcards. Things she'd been too sentimental to get rid of, yet didn't really have a place for, so she'd relegated them to a forgotten box under her bed.

Ironic.

She seats herself on her bed and places the box upon her lap. Reaches for the photo album and lifts it, with careful, steady hands. A flood of memories greets her when she opens to the very first page: pictures of her Mama, before she'd left. Pictures of their whole little family, in the early years when her parents were perhaps still happy. The three of them— Mama, Papa, and herself as an infant, swaddled in hospital wrappings and held in the cradle of her mother's arms. Her father crouching beside the hospital bed, his smile watery and his eyes filled with tears. Her Mama, looking tired but happy. The three of them, at a city park, when Maka was a bit older— old enough to have short little pigtails and a gap in her teeth. There are countless photos in between, of her infant years, and she realizes she remembers why she'd banished this photo album to the forgotten depths: because for a while, it was too painful to look at. Once upon a time, she'd been so angry at her parents (her Papa, for cheating, her Mama, for leaving) she couldn't stand to even look at photographic evidence of a time when they were all happy together. Now, with the benefit of age and maturity on her side, she finds herself wishing she'd been old enough to remember these joyful days, as ephemeral and fleeting as they were.

The sound of the front door opening pulls her from the reverie. The creak of hinges, a satisfied sigh. The sound of footsteps, bags rustling, and then–

“Oyyy, Maka.” Black Star's familiar voice rings out across the apartment. “I'm back from the– Maka?”

"In here." She looks up from the photo album, heightening the pitch of her voice a bit. "In my room."

He's been here all weekend to help out with packing up the apartment, and his presence right now is especially welcome— Soul, despite a truly impressive amount of protesting and attempts to appeal to Kid's better nature, is presently gone on an extended mission with none other than the Grim Reaper himself, who, apparently, doesn't make exceptions for anything, impending lease expirations notwithstanding. Their move-out date looms ever nearer with each passing day, marked in bright red Sharpie on the calendar; a week-and-a-half long Death Scythe mission couldn't be more poorly timed.

Black Star's offer of assistance was less a request and more an announcement. He'd walked into her office at the Academy two days ago, took one look at the state of disarray on her work desk, and that was that. He would be spending the weekend helping her pack, and would hear no arguments to the contrary.

The fresh memory brings warmth to her cheeks, for reasons Maka doesn’t want to examine too closely. The decisiveness in his voice, how confident he was about the whole ordeal. How he just… knew that she needed help, and how he also knew she'd be too proud to ask for it. If there's one person in this world who knows her as well as, or perhaps even better than, her weapon partner, it's probably Black Star.

“Whatcha doin'?”

In a flash, he appears in the doorway of her bedroom. Maka's heart flutters in her chest inexplicably.

Also inexplicably, her mouth curls into a smile despite no directive from her brain to do so. “Reminiscing,” she hums.

He seems to notice the book in her hands for the first time, his eyes falling from her face to her lap. “Whuzzat?”

“An old photo album I dug up while packing.” Her smile widens. “Baby pictures.” She lifts the album in question up as if to offer it to him. “Wanna see?”

“You're willingly offering to show me baby pictures?” He sounds incredulous, but crosses the room anyway, brows arched in curiosity.

“You and I met when we were like, four,” Maka shrugs. “I wouldn't be surprised if you were in some of these.”

He seats himself beside her, the bed dipping slightly with his weight. His arms are bare, the black linework of his star tattoo on full display on his right shoulder— nothing unusual there, it's almost more jarring on the rare occasion that he's not wearing a cut-off shirt or tank top— but there's a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his golden tan skin, and it almost… glistens in the light filtering in through her bedroom window.

Maka averts her eyes, stifling the urge swelling in her chest to ogle Black Star's sweaty biceps.

He's one of her oldest, dearest friends. She can't treat him like a piece of meat.

“So this is why you sent me to DeathMart with a supply list?” He teases, one corner of his mouth quirked up into a mischievous grin. “So you could slack off on the job without me? And here I was going to suggest an ice cream break once I got back.”

“I sent you to DeathMart because boxes don't materialize out of thin air, and I still have a whole kitchen to pack up–”

“We.”

“What?”

“We still have a whole kitchen to pack up, you mean.”

Maka rolls her eyes, but ultimately fails to suppress another smile. “You don't have to do anything,” she teases. “You don't live here. You're choosing to be here instead of a million other cooler places you could be.”

Literally and figuratively— there are countless places in Death City that have central air conditioning. The well of sweat growing behind her knees is beginning to tow the line between uncomfortable and straight-up gross.

“Because I am a kind and generous god who cares deeply about his friends, duh,” Black Star's grin widens. “And besides, it's an excuse to hang out with you, and I think you're pretty damn cool.”

He nudges her gently with a bump of his elbow. The contact sends Maka's mind spinning with thoughts of ogling his biceps once again and floods her cheeks with another rush of uncontrollable warmth.

She's never once before in her life cared for muscles. She feels nothing when she walks past the wall of teen magazine heartthrobs at the store, or when Liz sends pictures of “hot shirtless men” to their friend group chat— something she does on a semi-regular basis. She doesn't understand why her own body is reacting this way.

She doesn't want to examine the potential reasons too closely, so instead she averts her eyes, turns her attention back to the album in her hands, and hurriedly flips to the next page.

She's a little older in these photos; preschool, kindergarten, elementary school. There are a few pictures of her parents, but mostly they're just shots of her and her friends from childhood, including—

“Hey.” Black Star leans forward with interest. “That's… us.”

He reaches out and touches a finger to the page, singling out one photo in particular— a photo of the two of them as children.

Maka blinks in disbelief, a slow smile of recognition growing on her face. “Yeah– wow, how old were we in this one?”

He squints and tilts his head thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Five? Six? Though I am three months older than you so I might be seven.”

She remembers the day this photo was taken— or rather, the memory of the day is a vague glimmer in her mind, the way she remembers most of her early childhood. Flashes of images and colors more so than concrete, fully-formed memories, but Black Star is definitely in this one.

He's center-stage in a lot of the memories of her childhood.

In the photo, they're at a park, smiling into the camera with dirtied play clothes and wide, cheeky grins. Black Star is missing a tooth, one of Maka's pigtails has come loose, and he's got an arm thrown lazily around her shoulders.

“My papa took this photo,” Maka remembers aloud. “And on the way home from the park, he told me I was way too young for a boyfriend. I didn’t really get it, so I called him a loser and then he cried.”

“Ha!” Black Star's laugh is a full-bodied rumble that shakes the bed, and Maka feels it in her very bones. “Sounds like your old man. Look at this one.”

He points to a different picture, and Maka's face lights up.

“Oh! This was the first karate meet of yours I went to. Mama took me.” Her smile turns wistful. She traces a finger fondly over the picture, over the faded image of young Black Star in a karate uniform, her own young self standing next to him. He's showing off his newly-acquired green belt, and Maka's eyes are as big as saucers. “I remember being absolutely mesmerized watching you fight. It made me want to learn to fight, too.”

“Of course it did,” Black Star nods. “You recognized greatness when you saw it, even at a young age. ‘Cause you're fuckin’ smart.”

Now it's Maka's turn to elbow him. “Yeah, that must be it,” she laughs. “You know, we haven't sparred in a while. Last time, you let me win.”

Black Star's gaze snaps up from the photo album to meet hers. His eyes go wide, horrified. When he speaks, his voice is scandalized. “Who told you?!”

“Tsubaki may have let it slip afterwards, but only because I may have been gloating a little bit.”

“Tsk tsk, Maka,” Black Star clucks his tongue. “Hasn't anyone told you that pride is a deadly sin?”

“Oh, like you're one to talk!” Maka practically shoves him with how forcefully she bumps her shoulder against his. He simply laughs, a vicious, infectious sort of cackle that gets her laughing too, and after that, it's a companionable silence as they both admire the rest of the photos wordlessly. There's quite a few of the two of them on this page.

“Oh, hey, I think Sid took this one–” Black Star breaks the silence, his finger reaching out once again and coming to rest on a new photo. “DWMA daycare took us to Lake Mead for a day and he was a chaperone for the trip.”

It's a picture of the two of them on a beach, and Maka recognizes the pink and orange swimsuit she's wearing. It was her favorite, because it had little ruffles on the shoulders and waist.

“Yeah,” Maka says. “Yeah, I remember this trip. I think it was my first time seeing a beach ever.”

