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moodymelanist · 3 years ago

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One Thousand Followers Celebration

okay I’m honestly kind of shook that we’re even here but thank you to everyone who’s a part of our little corner of the fandom. I love you all so so much and I’m so happy to be here ❤️ most people requested something cute and fluffy so here’s Cassian being drunk and and Nesta comes to get him. I hope you all enjoy!! 💘💘💘

feel free to read it on AO3 here too!

word count: 2975

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Nesta was halfway through her latest read when her phone started buzzing incessantly. It was just getting to the good part, where the main couple started to realize maybe there was something more between them than burning hatred, and she didn’t want to put it down. Frankly, it reminded her of her own love story, but she’d never admit that to anyone out loud.

She was forced to look away when her phone was vibrating so constantly with texts she thought someone was calling her. Sighing, she reached for her phone, unlocking it only to see her husband had sent her almost twenty messages.

Cassian, 11:52 PM

Nesta

Nes

I love yiu sooooo muche

Youe so pretty

I weish u were here

everyons laufghint at me but i miss u

wyd

nesssssssssss

are u ignoringme for a book agwain

Swethearft<3

did i tell u i luv u td

wait its ok I ddid

i want a kiss when i see u ok

The remaining messages were a jumble of Spanish and English words mixed together, and while she had a working knowledge of Spanish, she didn’t know it well enough to even attempt to decipher what he was trying to tell her. Still, she couldn’t help but smile as she read through them all, affection blooming in her chest for her favorite person in the world.

Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel had gone out to their favorite bar for guys night, and Cassian was clearly drunk off his ass. It was really hard to keep a straight face with him normally, but when he was drunk, she thought it was one of the most adorable things she’d ever seen.

Nesta, 12:01 AM

I love you too, you big goofball

I’ll give you a kiss and a hug when I see you how’s that

Her phone was ringing within seconds, a picture of Cassian filling her screen before she answered.

“Hello?” she said, marking her page with a bookmark before closing it.

“Nesta!” Cassian exclaimed. She had to pull her phone from her ear for a moment, but she smiled again anyways.

“Hi, Cassian,” she replied, trying not to laugh. He was just so cute. “Are you having a good time?”

“Leave me alone, I’m talking to my wife,” he said, his voice sounding slightly further away. He must have been talking to Rhys or Azriel, but the way referred to her made her want to melt. They’d been together for years and married for just over one, but it still sent a thrill through her to hear him claim her out loud.

“Nes?” he said, his voice back to normal volume.

“I’m here,” she said, getting off the bed to begin looking for her shoes. He normally called her and started getting ridiculously affectionate when it was getting close for him to come home, so it was only a matter of time before he asked her to come get him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for my shoes,” she replied, spotting her boots on the floor. Leaning her phone against her ear, she bent down and put them on over her leggings before walking back to her dresser.

“Are you coming to find me?” he asked. She couldn’t help but smile at how excited he sounded by the prospect.

“Yes, baby.” Nesta hit speaker and put the phone down on their dresser as she took off the oversized shirt that she’d borrowed from him, slid a sports bra on, and put on a plain tee shirt over it.

“Oh thank God,” he said, and then dropped his voice to a loud whisper. “You’re much more fun than the dumbasses I’m with.”

She’d opened her mouth to reply, but then Cassian began talking to someone else nearby. “Tarquin! Fancy seeing you here! Are you still mad about your windows? Nes, I gotta go. Love you.”

It was a cool September evening, so Nesta grabbed a denim jacket before throwing her hair up into a bun and leaving their apartment. Once she got to her car, it was a short fifteen minutes to get to The Sidra. Thankfully there was ample street parking around the corner, and the bouncer let her in with a quick flash of her ID.

Nesta walked inside, spotting her husband and his friends immediately. They took up a ridiculous amount of space in one of the booths, and she couldn’t resist smiling as Cassian visibly brightened by her appearance.

“Nesta!” he shouted, grinning widely as she got closer. So much for subtlety, she supposed. She offered repeated apologies as she walked over to where he was sitting, but thankfully most of the people there seemed to think his behavior was too cute to be a serious nuisance.