She's on Black Star's back in the picture, piggy-back style, her arms hugging around his shoulders tightly and her chin resting proudly on top of his head. His eyes are looking up at her even though surely, he couldn't really see her much from that angle, but there's… A fondness in them that makes Maka go quiet for a long moment.

The conversation lapses, the silence stretching on for just a minute too long, and this time it's a little less comfortable.

“Maka?” Black Star says, gentle concern in his voice. “You okay?”

She meets his eyes, then, and there's that same warmth in them, the very same fond affection captured in the beach photo, all those long years ago.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she says slowly. Her cheeks are positively burning now and her heart is in her throat, her pulse pounding, roaring in her ears, so loudly it's a wonder he can't hear it. “You know, Black Star…” She closes the photo album, a slight tremble in her hands she hopes he doesn't notice. “There's something I… never told you about our childhood.”

“Oh?” It's like he's a kid again, the way his eyes widen with interest, the way he scoots in closer to her. “What’s that?”

Maka swallows the sandy lump in her throat. It's not something she really figured out until recently, looking back on her youth with the advantage of hindsight and maturity. It was a silly thing, too, probably– she didn't understand feelings back then. She still doesn't, not really, but she figures there's no harm in telling him this, so she plows forward before she can second-guess herself.

“You were my first crush.”

She lets her words sink in, watches his face change with the revelation. It's slow, but unmistakable, the way his mouth falls open and his eyebrows go up, the way his cheeks slowly darken with rosy color.

“Whoa,” he finally says, a heavy, hushed exhale, and he sounds as though he’d just finished running a marathon— breathy, bewildered, rough. It makes Maka's skin prickle in the best kind of way. “Y-you mean—-y-you're saying– I-I was—”

“Yeah.” Something about rendering such an outspoken, confident man completely speechless makes her giddy. She replaces the photo album back into the box and rises from the bed, then, looking down at Black Star with a triumphant smile. “Come on,” she motions toward the door with a jerk of her head. “I believe I was promised ice cream?”

With that, she turns to leave, only sparing a second glance at him as she reaches her bedroom door. His face has gone positively crimson, now, and he's still staring after her with his mouth hanging open in shock.

“Or I guess… I could just go myself—”

He blinks, and Maka can see the moment the gears start turning in his brain once again.

“H-hey, h-hang on just a sec—” He's scrambling now, practically jumping up from the bed and sprinting across the room to join her, and she can't help but laugh as she turns away. “Y-you can't just— you can't just drop a life-changing confession like that on a guy and change the subject—”

“Life-changing?” she smirks. “I didn’t realize it'd have such an impact on you.”

“Are you for real right now–”

“Come on.” She stops in the middle of her living room, halfway to the front door of the apartment, and turns around to face him. He'd caught up with her now, and is standing merely an arm's length from her. She reaches out and touches him, wraps her fingers around that tantalizing bicep of his reassuringly. Her eyes linger on his tattoo, on the long, faded old scar running through it, and the smaller scars crisscrossing their way down his arm— proof branded into his skin of hard he fights, testaments to how fiercely he protects those who are dear to him. “We can talk about it when we get to the ice cream shop.”

There are no further complaints from Black Star. He's content to follow her out of the apartment obediently and silently, all the way down the stairwell and onto the hot city streets.

And when his fingers just happen to bump against hers as they walk, she doesn't mind. She doesn't even shy away from it.

She holds onto his hand all the way until they reach the ice cream parlor, and finds herself rather disappointed when she finally has to let go.

#soul eater #mastar #mastar week 2025 #maka x black star #maka albarn #black star #soul eater fanfiction #cherry writes #cherry answers

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wri0thesley · 2 years ago

Text

canicular - yandere kaveh x fem!reader x yandere alhaitham (6.8k)

it's a tough lesson to learn.

cw: yandere. mentions of past dub-con, non-con (non-explicit), physical punishment. abuse. reader is referred to by feminine pronouns.

this was a commissioned work.

If there is one thing you are not short on, it is time.

Though Alhaitham provides what he thinks are stimulating ways to pass your existence, you do not often feel inclined to read the thick tomes of Sumeru history or ancient language studies that he leaves on the table for you. Nor do you have any inclination towards the other hobbies he has tried to get you to pick up, in order to keep your hands busy and your brain exercised - what desire have you to do a jigsaw puzzle or a book of word games when you feel like a caged tiger, pacing uselessly back and forth with no end in sight?

Kaveh, at least, tries to get you to occupy your long hours with things that are transporting. His own pencils and papers and paints (a sad smile on his face when he caresses your cheek and sighs and says ‘why don’t you try drawing where you would rather be?’). Alhaitham tries to improve you; to mould you into what he expects you to be and what he wants you to be and what he thinks you ought to be.

Kaveh, at least, sees you as something human, with human needs and human feelings and human wants. Wants that are not half an hour of cursory sunshine so you do not develop a Vitamin D deficiency, not a meal chosen entirely for nutritional properties and not how it might taste in your mouth (Alhaitham is not a cook - you always prefer Kaveh’s meals, though the Scribe clicks his tongue and says things about how there’s no health benefits to the nostalgic desserts that Kaveh tries to get Alhaitham to let him make for you).

Kaveh sees in you the human need for companionship and sympathy and something other than Alhaitham’s blank face when you rage at him and sob and pound on his chest and demand he let you go home. Something other than Alhaitham’s insistence that this is better for you; that he is a good master, that your life is simpler and more suitable now, that he is simply putting the world to rights by taking you as his-- his pet, his dog, his slave, his lover--

What are you truly, again? Other, of course, than his?

In lieu of being Alhaitham’s dog in need of training, when you can, you gravitate to the architect - who wouldn’t, when your other option is a man who watches you cry and replies only with: “And what are you hoping to gain from your tears, exactly?”? And Kaveh, in return, gives you his own sympathy and his sighs and a stroke of your hair that has no hidden meaning at all, you’re sure, but his desire to comfort.

If sometimes you let him take you, after all of the comfort - if you spread your legs for him and sigh and nose against his neck and murmur soft sweet appreciation - that is neither here nor there. You have such precious little opportunity to make decisions for yourself, so why should you not? You tell yourself fiercely, with your mouth wine-stained with Kaveh’s lips, that you would make the same decision were you not a prisoner. Kaveh is the kind of man you would have sought out for yourself, you decide. And he never takes advantage; never makes the first move, waits for your sniffles and hesitant kisses and shaking hand as it traces the elegant line of his collarbone.

But Kaveh is not always home. Kaveh goes into the desert, works for weeks on a project somewhere else in Sumeru wherever his architectural genius is summoned, and leaves you to the untender mercies of the man who caused all of the heartache in the first place.

Alhaitham is never later than ten minutes after work (and on those occasions, his normally calm face has a twitch of fury about it). He never forgets what time he has set your meals for, never forgives an order that has gone unfulfilled (and you have the marks over buttocks and thigh and back to prove that), never lets you answer back or skip out on one of his ordained rituals for your health. He is a constant; a knife that carves out your life, ever sharpened and ever ready.

You practically throw yourself at Kaveh when he returns, if you have been alone with Alhaitham too long. Bury your head in his neck and sigh about how you missed him the moment that you can get him alone, smile and thank him with earnest words when he produces some treasure he saw whilst he was out and about and gifts it to you (they are never lavish gifts; Kaveh does not have the Mora to spare. But a fresh Zaytun peach or a Sumeru Rose plucked from the wildest parts of your nation is a treasure to you nonetheless, when your life is a narrow square of home-and-garden you are not permitted to leave).

. . . It is easier to force yourself not to notice the way Kaveh’s golden eyes catch yours after the gift, as if he is waiting for and expecting the kiss that you press onto his lips as a thanks that never seems to end at just a kiss.

Kaveh’s comforts do not come often enough, in your opinion. Certainly their number does not match up to that of Alhaitham’s firm commands - his lips on yours, his hand on the top of your head forcing you to your knees, his insistent quizzing on the book he left for you today that you have not so much glanced at, his carefully marked schedules of when you should eat and when your period is due and all of the other minutiae of life you had never stopped too long to consider before.

In the past, you had not needed to dwell on these things. You had daydreamed some, of course, of some loving faceless significant other who might hand-feed you slices of Harra Fruit and write you poetry and curl against you until you felt like the two of you were one - but you had always had faith that this would come for you. Perhaps when you least expected it, a fanciful fairytale dropped from the sky into your waiting lap--

You had not reckoned on Alhaitham.

If nothing else, he has provided you with plenty of hours to daydream. An endless yawning, stretching chasm of a future that you try to fill with the paints Kaveh brings you, with constant machinations about an escape route. Sometimes when you imagine leaving, you are hand in hand with a blond man with a smile like a fresh flower blooming, feather haphazardly stuck in his hair, a promise to somehow find enough Mora to build a pretty little cottage in the middle of nowhere where one does not have to worry about stern silver-haired scholars.

You have the time.

Summer in Sumeru is difficult at the best of times. Under Alhaitham’s captivity (you never think of it as Alhaitham-and-Kaveh, so certain are you that the architect would free you if only Alhaitham were not in the picture), it is even worse. You can no longer open the door and stroll out into the Grand Bazaar, where the air is darker and cooler. You can no longer stop off at some merchant or another to buy a cool treat, take a dip in one of the lakes if you so feel like it - all you can do is try and find the shadiest spot in the locked house, lie upon your back and wish for a breeze or two.

“You shouldn’t stay there all day,” Alhaitham says, reproach evident in his voice, when he comes home at seven minutes past five in the afternoon like he always does. “Your muscles will atrophy.”

You sigh in response, long used to the fact that if you argue he will twist your words around until you’re sure of nothing - if you argue too much, you’ll lose some other privilege you hadn’t realised was a privilege until Alhaitham had taken it away.

(Once it had been hot water that you’d had removed, and Alhaitham had stood in the bathroom with you as cold water drenched your hair and your body and gooseflesh broke out along your skin, his face unmoving despite your nakedness. You know that he does, at least, hold some attraction to your naked form - the fact he had not let even a flicker of desire cross his face as you shivered and shuddered there was testament to his insistence you must learn your place. Actually, though, right now, you do not think a cold shower would be a punishment. It sounds rather nice, even if Alhaitham is there to watch you with calm inexpressive eyes.)

“It would be cruel,” you say instead, “to leave a dog in these conditions all day.”

He prefers this kind of reasoning; a debate, and not an argument. If you stay calm and even and you appeal to logic, you might have a chance of survival.

“There are some folding-fans in one of the drawers,” he says. “A present from one of the Inazuman clients Kaveh worked for, I think.”

“Surely they would just blow hot air back in my face?” You ask him. He considers for a moment, looking at you on the floor where you have not moved. You are in one of the loose robe-like garments you are permitted to wear around the house (far less chance of you trying to escape, Alhaitham reasons, if you feel indecent - he has not bargained on the fact that at this point you would run naked through Sumeru City if it means breaking out of his oppressive regime), thighs bare, neckline pulled as far apart as it can go so what little air there is can touch your sweat slicked skin.

“What would you prefer?” He asks, with a note of warning in his voice that most people would not pick up on. You must tread carefully.

“Leave the window open a crack,” you suggest. “Not enough for me to get out. Just . . . enough for a breeze. So that I don’t feel the air around me is pushing down on me until I suffocate.”

“Hyperbole,” he says. “You cannot suffocate on air.”

You bite your tongue. The request shimmers in the air for a few moments, a tangible thing - Alhaitham weighs up the pros and the cons.

“No,” he says, and the thread of hope you hadn’t realised you were holding snaps. “Not whilst I’m out. Not whilst nobody is here to watch you.”

Any response you might have made dies on your lips as a key clatters in the door and it opens, a long-limbed elegant body tumbling through in record time. Kaveh always enters like this; as if he is afraid that if he takes longer than a moment, shouts will rise up around Sumeru City and mock him and his secret will be splashed across every noticeboard in town. Kaveh pretends he does not live here, because he is an important man who should be doing better. You pretend you do not live there because you are still holding your own home in your heart - your own garden of flowers and fruits, your own shelf of books and your own hobbies and things strewn across surfaces.

Alhaitham does not pretend; he merely avoids speaking to anyone about his home life. You had been as surprised as him when Kaveh had unlocked his door and walked in to see what the thumping and muffled noises emanating from Alhaitham’s room were, and had come across you. Alhaitham had not mentioned a roommate to you even before your captivity, and Alhaitham had not mentioned a pet human to Kaveh at any point in time or given any indication this was the kind of thing he would do.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Kaveh had said, immediately upon seeing you, crouching down next to you, his hand hovering by the gag wedged into your mouth. “I . . . did Alhaitham do this to you?”

You’d nodded tearfully, and Kaveh’s eyebrows had knitted into sympathy. You recognised him only vaguely, but you did at least see the emotions flittering across his handsome, open face - so much more than you’d ever gotten from Alhaitham. Even when he’d unceremoniously locked you in his bedroom and you’d screamed yourself hoarse into a gag and rubbed your wrists sore on the rope, Alhaitham had done nothing more than raise an unimpressed eyebrow at you.

“I’m going to take the gag away,” Kaveh had said to you, at the time. “Please don’t scream.”

He had been so earnest in the request, and you had been so grateful to see somebody who was not Alhaitham and was clearly properly horrified by your predicament and was not treating it like it was perfectly normal, that you had nodded. Calm, clever fingers had worked beneath the wedge of cotton in your mouth and pried it spit-slicked from between your lips.

“Can you speak?” He’d asked, and when you’d tried and you had not managed to get out more than a wheeze he had fetched you a glass of water and held it to your parched lips.

“I can’t untie you,” he’d said, helplessly, his gold eyes flitting to where the ropes had rubbed you raw. “Alhaitham would be . . . unhappy with me. But maybe I could try and loosen them? Move them higher up, so I can take care of the blood?”

You had thought that he must be some other prisoner of Alhaitham’s, back then. As he’d given you more sips of water and you’d hiccuped and grated out some of the story that had lead you here, and he’d nodded and made soft little noises of horror and understanding, as he’d cleaned the wounds and commiserate with you over what a brute Alhaitham was, even to him, the Scribe’s senior. He’d knuckled your bruises away so gently that you’d cried more, and admitted to him that you feared you would never feel a tender touch again.

“You poor thing,” Kaveh had repeated, looking at you with those pools of molten gold. “Don’t worry. You and I are comrades in arms. We’ll take care of one another as best we can.”

You know now that Kaveh’s predicament is not quite the same as yours - partly based on Kaveh’s own stubbornness and pride, instead of the unmoving unrelenting coldness of Alhaitham instead. But that first night, he firmly positioned himself as an ally. Had argued with Alhaitham when the Scribe had come back about how he could not gag you, could not tie you so tightly, could not leave you waterless and foodless in his bedroom all day. A knight in shining armour, you had thought - and the first thing you had done when your bonds were finally loosened was wrap your arms about the surprised blond and thank him.

“Anyone would have done the same,” he’d said, as you’d sobbed into his shoulder and Alhaitham had watched, lip curled at the corner, face unreadable. “Anyone with a heart.”

He’d held the embrace just a little too long.

“You’re home,” you say to Kaveh, back in the present, and you smile at him, a trembling, wavering thing. Sweat is beading on your brow. The brief rush of cool air that Kaveh lets in is a welcome change, and Alhaitham sighs as he walks towards the window. You notice which drawer he goes into - the tiny key that he produces from one of Kaveh’s many cubby-holes on the architect’s desk. Amongst rulers and tiny screwdrivers and silver-flashing scissors. Alhaitham allows the window to open the smallest crack - the one that looks out only into the garden, so nobody passing by might hear voices they do not expect coming from a house they know belongs to Alhaitham.

“I am,” he says, with a smile. “I brought you a present.”

“You’re spoiling her,” Alhaitham says mildly, as you turn your head to Kaveh. You hear the drawer click; another key turn. It is never so simple as ‘get a key from a drawer’. Alhaitham is not so foolish. “What has she done to deserve a present?”

“You don’t have to do things,” Kaveh argues. “It’s nice to have nice things!” You see now that he is holding a small bowl, the kind that the food stalls give out with food bought to travel with - he walks towards you with a smile on his face and holds it out. Inside of the little pale brown half-moon of a bowl are three scoops of some kind of frozen treat, and your mouth waters. You finally move from your spot on the floor to reach out for it.

“Say ‘thank you’,” Alhaitham says sharply, before your hands can close around it. “Or I’ll have it myself. No doubt he paid for it on my tab.”