Once she was next to the side of the booth he was sitting on, he pulled her in for a hug, wrapping his muscular arms around her waist and laying his head on her chest.

“Cassian,” she said at a normal volume, endlessly amused as he snuggled into her. She leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head before turning to greet Rhys and Azriel, both of whom looked seconds away from breaking out laughing.

“Don’t you dare,” she told them, tightening her arms around Cassian as she gave his friends a look. They both hold their hands up in surrender, Azriel raising his beer at her before turning back to Rhys.

“I missed you,” Cassian said against her chest, his voice muffled. “So much.”

“Every minute without you was excruciating,” Nesta said, playing along. He looked up at her with a pout.

“Stop teasing me,” he told her. He was frowning slightly now. “I did miss you a lot, you know.”

“I’m sorry. You’re just so cute like this, it’s hard not to tease you a little bit.”

“Not as cute as you.” Cassian smiled up at her, pleased with himself. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes good-naturedly and let him tug her into his lap.

“Sorry to crash your guys’ night,” she said to Rhys and Azriel now that she was facing them.

“He’s not as much fun when he gets like this anyway,” Azriel replied, chuckling. “In his old age, he’s turned into a sappy drunk.”

“Hey! We’re the same age!” Cassian protested from behind her, tightening his grip around her waist. Azriel and Cassian had both turned thirty earlier this year, while Rhys’ birthday wasn’t until November. Nesta had turned twenty-eight back in April.

“Good thing I like sappy drunks,” she said, twisting around to face him. He gave his friends a smug look as she pressed a kiss to his warm cheek, his stubble scratching her face in a way she loved.

“You two are the worst,” Rhys groaned.

“Like you and my sister are any better,” Nesta shot back as she turned around. Feyre and Rhys had been together since their college days and had tied the knot once they’d both graduated.

“Speaking of her, I’d love to get back home to her,” he replied. He pulled out his phone and began texting, and Nesta guessed he was asking if she was still awake.

“I guess that’s it then, huh?” Azriel asked, raising an eyebrow at Nesta.

“I’m sure Gwyn is dying to see you too,” she teased, smiling softly at him. She and Emerie had colluded with Cassian and Rhys to set the pair up on a blind date last year, and everyone had been thrilled when they’d agreed to keep seeing each other.

“She has a performance tomorrow, so she’s probably already asleep,” Azriel answered, raising a hand to catch the closest server’s attention.

“I told you my wife was hot as fuck,” Cassian said suddenly, shifting to point wildly at Nesta as their server – a young woman named Nuala – came by to bring them the check.

“I’m thrilled,” she replied dryly, raising an eyebrow as she looked at Nesta. “He hasn’t shut up about you for the last half an hour, you know. Thank God he wasn’t making you up.”

“Thanks,” Nesta said, her lips twitching from trying to hold in her laughter. Rhys put down his card to pay for all of them, waving off Cassian and Azriel’s attempts to give him money for their share of the check. Within a few minutes, the four of them were getting out of their booth and beginning the walk to the exit.

Cassian immediately went for Nesta’s hand, intertwining their fingers before bringing their hands to his mouth so he could kiss the back of hers.

“That is so unhygienic,” she said, exasperated. “I haven’t washed my hands since I left our place.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he said, grinning at her. He kissed the back of her hand one more time before lowering their hands to swing them between the two of them as they kept walking.

“Who’s that guy glaring at you?” Nesta asked, noticing a tall Black guy staring Cassian down from a booth near the door. He had silver curls that stood out brightly against his dark skin, but he couldn’t have been much older than any of them. It had to have been natural, since his eyebrows and lashes were the same color.

“Oh, that’s Tarquin,” he replied, waving at Tarquin with a sheepish grin from where they stood. Tarquin flipped him off before turning back to his companions, who both shared the same dark skin and silvery hair.

“Why is he glaring at you? Do I need to talk to him?” Nesta asked, frowning. She was the only one allowed to glare at her husband like that.

“No sweetheart, it’s fine,” Cassian replied, laughing as they walked by the table. “It’s our inside joke. He threw a party senior year of college and I might have gotten drunk and broken a few windows in his house.”

“You what? Cassian, that’s not an inside joke.”