Kaveh glares at him from under his pale brows but does not argue - you, with your throat dry and hot, babble out thanks to Kaveh and reach out again. Alhaitham clicks his tongue once more.

“Wait,” he tells you, command in his voice. “You’re not even going to ask me if you can have it?”

“Alhaitham--”

“She has to learn,” his voice is final, a rough lightning strike through the room, a man who has never wavered in his convictions. “A disobedient animal is no better than a wild one.”

“Please,” you say to Alhaitham, sensing that arguments are brewing, that tension is crackling. “Please may I have it.”

Green eyes catch yours and leave you hanging desperately and wordlessly for a moment. You dare not move. You wonder if he’s going to bring up you asking about the window, and use that as an excuse - or perhaps what a waste you’ve made of the day, how you should have made yourself move from the cool floorboards like you’re supposed to. You cannot breathe.

Alhaitham gives a wordless nod as he turns on his heel.

“I’m going to get out of my work clothes,” he says. “Have a cold shower. Make sure you behave, and we’ll go into the garden at dusk when it’s cooler.”

Shoulders untense. Kaveh smiles at you and holds out the bowl again. Your mouth waters as you reach for it - you barely notice that Kaveh does not relinquish the hold of his long fingers upon it until you’ve kissed him on the cheek and let him kiss you softly on the mouth in return. It does not seem important.

His own mouth tastes like the dessert, too. He did not have to wait to be brought it by some kind, sympathetic soul. He could have had as many servings as he liked.

You savour every spoonful.

You know your way around the house. You have earnt freedoms to be allowed to wander it at will - if you want to, you can go into the kitchen and fetch yourself something to eat (Alhaitham encourages that, in fact - as long as it is that you’re eating one of his approved foods). You can choose from the many tomes that line the walls, can sit in the living room or the study or on Alhaitham’s desk chair if that’s where you wish to be.

You cannot leave, of course.

Golden locks mock you wherever you look; some intricate, some simple, but none with a key you possess. You’ve seen Alhaitham with two keys to the front door - a cruel joke, when you are not even permitted one. The keys to the windows, to Alhaitham’s desk itself, to all of the drawers and the places you are not allowed to look sit side by side on Alhaitham’s keyring like sentinels guarding you from freedom.

You think about the open window, when Alhaitham cracks it just a little when he comes home. Stand by it and try and get some breeze; strain to hear the voices that are very far away, wondering what’s going on in the life you have abandoned like a missing jigsaw puzzle piece. Has the mould you had been battling with, beneath your own bedroom window, finally beaten you? The spider that dwells in your darkest bathroom corner started a family? Has post piled up on your doormat - letters that will go unanswered for who knows how long?

You have only one hiding place. One loose floorboard, in the very corner of Alhaitham’s room - Kaveh doesn’t go in there often, or you’re certain the architect would have noticed it. You keep some trinkets in there - a dried flower Kaveh had once put in your hair, a necklace he had given you made of cheap beads that he’d bought from some do-gooder selling them for charity.

(Alhaitham had seen you wearing it and pursed his lip; later on that night, when he’d taken you into the shower to wash your hair, he had unclipped it and dropped it into the wastepaper bin.

“It doesn’t suit you,” he’d said. “It will just break and the beads will scatter everywhere. There’s no reason to be giving you any presents right now.”

Whilst you’re sure he meant all of those things too, there’d been something else running through the current of his words; I don’t want you to wear anything that I don’t pick out for you. You’re mine, and if anyone were to collar you . . . it would be me.)

And, your greatest treasures of all - loose Mora, left about the house by Alhaitham and Kaveh. Alhaitham is always complaining about Kaveh dusting and tidying and moving money and not telling him where it has gone - sighing over Kaveh not paying enough attention to things. The idea that you would take it does not cross his mind. He doesn’t know about your hiding spot, so in his mind you’d have nowhere to keep it--

But, too, there is this.

You stay in his home all day, a mostly well-behaved prisoner. He provides you with nutrition and food and clothes. He provides you with attention (whether you want it or not). You have nowhere to go, nothing to buy, and not a single reason to have even a coin to yourself. What would you do with Mora?

It is one of the places his rationality fails him.

In both small and large denominations, you have more than enough Mora to make it to Liyue, Mondstadt, and far away from Sumeru stashed away on a boat to the island nation of Inazuma, where even Alhaitham (you’re certain) could not drag you from your new life.

Kaveh is the one who gives you the opening, in the end. He and Alhaitham have an argument in the early morning - from your position wrapped in Alhaitham’s sheet, you half-listen. It’s about you. It often is. Kaveh is trying to argue with Alhaitham about how he should be allowed to take you out with him into the garden in the morning, that the one half-hour of sunlight is not enough and perhaps you and Kaveh could even cultivate a little flower-patch out there, to give you something to do--

It’s a well-worn argument, one that Alhaitham always wins. Kaveh is not responsible enough to be in sole charge of you outside, Alhaitham says. He spoils you too much. You smile into your pillow as you imagine that little cottage once more, of tending to a garden with Kaveh--

Kaveh slams the door on the way out. Alhaitham comes back to you to rouse you from bed, sighing over Kaveh, scolding you for not getting up yourself - he, too, is distracted by the argument, and that distraction does not ease. He is working from home today, he tells you, so the window can be cracked all day.

At seven in the evening, the window has still not been closed, and Alhaitham has pulled you onto his lap to read with you perched there. At eight in the evening, Alhaitham grits his teeth that Kaveh hasn’t come back yet and tells you he is going to the tavern to drag his ungrateful roommate home--

And he leaves with the window still cracked.

At quarter past eight, Kaveh is dragged into the room smelling of wine and Alhaitham follows him in, sullen as ever. He still does not notice the cracked open window, as he drags Kaveh into the bathroom and commands him to brush his teeth, to splash himself with cold water and pull himself together.

The window has not been seen to. The drawer that he had put the window key back into remains unlocked.

When Alhaitham returns to the main room, you pretend to be worried over him. You ask if there’s anything you can do, framing it as a kind of shaking fear the Scribe may take out his frustrations on you, and you let Alhaitham take you into his bedroom to work off the stress.

You stare into the empty space behind his shoulder while he’s inside of you and think about slipping through the open window and out into the world again.

The next morning, Alhaitham chances a gaze at the window and nods to himself when he sees it - for all intents and purposes, locked. You’d shimmied the frame up painstakingly slowly last night when you’d murmured about needing the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t remember. He’d grumbled in his sleep but had not protested.

He leaves the same time he always does - Kaveh, slumped in his own bedroom from the hangover, stays where he is.

And you hold the unlocked window like a secret flame in the candle of your heart.

You still do not dare do anything until an hour after Alhaitham has left, terrified that he will return and you will be punished horribly for daring to think escape would be possible. But as time ticks on, and the sun rises higher in the sky, you begin to convince yourself that this is all going to be fine.

You go into the living room and to the window. It leads out into the garden, but that is fine; you can scale a fence. That is no difficult task after everything else you’ve been through. You test it, wiggling it open just a crack, and a light breeze hits your heated face as excitement begins to rise in your bones.

Back into Alhaitham’s rooms to go beneath the floorboards and take your little pouch of Mora, heavy in your hand as you tie it with cord around your waist. You do not have a bag, and your flimsy robe has no pockets - but those are things to be thought of later. Perhaps you will take some well-worn dress from a washing line, where it dries in the wind. Perhaps you can spare a few coins for something that does not show off the ample curves of your body so much. You can allow yourself, now, to think of those things.

Content, you open the window wider. You let yourself linger there in front of the window for longer, fresh air on your face and the promise of escape playing a siren’s melody. This time tomorrow, you will be free.

You look towards Kaveh’s bedroom and smile.

So will he.

All of those dreams you’ve had can be made reality; you will both find yourself out from beneath Alhaitham’s thumb with a future stretching ahead of you, together. You can repay Kaveh for his kindness - can sometimes be the one to bring him a gift of flowers or fruits or a beautiful leaf on the ground. You can walk hand in hand with him and this will be but a distant memory.

You rap softly on his door.

“Kaveh?” You call into the crack of the hinge. “Are you awake?”