“It’s fine, Nes. I paid him back for it, but his parents were pissed. I’m banned from his neighborhood, actually.”

“That is not fine.”

“I might be drunk, but I know when I’m right,” Cassian said, just before walking right into the door. Azriel had accidentally let it swing behind him and Cassian hadn’t grabbed it in time, and it got him right in the face.

Nesta burst out laughing before she clapped her free hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. Are you okay?”

“The love of my life just laughed at my pain,” he whined, yanking open the door. Azriel and Rhys were absolutely losing it on the other side, making it hard for Nesta to keep her composure in solidarity with Cassian.

“Let me see it,” she said once they were outside. Cassian had pressed his hand to the side of his face, but Nesta got him to move it with her free one. His cheek was red from the impact, but she was sure it’d be fine with some ice once they got back to their place.

“It’s not so bad,” she reassured him. It was hard to keep a straight face with his friends – mostly Rhys – still howling in the background, but she got on her toes to give him a kiss on his face.

“It still hurts,” he said, pouting at her. “Can I get another kiss?”

“You big baby,” she said, but she leaned in and kissed his cheek again. “That’s all you’re getting. When we get home, I’m putting ice on that.”

“I love it when you boss me around,” he said dreamily, letting her tug him past his friends. “It does things to me.”

“Please take him home,” Rhys called from behind them. Nesta flipped him off before Cassian could, earning another wide grin from him as they walked towards her car.

“Thanks for the best thing I’ve ever seen!” Azriel added, both of their laughter fading the farther Nesta and Cassian walked.

“They’re so mean,” Cassian grumbled as she dug into her pocket for the keys.

“You want me to yell at them? Hurt their feelings a little?” she offered, unlocking the doors.

“No,” he said, pouting again. He got into the passenger seat as Nesta walked around to the driver’s side, and he immediately reached for her hand once she sat down.

“I’d do it if you wanted me to,” she told him, shooting him an amused look before starting the car.

“Maybe a real kiss would make me feel better,” he suggested, leaning towards her and puckering his lips.

Nesta leaned in and brushed her lips against his, but he wasn’t having it. He cupped the back of her head as he deepened their kiss, warming her up inside from the cool September air.

“Come on, let’s go home,” Nesta said, pulling away even though it was the last thing she wanted to do. He huffed and pouted but thankfully put his seatbelt on.

It was a quick ride back to their building, and thankfully Cassian managed not to walk into any more doors on their way upstairs. He wrapped his arm around her as they got off the elevator, which Nesta thought was as much for balance as it was to hold her close.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” he said once they were back in their apartment. He immediately walked into the bedroom and flopped on their bed, somehow managing not to knock anything over or hit Nesta’s book.

“You’re welcome,” Nesta said back, taking the time to take off her jacket and shoes before walking to the freezer to grab a bag of frozen peas. She wrapped it in a paper towel before coming to lay next to him, taking down her bun so that her hair was down around her.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered, turning to look at her. His eyes lit up when he noticed her hair was down, and he reached over to play with it. She handed him the peas instead, making sure he pressed them to the side of his face.

“I thought I knew all your secrets,” she whispered back, smiling softly as she indulged him. She loved that she was the one who got to see him like this, that she was the first person he saw in the mornings and the last person he saw when he closed his eyes at night.

“You do,” he confirmed, pulling the peas away to smile at her. She gave him a disapproving look and he quickly put them back before continuing. “I love nights like these.”

“Why’s that?” she asked. She reached out to brush some of his loose waves away from his face so they didn’t get in the way of the peas.

“I never thought I would be as happy as I am right now,” Cassian said seriously. His other eye was blocked from the position of the peas, so Nesta just held the gaze of the one she could see as he moved his hand to cup her face.

Sometimes he would say things like this that made her feel like her heart was going to burst from how sweet he was. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shifted closer to her, and Nesta inhaled deeply at the lingering scent of his cologne. “I remember when you wouldn’t even say my name out loud. Now you’re here with me and my peas.”

She laughed before answering. “It was the peas that really sold me, you know. I should have written them into my vows.”

“And you’re telling jokes? Tonight must be my lucky night.”

“Shut up before I take the peas from you, Cassian.”

“You love me too much to do that, Nes.”

“Stop using my love for you against me. It’s unfair and you know it.”

“Never,” he said, running his thumb across her cheek. “I love you too much not to use every advantage I can get.”

“I taught you too well,” she said, smiling softly at him. “Come on, let’s get ready for bed.”

She turned to kiss his palm, as unhygienic as it was, and then got up and started changing into pajamas. He groaned as he rolled off the bed, stretching as he stood up to reveal a strip of golden-brown skin at his abdomen before walking towards their bathroom.

Nesta joined him to brush her teeth in another one of his oversized shirts and no pants. He finished first, squeezing her hip as he walked by her and went back into their bedroom. She quickly brushed through her hair and pulled it into a loose braid for sleep before turning off the light.

Cassian was waiting for her under the covers, laughing as he examined the back of her book. “Is there smut in this one?”

She rolled her eyes before grabbing it from him. “You’re insufferable.”

“That’s a yes, then,” he said, grinning. She turned the lights off and put the book on her nightstand before she slid under the covers, snuggling up next to him anyway.

“I’ll let you know when I get to the juicy parts,” she grumbled eventually. He laughed under his breath, pulling her tighter against him as he maneuvered them so her back was to his chest as usual. His heart was beating its usual steady rhythm against her, a familiar baseline that let her know she was safe and everything was right in the world as long as she could curl up next to him every night.

“I love you,” she whispered, not sure if he was asleep yet. He could fall asleep anywhere, and ridiculously quickly at that; she wasn’t too proud to admit she was jealous.

“I love you, too,” he replied, tangling their legs together.

It didn’t take long for either of them to fall asleep after that.

#acotar #acosf #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #one thousand followers ahhhh

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amistytown · 3 years ago

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Power Over Me (Leviathan x GN!MC)

Leviathan x GN!MC as Lord of Shadow and Henry; MC is referred to as Henry but remains gender-neutral. I enjoy the TSL lore in Obey Me and wanted to write a bit for it. I initially had an alternate ending in mind, but I decided to save it for another idea I might write at some point. Tried to keep Levi in character while giving him and the story a slightly different feel since it takes place in a fantasy world. Also listened to Power Over Me by Dermot Kennedy on repeat while I wrote this so chose to title it accordingly. Hopefully, it turned out all right. Trigger warning for mentions of blood and self-deprecating thoughts. Mostly some angst with fluff. As always, sorry for the typos that I may have missed, and thank you to everyone who takes the time to read. I appreciate it!

Lightning illuminates the throne room, the Lord of Shadow watching the rain batter the windows, gaze sullen. A storm rages outside, mirroring the flood of emotion bursting forth to drown him in misery. Though he can only hold himself accountable, allowing his envy to fester and take possession of his heart in a moment of weakness. He regrets the letters he frantically wrote in his jealously, the heated words exchanged between you, and your pain forever engrained into the parchment, the ink smudged by your tears, which now lay in pieces at his feet. He considered to make the journey to you, begging for your forgiveness, but he knows he’s undeserving. Instead, he mourns the loss of your friendship, the loneliness left in its wake burning him from the inside out as he cries into his hands, his tortured sobs lost to the thunder roaring above.

The doors swing open, light spilling in from the hall. He recoils at the intrusion, anger welling and threatening to spill over, his patience worn thin. A growl dies in his throat, eyes widening at the vision before him, so beautiful and precious his entire being aches with longing. Slowly, he takes in the sight of you, engraving every detail into his memory. Your windswept hair and the raindrops trickling down your face, clinging to your lashes and following the curve of your lips as you smile sweetly at him, staggering into his arms.

“Henry,” he whispers into the nape of your neck, daring to embrace you and revel in the feel of your body against his; your skin cool and soft, and your scent rich, intoxicating him. He’s certain he’s not worthy of your compassion, yet he can’t bear to turn you away, selfishly clinging to you and delighting in the fact you lean into him, your arms winding around his waist to pull him closer. My Henry, he thinks, tightening his grip, afraid he’ll lose you again if he’s not careful. “I’m sorry. I’m so so—”

You grow limp, legs buckling under your weight.