Kaveh mumbles your name. Stirring from within his room, as he moves about it, a murmured response that he’ll be out as soon as he’s decent - you can barely wait. Unrestrained tension fizzes through all of your veins, excitement and pleasure and anticipation. You let yourself imagine him boosting you out of the window, both of you laughing as you tumble onto the grass beneath the windowsill--

His door opens and he stands there, dark shadows beneath his eyes and his hair more ruffled than usual but the kind smile that you have grown so fond of firmly on his face.

“I have something to show you,” you tell him, tugging his arm. “Come on, come with me!”

“Is it a new painting?” He asks, mildly, letting himself be dragged along with that smile still on his face. “Ah, have you found another lovely tale in one of those books you want to read to me? I do adore you, you know--”

You pull him into the living room and, with a bright, optimistic look on your face, motion to the wide-open window where the wispy white curtains are fluttering in the breeze.

Kaveh does not speak for a time.

He swallows.

You can see his thoughts racing behind his eyes and you mistake them for fear; trepidation of a life with nothing. But that’s alright; you have made provisions for such things!

You jingle the Mora, as those sharp golden eyes move from you to the window and back again.

You give him a hopeful smile, all bright eyes and idealism that you’ve always thought he’d share with you. Freedom calls; a life away from Alhaitham. “We can leave,” you say. “We can go out through the window! A whole future, Kaveh, together--!”

Kaveh is still not smiling back at you.

“I--I’ve thought of everything,” you say, falling over your words as Kaveh does not immediately fall upon your open escape route. “We can go to Inazuma, I have enough Mora, we can put as much distance between us as possible and you . . . architects are needed everywhere, we might have to sleep rough a while and I know you’re not that used to it and it might seem scary but we could get a little cottage together and a g-garden and . . .”

You tail off as Kaveh’s gaze stays trained on you, pitying, sympathetic. He should be delighted. He should be pleased. He’s looking at you the way that Alhaitham looks at him, when Kaveh gets started on one of his talks about how everyone in the world is good at their core. You have always agreed with him - mostly.

(“Present company excluded,” Kaveh had said once, waving a hand, wine glass in his grasp, at Alhaitham. You had laughed, and Alhaitham had made you bend over his knee and spanked you hard upon your rear ten times as Kaveh silently watched).

“Stay calm,” Kaveh says softly. “Step away from the window, darling. Let’s talk about this instead.”

Dawning comprehension settles about you like the hot summer air.

It seems a foolish thing not to have realised before all of this - you suppose, in Kaveh’s sweet soft smiles and cooing gentle voice and his whirlwind way of coming and going, you have never stopped to think about it. Your voice comes out dry as old paper.

“You’ve had a key the whole time.”

“I live here,” he says. “Surely you realised I’d have to let myself in and out--”

“You could have let me go any time.” Your tone is flat. Kaveh looks at you, anguished, and a thousand thoughts flit into your mind - a thousand times he could have just unlocked the door and held your hand and the two of you could have walked out of the house and you could have walked right out of Alhaitham’s grasp. Instead, he had given you fruits and trinkets like you were supposed to be grateful and taken the reward of your gratitude in hungry kisses and the press of his body upon yours--

“No, darling,” he’s trying to soothe you. “I couldn’t have - you know what Alhaitham has over me, you know that he could ruin my life - I’m just as much a prisoner as you, really--”

The earnestness in his voice could almost make you forgive him. It has, in the past - when he’s knitted his brow and said of course he can’t let you out of the cage, but he’ll make it up to you when Alhaitham lets you out. You’ve written off things like that before.

No longer. Not with the window fully open, not with escape beckoning you.

“Then leave with me,” you repeat, shaking. “Come out of the window. We’ll get out of Sumeru, we’ll go somewhere nobody even cares about the Akademiya, somewhere he won’t reach--”

The bag full of stolen Mora tied about your waist feels heavy, jingling on your hip. Your throat is dry. The robe you are permitted to wear suddenly feels all the flimsier, all the more embarrassing to be seen in, full thighs on display and the curve of your chest far too revealed.

“Don’t,” he says, softly, moving towards you. He places his hands up, palms facing you, like soothing a wild animal likely to flee. “You know that wouldn’t work. You know he’d find you.”

(You, he says. Not ‘us’.)

“Kaveh!” Dreams of that little cottage and a little life slip through your fingers like grains of sand. “Don’t-- don’t you care about me? Do you want me to die here?”

“Of course I do.” He’s closer now. Your shoulders shake, lip trembling. He reaches out for you, fingers brushing your cheek. “Of course I don’t. We take good care of you. Better care than you might have gotten, before. Have I ever hurt you?”

You want to scream. You’re hurting me now!

“Alhaitham has,” you whisper. “And you . . . you’ve never stopped him.”

You’re crying, you realise, as Kaveh’s face turns into concern and he wipes a tear away.

“I can’t,” he says, with a soft little sigh like he is the injured party. “If he threw me out . . .”

“You don’t want to leave.” You try to keep your voice flat, but it cracks on the ‘want’. You want, you want, you want - and from Kaveh’s kisses, from his murmurs and his gifts and his indulgence of ‘draw the place you wish you could be’, you had always thought that he wanted too.

“I have a reputation,” he replies, steadfast. “My architecture, my name, all of the things I worked hard on--”

He doesn’t say anything about your achievements. He’d smiled at your little drawings and said how talented you were, he’d sighed over how pretty you were and how much of an inspiration you were, looked at you with such warmth in his eyes as he’d listened to you talk about your dreams and all of those little romantic fantasies you kept cherished in your heart and had thought that, perhaps, he would understand--

But now? He says nothing. As if you do not exist outside of this prison.

He thinks himself far more important than you.

“I just want some freedom,” you whisper, your face wet, your throat dry, your body feeling pulled in all ways at once. You had never envisioned that Kaveh would be like this - in all of your daydreams, he had gone willingly with you. You chide yourself now, for your own foolish romanticism - but you cannot let go of nights spent in this house with only Kaveh for comfort. “I just want a life.”

“We take care of you,” Kaveh says in a voice that sounds like a beg. “Alhaitham’s right, you’d never have lasted alone out there--”

“I was d-doing just fine.” Tears clog up your throat like ice.

“Were you?” He asks, quietly. His hand on your face feels like a brand, as he rubs his thumb over your lip and sighs, as he pulls back with a strand of your hair twirled around his finger. “Darling. The world chews up and spits out people like us, sometimes. I just want you to be safe--”

“I’m nothing like you,” you say to him, trying to be strong and failing miserably with every tremulous syllable. “We’re nothing alike, Kaveh. I would have been out of this window the moment it was opened, if we were in one another’s shoes.”

“No,” he says, and his voice is still disgustingly tender. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d see that you’re too fragile, too romantic and too lovely and too idealistic to survive for much longer. You’d see that this is the best option for you.”

“Alhaitham says you’re an idealist,” you whisper bitterly. “A romanticist. Just like me.”

Kaveh sighs.

“This could have been you,” you continue, stubbornly, bitterly, wildly grasping for something to say that could hurt even a fraction of how your heart has shattered. “In another world, you’d be where I am, and you wouldn’t be saying those things to yourself--”

Kaveh looks at you and seems to understand a kind word will not fix this; a stroke of your hair, a hidden treat. He heaves a sigh and shakes his head, instead.

“I’m going to close the window.”

You don’t reply. You stand like a statue, silent, as Kaveh walks to the window, reaches for the frame to pull it back up into position. Your future trickles out of your fingers like sand through an hourglass. The cottage is reduced to rubble by lightning storms, the flower garden does not grow, and the blond man beside you in your dreams becomes as grasping and hungry and monstrous as any nightmare has ever been.

The door clicks open once again. A voice calls out;

“I forgot to bring anything for lunch,”

And then Alhaitham walks in.

His eyes quickly take in the scene before him - you, and Kaveh, and the window that has not yet been closed.

“You forgot to close it last night,” Kaveh says, without turning around. “She wants me to leave with her.”

“And so? What will you do now, Kaveh?” Alhaitham’s voice is clipped. The question hovers in mid-air. Kaveh lets out a huff of breath through his nose, and for one horrible, glorious moment you think he is about to break and come back to your side--

“Close the window,” Kaveh replies instead. “Lock it.”

You stare at Alhaitham - as the Scribe’s lips press together and curve, in a satisfied smile. You wonder if the shattering of your heart is an audible thing, or if it simply sounds that loud in your head. The window lock clicks with a finality that makes you want to throw up.

“Good,” he says. And then he turns his attention back to you, as Kaveh moves across the room to stand just to one side of him. Kaveh’s golden eyes are apologetic - but it is not enough. Your heart has been pulled out of you and trampled upon and there is no coming back from this - no number of peaches or soft kisses or reassurances whispered into your hair that will make you ever think of him as a reprieve.

Perhaps he’s worse. At least Alhaitham does not try and hide behind anything.

You have no friends here. Just two men who, in the end, want the same thing from you.

“You understand I’m going to have to punish you?” Alhaitham asks, and his tone is reassuring in its sharpness. “Trying to run . . . when all I’m doing is giving you the best life you could possibly get?”

“I understand,” you say, exhausted. Kaveh tilts his head to one side and puts on the face that you now know is a mask; concern and worry and pity. You see your future laid bare before you like one of Kaveh’s blueprints. The summer heat seems a visible thing once more - or perhaps that’s your own anger, coalescing, at the fact Kaveh has the nerve to look compassionate.

Later on that evening, when the welts on the back of your thighs sting and you’ve been divested of even the flimsiest garment, when Alhaitham has retired to bed with his door wide open and you curl on the thin blanket of the cage that Alhaitham only uses for the very worst infractions, you slip into fitful nightmares of keys clicking in locks and lion keychains and golden-eyed masks that only lie. The summer night is no cooler. You wake up in the early morning light, golden shafts with dust motes dancing, and you see that in the night the architect has brought you a peace offering.

A small bowl sits beside the cage. The bars are just wide enough for you to reach a hand out (how many nights, in the past, has Kaveh curled his littlest finger around yours whilst you sobbed over the indignity of it?). You could take the spoon sticking out of the bowl and bring mouthfuls of the frozen dessert to your lips, letting it soften and thaw on your tongue, savouring the refreshing coldness of the treat.

You do not.

Instead, you simply sit there, caged, and you watch it melt into liquid drop by drop by drop.

#writing #commissioned work #yandere alhaitham #yandere kaveh #yandere genshin impact #dub con cw #non con cw #yandere cw

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cheynovak · 3 months ago

Text

Buckle Bunny Blues

Part 1 introduction

Summary: Tess is a plus size girl who joined her friends to a rodeo. Here she meets Kayce, a washed up country singer who is back in town to support his little brother and father on the ranch.

*This story is my own original story, please do not copy my work, reblog/comments/likes are appreciated* -> Storylist: <-

Kayce Daniels leaned against the fence, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching as his younger brother, Colton, prepared for his next ride.

The energy of the rodeo pulsed around him—cheers, the stomp of restless hooves, and the twang of a country song playing over the speakers. It was familiar, almost nostalgic. Yet, Kayce felt like a spectator in his own world these days.

He had to come home since his old man was sick and Colton rather competed than taking care of the range. And unfortunately, his own career was failing too.

He had a tour cancelled and the last year was a bummer in record sales. It seemed like no one seemed to listen to country anymore, the only wanted the spectacle of the rodeo.

Beside him, his friends Jack and Brett were less interested in the competition and more focused on the buckle bunnies fluttering around the arena. Jack had his sights locked on Stephany, a blonde with a bright, flirtatious smile. Kayce rolled his eyes as Jack nudged Brett. “Man, look at her. Tell me she ain’t the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.”

“She’s somethin’,” Brett agreed with a chuckle. “You ever get tired of chasin’ bunnies?”

Jack grinned. “Hell no.”

Kayce exhaled, shaking his head. “When are y’all gonna grow up?”

Brett smirked and turned to him. “Oh, don’t even start, Daniels. You used to be worse than any of us. I remember when you could sweet-talk any woman in this arena.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah, but now? When’s the last time Kayce took a woman home?”

Kayce shrugged, tipping his beer back. “Ain’t about that anymore.”

“Please,” Brett scoffed. “You sayin’ you couldn’t if you wanted to?”

Kayce arched a brow. “I could take home any woman I wanted.”

Jack and Brett exchanged mischievous looks. “Alright then,” Jack said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Let’s make it a challenge.”

Kayce sighed. “What kind of challenge?”

Brett clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We pick the woman you have to ride for the night.” Kayce narrowed his eyes, but he wasn’t about to back down. “Fine. Who?”

Jack scanned the crowd, eyes flitting past the usual rodeo girls before landing on someone unexpected. She sat alone at a small, absentmindedly swirling a straw in her drink. She wasn’t like the buckle bunnies throwing themselves at cowboys. She was quiet, reserved, almost detached from the chaos around her.

But most of all, not the type Kayce would normally go for.

Jack smirked. “Her.”

Kayce turned his head just as she lifted her gaze. Their eyes met, and for a split second, the noise of the rodeo faded into the background. There was something different in her expression—not the usual wide-eyed admiration he was used to. She wasn’t looking at him like he was a star.

She was looking at him like a deer in head lights.

Tess had never been a rodeo girl. Unlike her best friends, who thrived in tight jeans and rhinestone tops, batting their lashes at cowboys, she preferred to keep to the sidelines. She wasn’t built like them—small and lean, with an effortless confidence. No, she was tall and very curvy. And though she owned her body in private moments, it was hard not to feel out of place when surrounded by women who looked like they’d stepped out of a country music video.

So when her friends dragged her to the rodeo that evening, she knew her role. She would watch. She would smile. She would sit alone, nursing a drink while they worked their magic on the nearest cowboy.

It didn’t take long before their attention fell on the group of men standing near the fence line, laughing and drinking beer. One, in particular, had their full focus—Kayce Daniels. Mid-thirties, country singer, broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair that curled just past his ears, a gruff beard that made him look rugged instead of untamed, and the kind of green eyes that made a woman forget her own name.

His younger brother, Colton, was the one actually competing today, but Kayce had stolen the spotlight without even trying.

Tess sighed, taking a sip of her soda as her friends giggled their way over to the group. It wasn’t that she was jealous—not exactly. She just knew how this would go. She’d be invisible while they did what they did best. She’d sit at the bar, swirl her straw in her drink, and keep herself entertained with whatever rodeo chaos unfolded around her.

But as the night went on, she felt something strange. A presence. Every now and then, she’d glance up and catch Kayce looking her way. Not in a passing, absentminded sort of way. No, his gaze lingered, thoughtful, like he was trying to piece her together. She’d quickly look away, unsure how to handle being the subject of his attention.

Eventually, when her friends disappeared into the crowd, she found herself alone at a small table outside. The cool air was a relief from the packed arena, and she exhaled, letting the tension slip from her shoulders.

“Mind if I sit?”

She jumped at the deep voice, looking up to find Kayce standing there, beer in hand, watching her with those damn green eyes.

“Uh—yeah, sure.”

He pulled out the chair across from her and settled in, drumming his fingers against the side of his bottle. “Not much for the crowd?”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Not really my scene.”

He nodded like he understood, his gaze never straying. “Seems like your friends are havin’ a good time.”

“They usually do.” She glanced down at her hands, suddenly hyperaware of herself. “I’m more of a background kind of girl.”

Kayce tilted his head, studying her. “Funny. I’ve been watchin’ you all night, and you don’t seem like background to me.”

Her stomach flipped. She blinked, not sure if she’d heard him right. “What?”

He smirked, taking a slow sip of his beer. “I mean, they’re pretty and all, but I like the quiet ones. The ones who don’t need all the noise to be worth lookin’ at.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I—I don’t know what to say to that.”

He chuckled. “You don’t gotta say anything. Just let me sit here for a while.”

Taglist for this story is open.