Fear engulfs him, heart lurching as he supports you, catching your hand in his. “Henry?” he whimpers, noticing how your chest heaves with each breath, and the way your brows knit in discomfort, a low groan slipping past clenched teeth. “Henry! What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”

“I ran into a bit of trouble on the way here,” you manage, laughing pitifully. “I didn’t realize . . .” Your fingers fumble to unclasp your cloak, and he swallows thickly at way lay beneath. Blood soaks your blouse—a sickening shade of red—the fabric sticking to your back.

“You didn’t realize?” he cries, incredulous. “Henry—”

“I just wanted to see you.” Your voice wavers, head lolling to the side. He calls to you, shaking you by the shoulders, desperate to keep you beside him. However, your eyes close, grief overtaking him when they don’t reopen.

“You’ll be okay,” he reassures, robes billowing around his ankles as he rushes down the corridor, gently cradling you to him. Guilt plagues him, reminding him how pathetic he is, especially for hurting you and putting your life at risk; how could he act so recklessly. You’re the light to his darkness, breathing life into his world, and he can’t accept losing you—his happiness—your love dispelling the shadows that once consumed him. He never knew a truer friend, and he’s positive there’s no one else who could play such an important role—you’re irreplaceable. There’s plenty of time to atone for his sins, tonight he needs to make sure you live to see the morning.

“I’ll take care of you, Henry. I promise.”

Time comes to an agonizing standstill.

The Lord of Shadow remains at your side, hoping and praying you don’t succumb to your wounds. He watches you closely, frequently checking your pulse and finding comfort in the steady beat of your heart while you sleep, looking deceivingly peaceful in his bed. His focus is on you, never straying from his true friend’s wellbeing despite his inner turmoil, which threatens to tear him apart at the seams. You keep him together, and again he’s at your mercy, owing you his life for all you’ve given him—his hero—his Henry. He hurt you, but you came to him and offered him forgiveness, willing to sacrifice yourself to save your friendship. How can you care about him with such ferocity, a brooding reclusive lord who’s unworthy of his title? No matter the days spent apart, you return to him, accepting him into your life without hesitance, and he can’t help welcoming you back with open arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters. “I’m terrible. A worthless—”

“You’re not.”

For an excruciating second, he wonders if he imagined the glorious sound of your voice, and an anguished sob escapes him, tears clouding his vision. You stare up at him, eyes heavy with sleep, and a lazy smile on your lips. He’s dreaming, he reasons, shaking his head in disbelief. Then your hand is in his, familiar and warm; he shivers at your touch.

Gasping, he pulls away. “Y-you . . .”

“Forgive me,” you say, so understanding—so sweet—your kindness unfathomable. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“N-no,” he stammers, head spinning. “I’m sorry.” Tentatively, he reaches for your hand, fingers quivering as he entwines them with yours. “I’m sorry.” His tears come faster and harder, shamefully hot on his cheeks. He’s unable to articulate how sorry he is or how his very soul painfully throbs at the thought of hurting you—losing you—wishing he could turn back the clock. “For everything.”

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay,” you soothe. “I’m sorry, too.” Sitting upright, the blanket bunches at your waist, and he can see where the bandages peek out from beneath your shirt, the skin bruised, making him wince. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I’m the reason you’re hurt,” he chokes out, averting his gaze. “It’s the least I can do.”

“It’s not your fault.”

You’re wrong, he wants to say; however, he refrains.

“I don’t blame you,” you continue. “Look at me, please?”

He shouldn’t. Surely, he looks foolish, a mere hostage to his emotions. Nevertheless, he spares you a glance, wondering why you regard him so kindly—lovingly even—causing his heart to flutter.

“It’s not your fault.”

Not his fault? His mind tells him differently; it’s a sea of dread and uncertainty that washes over him in waves, dragging him under. The sincerity of your words is difficult to ignore, and, in that instance, he decides to trust you, finally breaking the surface. “Henry,” he murmurs, hugging you to him, arms wrapping around you protectively as if to shield you from the world. His tears wet your hair, body trembling, and you hold him, letting him come undone in your embrace.

“I wanted to see you,” you say, setting him alight. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering on your own.”