#Buckle Bunny Blues story #fluff #plus size reader #plus size girls #country #rodeo #western #original character #original story idea

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brofightiscancelled · 2 months ago

Note

whats your opinion on tougou + if you were to bring him over to -san how would you do it

tougou is supremely funny to me from a fandom archeology standpoint. i read all of osomatsu-kun before i really dived into the ososan fandom and when i saw people keep bringing in this guy from oso's edgy past in the original manga i was like "??? did i miss a chapter???" but no i had read his chapter it just literally didnt register to me as significant LMAO. but i do appreciate every attempt to torture osomatsu in strange and interesting ways <3

to me it really does feel like tougou is like one of those things that happened to him as a kid that deeply affected his psyche, but at the same time he just doesnt think of it as a big deal. like he doesnt remember it not from it being trauma blocked out but he just literally doesnt think about it. i think everyone from his childhood would be like ahhh how nostalgic. classic sextuplet antics. but then like he brings it up to someone in his Normal High School or like Nyaa or someone not from his showa era past and theyre like "that's fucked up??? that's scary??? huh??? are you okay???" and it genuinely shocks osomatsu because he never thought of it as a big deal. i think even if he becomes aware that it's a big deal he'd be like. welp nothin' i can do about that now. and continue to not think about it. i think if he met tougou in adulthood he 1. wouldnt recognize him 2. would try to avoid him not out of a lingering childhood fear but rather because he assumes tougou is probably mad at him for getting him in jail and he wants to avoid anything troublesome

i would not want to bring him over to -san at all. i think he's one of those things that should stay in -kun, and i think bringing him over to -san would be a point of no return of fanservice taking over the show direction ala mlp:fim (though i think his little cameo in the movie is relatively harmless since the whole movie was a love letter to fans). i can't really think of any funny bit to use him in.... like, ok, the first chapter of the osomatsu-san manga is just the first chapter of the -kun manga with the twin robbers and then the joke is that they have not grown at ALL, to an extent that robbers can pull the same trick on them at 20s as when they were 10. that's a funny joke. i dont really think the tougou bit will really have the same "theyre the same as when they were 10" humor potential so cant just repeat the bit. and then like what else would they do with tougou they couldnt do with iyami? idk. if i was forced at gunpoint to bring him back i'd cast him in some role with no consequence in an out-of-continuity skit. like a calming detective osomatsu bit but he's the housekeeper or something

#ask #txt

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ihatealimore · 1 year ago

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Moonlight

(word count: 1,751)

Sitting atop the hotel roof, Kurapika gazes above, immersed in the canopy of stars in the night sky. Despite the late hour, a sense of melancholy washes over him like cresting waves crashing against the shoreline. You and Kurapika had spent most of the day working together to recover a pair of scarlet eyes. Something he greatly appreciated, nonetheless, he was still feeling hollow. Empty.

The sound of the rooftop door opening doesn't even draw his attention. You sit down beside him, offering him a single red flower, "Rose for your thought? A guy was selling them in the lobby for Valentines Day."

"Thank you, (Y/N)," Kurapika takes the rose and brushes his fingers against its velvet petals. He lowers his eyes from the sky to inspect it closer before setting it down beside him.

"The stars remind me of home," He admits without looking at you, a hint of longing in his voice, "Back when... The clan was still alive."

"I'm sure it must be difficult," You console him while hugging your knees to your chest, looking up at the sky.

"It is. You think you're accustomed to the pain, but then some days, it just hits harder than usual," He murmurs, leaning back on his palms, a constellation of stars reflecting in his grey eyes, "But I believe dwelling on past tragedies won't change anything. I'd rather focus on doing what I can to honor my clan's memory."

The mention of home stirs up old memories that are both sweet and painful. He can't help but appreciate your presence next to him as you had always been his pillar amidst the chaos. These conversations with you always left him feeling vulnerable, yet stronger somehow.

"That's a good way to look at it," You say softly, "I'm sure they'd be proud of you and all."

Kurapika lets out a dry chuckle, "I hope so," He turns to look at you, his eyes turning scarlet in the dim light of the moon. His voice drops lower as he holds your gaze, saying sincerely, "You're different from others, (Y/N). You understand what it's like for me. You've been there when no one else was. It... Means more than I can express."

The confession leaves his heart racing and cheeks warm with unspoken emotions, feelings that were always an undercurrent in your relationship but never acknowledged openly until now. Your presence has become something of a balm against old wounds, providing comfort where words often fail him.

You turn your head to look at him, surprise morphing your face before a soft smile dances on your lips, "Well, someone has to, huh?" You tease him in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"I suppose so," The Kurta responds matching your teasing tone. He chuckles quietly, feeling a lightness replace the heaviness in his chest, "Thank you for being that someone, (Y/N)."

Your joke managed to do what few could, draw genuine laughter from him amidst his sorrow. He feels a sudden surge of gratitude for this person seated next to me who has done more than simply understand his pain, who shares it with him and still finds reasons for them both to smile.

"Oh, look," You point toward the stars, tracing out a constellation into the intangible space above you both, "There's Orion."

Kurapika follows your line of sight, observing silently before a nostalgic smile touches his lips, "Pairo and I used to spend countless nights stargazing just like this. We had memorized every single constellation."

"Oh, so you must be more knowledgeable than me," You take his hand in yours, index fingers aligned as you point upward, "Show me some more."

His heart rate quickens, the warmth of your skin instantly spreading through him. He swallows hard but manages to keep his composure as he points your joined hands towards another starry formation.

"That's Cassiopeoia... And over there," He guides your fingers further right, "Is Ursa Major."

As you and him spot more constellations together under the night sky, Kurapika feels an indescribable sense of tranquility washing over him. A rare moment where he can forget about everything for a while and just live in the here and now. A simple act has never felt so intimate before, perhaps it's because he found himself longing for more moments that belong only to you and him.

After a lingering moment of silence, you hum in thought, musing aloud, "Guess we're pretty small in comparison."

"Indeed," Kurapika agrees, looking down at your intertwined hands, "In the grand scheme of things, we're just tiny moments in this vast universe."

Yet as he speaks these words, there's no trace of disappointment or despair, instead an acceptance and even a strange kind of peace. Their significance on the cosmic scale strikes him less terrifying when he's here with you, shining brightly in times when everything else had seemed dark.

"But that doesn't mean our existence is insignificant, (Y/N)," He turns to you with a knowing smile, "Just like these stars, each one of us has a unique light to offer and together we can create constellations."

"I like that. It's poetic," You say with a smile as Kurapika sets your hand back down, however, you keep your fingers intertwined with his.

"I must have picked it up from you."

Kurapika chuckles lightly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. He couldn't deny how right this felt, the smooth play of your fingers against his. He lets a contented sigh escape from his lips as you and him fall into a comfortable silence once more, your eyes drawn to the mesmerizing dance of stars above.

A peaceful calm that he doesn't often feel wraps around him. It makes him realize how much he appreciates these calm moments with you amidst the calamity of his life. Simply existing together under millions of distant lights.

When you lean your head against his shoulder gently, he stiffens for a moment, surprised by the sudden contact. But then he relaxes again, adjusting his position to accommodate you better.

"It's a beautiful night," Kurapika whispers, matching the tranquility of the evening with his voice, "Thank you, (Y/N). For being here with me."

"No need to thank me," You reassure him easily, "I like being around you, Kurapika."

Kurapika's heart skips a beat at your admission. He swallows, glancing down to see your head still rested against his shoulder.

"I... I like being around you too, (Y/N)," He confesses, the hushed words tumbling vulnerably from his lips.

Flickers of moonlight illuminate the features of your face, those gentle eyes reflecting the twinkling stars above, that soft smile warming him from within. Kurapika finds himself lost in this moment, watching you with a newfound awareness. The vast universe seems to dim into insignificance compared to the captivating constellation seated next to him.

To him, you are radiant and endlessly intriguing. Like a galaxy full of secrets waiting to be unraveled. You're beautiful and elusive like a shooting star that left him enthralled. As terrifying and new as all this may seem, it feels inherently right for him to acknowledge these feelings towards you tonight.

"(Y/N)," He starts softly without breaking his gaze, "I..."

The next hushed words calmly slip from your lips without hesitation, "The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?"

His heart pounds loudly in his chest as he takes a moment to process your statement. The phrase was often used as a romantic and indirect way of saying 'I love you', something he had learned during his travels.

"Yes," He finally manages to breath out, meeting your eyes with resolute determination, "It truly is. As are you."

For the first time that night, Kurapika feels an edge of nervous anticipation creeping up, a surprising shiver running down his spine.

Your expression softens further upon hearing his words, leaning more into his touch, "Think this is fate?"

"Fate, destiny," Kurapika muses gently, "I have never put much stock into such concepts before."

But as he watches your face illuminated by the moonlight and stars, so close yet somehow still feeling ethereal, he finds himself reconsidering.

He quietly confesses, "But with you. It feels less like chance and more like an inevitable collision of destinies that were always meant to intertwine."

This shared moment between them brings him closer than ever before to believing in something beyond facts or reason. That there might be some hidden threads tying them together despite the odds.

You smile, one that is both his undoing and his salvation tonight, "That's... very sweet."

Kurapika feels a strange sense of satisfaction at your words, his heart beating erratically in his chest, "That's just how I feel."

"Kurapika?"

"Yes, (Y/N)?" He responds, his voice a low murmur in the serene quiet of their surroundings.

He moves closer to you, reducing the distance between you and him until he can count the number of breaths you take. He was ready for any question or request from you, acutely aware of every little detail, the way his name sounds when spoken by you softly into the calm night, how his heart flutters anxiously yet excitedly in his chest.

You lean in, your breath hot on his cheeks until your lips finally connect with his, soft and warm like a summer day. Taken aback for a moment, Kurapika freezes.

But then it all clicks into place, the way your breath had hitched before you leaned in, the subtle shift in your gaze. It was what he had been hoping for.

He cups your face gently with one hand and returns the kiss earnestly, an intimate dance between them under their curtain of stars. When his lips part from yours, he realizes he's never known true winter until now. You're peering at him with a gaze full of longing, something that's mirrored in his own eyes.

Kurapika takes a moment to gather his thoughts, still reeling from the intimate moment you and him shared. He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you securely as he looks back at you.

"I..." His breath catches in his throat and Kurapika finally admits it out loud, "I've never felt this way before."

The lingering taste of your lips feels like frost on a winter morning, cold yet indescribably beautiful, unforgettable. He feels strangely exposed yet safe under these glowing constellations.

"Me either," You admit, your tone vulnerable, "But I'd like to explore this with you."

A sigh of relief falls from his lips at your reply. He wraps his arms around you a little tighter, pulling you close until your bodies are flush against each other.

"I'd like that too," He whispers back, leaning in to steal another kiss, slower this time, filled with promises of shared tomorrows and nights like these painted under the myriad colors of love.

#hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh x reader #writing #fluff #kurapika x reader #kurapika #kurapika oneshot #anime

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dairyminki · 2 years ago

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Rielleeeeee, congrats on your milestone darling, im so so proud of you!! I would like to request some fluff with Wooyoung, based off taylor swift's how you get the girl 🤍 Take your time and congrats once again, your event is cute like you 🤍

✨️part of my 300 milestone event 🪄

title: broke your heart, i'll put it back together (song: how you get the girl by taylor swift)

pairing: jung wooyoung x fem!reader

genre: exes to lovers, fluff, angst if you squint

warning/s: none

wc: 1.2k

a/n: oh sweet chip!! 🥺 stfu she called me cute im blushing i got a lil carried away with this hence the wc but likeee i hope i somehow put enough fluff here for u to enjoy?? hehe tysm again bby! ♡

* reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated!

—

Wooyoung was soaking wet.

However, he doesn't mind in the very least. Not even when the fabric of his dress shirt and slacks uncomfortably clings to his body, the wetness of it all spreading goosebumps in his skin as the nightly air blows past him.

See he's not planning on giving up. Not until you open the door and hear him out. Standing outside your doorstep while the rain is pouring doesn't really faze him that much.

Truth be told, Wooyoung's supposed to be aboard the plane right now—completely missing his flight which was just a couple minutes ago. While some may have panicked, he's all but that. Although, he is a tad bit nervous.

Not because he knows his parents will be bombarding him with phone calls and text messages once they know that he's not on a plane returning to gloomy London tomorrow morning—the hell with London and his furious parents. Rather, it's mainly because of you, and you're the only one Wooyoung cares about right now, frankly.

You—who he didn't even get a glimpse of for half a year. Which he thinks he really deserves after deciding to leave you out of the blue. Well, not really out of the blue since he had his reasons, and yeah, well…that's another story for later.

The thing is, tonight wasn't really planned in the slightest. In fact, Wooyoung, coming to your college reunion was a spontaneous decision made by him after Kang Yeosang—one of your friends—accidentally let the fact, that you'll be attending said reunion, slip out from his blabbering mouth.

That random information which luckily fell in Wooyoung's grasp spurred him to grab any clothing his eyes could land on and come rushing in his car to attend tonight's reunion which he so adamantly refused to go to.

And Wooyoung is glad that he did go. Because, as soon as he steps inside the nostalgic campus grounds and through the long hallway leading towards the gymnasium, he sees you.

You who looked stunning dressed in that white dress he had gifted you way back then, just barely a year in your relationship. Wooyoung bought that dress with the thought of putting a ring on your finger someday.

And he is hoping that despite all that's been said and done between you two, that 'someday' will still be just right around the corner.

If only you'd just open up and hear his words tonight, then it possibly would.

The heavens above might just be hearing his pleas, or he just looks too pathetic already that they can't stand a second longer of seeing him standing under the rain—if he's really unlucky, they might even send down a lightning bolt or something.

Wooyoung squints his eyes when he sees the beige curtains on your window move slightly. He wasn't sure at first if he was just seeing things, but then he catches sight of how one of your dangly earrings subtly produced a needle-like flash due to the LED lights on your porch.

His heart does a little leap at the fact of you peeking at him and the possibility of you opening the door.

But that moment of subtle joy fades when you open the door and then it reveals you—you with puffy eyes and a red nose. His heart almost breaks at the sight of you just hesitatingly opening the door even wider.

"You're insane." Were your first words to him that night.

"It's just a little rain," He replies, offering the smallest of smiles, not really sure how to react now that you're finally facing each other.

You sniffle and shake your head, for a second, you look down at your fiddling hands, and then you're looking back at him, gaze sharp, "Why are you here, Wooyoung?"

"I- well, I—"

"Why am I even talking to you?" You sigh, already moving to close the door but of course he puts a foot in, preventing the door from shutting on his face, and preventing you from shutting him away from your life furthermore.

"I'm really not supposed to be here right now, but here I am," Wooyoung spits out in a rush. "Please, just…hear me out?" He asks, his voice sounding out to be a lot smaller.

"Woo-" You stop yourself, sighing, "Come on in, let's get you dry first."

You were too nice, too nice even to someone who broke your heart, Wooyoung thinks. But that's why he's here, hell-bent on fixing things with you and proving to you that he won't do that same mistake of leaving you ever again.

"You're wearing the dress. I thought…you threw it already," Wooyoung speaks up by the time you come back to him with a towel and some spare clothes. His old clothes, he takes note.

"Y-Yeah, I thought it'd be suitable for the theme of the reunion." You shrug, handing him the towel while you hang the clean clothes on the sofa's arm. And then he hears you clear your throat.

"I know you're still drying yourself up, but…why are you here, Woo?"

"Funny you should ask me that because I should be in a plane back to London right now but-"

"You missed your flight?!" You cut off his ramblings with a shout.

"Willingly, Y/N. I missed my flight willingly and I'm very pleased with it." Wooyoung smirks.

"What would your-"

"And that is why you should hear me out tonight or my sacrifice would literally mean nothing," Wooyoung replies with a pout, and then he spreads the towel on half of the sofa, sits down, and then pats the empty space, that was also wet towel-free, beside him.

Wooyoung goes on about his mistakes, his reasons, and countless of apologies while you fiddled with the hem of your dress for most of it.

"I mean, i-it's only been six months, Woo. The memory is still fresh and…" You don't get to finish what you were saying as the tears finally escape you. Wooyoung immediately cups your face in his hands and wipes the tears that keep coming, his touch, ever so gentle.

"I would wait forever and ever. Because I want you for worse or for better, and everything in between, Y/N." He whispers, already in tears as well, and when your previously quivering lips break into a smile, he does the same.

But then, Wooyoung's phone resounds with a ding, which got both of your attention. You were the first one to look away and stare at the phone on the table, an audible gasp leaving your mouth when you saw the picture that served as his lockscreen.

"You never changed it…" You point out, looking back at him and seeing Wooyoung's lips break into an even wider grin.

A picture taken during the 26th of November, Wooyoung's birthday. A picture of him kissing you on the cheek while you're wearing your brightest smile. A picture he randomly self-captured with his phone as soon as his lips met the softness of your cheek—your giggles filling the entire apartment.

It was the same day that he gave you that dress, and the very day that you finally said yes to him being your boyfriend. The day you officially became his other half, and he, yours.

#wooyoung x reader #cromernet #pirateeznet #Hiraya-M #k-labels #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #wooyoung fluff #ateez fluff #wooyoung scenarios #ateez imagine #dairyminkiwrites #dairyminki_atzwy #dairyminki's 300 milestone event #m: jaehunnyy #💌—dream.with.elle

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