“Henry—”

“I know you’re struggling. It’s okay. I’m here.” You rub his back, resting your head on his chest. “I’ll always come when you call.”

“You’re the truest of friends, Henry. I fear I’m not worthy . . .”

“Of course, you are. I’ve never known a truer friend than you, my lord.”

“I can’t help worrying someone will steal you away. It’s selfish of me, I know. Though I feel so inferior in comparison. Sometimes I think you’re better off without me.” When he learned you met with the Lord of Corruption, his insecurities grew, fanning the flames of his envy. Why choose him over his brother? The Lord of Corruption could provide you with more than he can give. The rest of his brothers, too; they could care for you—protect you—unlike him. You’re here with him though, leaving his brother behind at a moment’s notice, and you did come when he called, eager to please. He wants to return the sentiment. “I can’t articulate how important you are to me. I . . . you’re so special, Henry.”

“No. No one compares to you.” Your praise captivates him. “All I ask is for you to trust me. Talk to me so I can help you. I accept you, all of you, and that’s not going to change. I love you as you are.”

“Love me?” he breathes.

“Yes, I love you.”

A simple but genuine vow of love. He stills, terrified he’ll faint in your arms as he hides his face, heart racing. The cynical part of him says it’s too good to be true, but he knows better—he knows you. He’s envisioned this moment, and it’s far sweeter than his fantasies, your love a beautiful feeling that sweeps him off his feet.

“Have you slept?”

He sighs, mouth unbearably dry. “No.”

“Come to bed. You should rest.”

“Henry! W-with you?”

“You say that as if it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed,” you tease.

“You’ll be the death of me.” Although he complains, the bed dips beneath his weight as he settles beside you, reaching for your hand. “Is this, okay?”

“It is.” Shifting onto your side, your hand tightens around his, a flicker of pain twisting your features.

He tenses, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“I’m all right. Better, thanks to you.”

He can see the exhaustion in your eyes, the dark circles beneath them, and the stiffness of your movements, betraying the smile you wear for him.

“Who hurt you?” he asks.

“No one you need to worry about. Not now.”

Unsurprising. You’re his Henry, besting him and his brothers on multiple occasions; anyone who chose to challenge you is a fool. Yet, your blood flowing freely, covering his hands—the ungodly stench—stayed with him. He clearly recalls your lifeless body, and how the color drained from your face, the heaviness of his heart breaking when he believed he lost you twice in one day. You looked so fragile then and do now, trusting him at your most vulnerable. Hatred for the one who dared to harm you runs deep and for himself for not protecting the one he loves.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits, inhaling sharply. “I-I . . .”

“You didn’t. You won’t.” You catch his tears as they fall. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you, too.” His declaration is quick and clumsy but true; he’s loved you for so long.

Caging you in his arms, he hovers over you, peering down at you shyly. His body shakes with every beat of his heart, ears ringing, but he admires you, gaze affectionate and a light blush dusting your cheeks. He’s scared. He’s scared of losing you most of all, trying to muster half the courage he knows you possess. “I love you, Henry,” he says softly, clutching your hand, his lifeline. Closing the distance between you, he catches your lips in a tender kiss, the magnificence of it sending a rush of blood to his head. He forgets how to breathe, dizzy on the taste of your love, and collapses next to you, questioning if he died and ascended to the heavens. With you by his side the future is much brighter, and, for once, he looks forward to what it brings.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me leviathan #obey me mc #obey me reader #leviathan x mc #leviathan x reader #my writing

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years ago

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I really wanna know what happened during the painful bath that Nanda promised Jameson a while back. Baths in whump have the potential to be so soothing and excruciating at the same time, which kinda fits Jameson’s whole character don’t you think?

CW: Pet whump, dehumanizing language, intimate whumper, dubcon touch NSFW (not explicit), implied dubcon (fade to black), referenced blood and whipping, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, creepy comfort, drowning, talk of sui (to escape torture), implied death by drowning (unnamed oc)

r/LetsTalkTrueCrime

NEW VIDEOS of the Box Boy Killer! Never Before Seen!

•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee 14h ago

So I got a really good response to my short series on the mysterious Box Boy Serial Killer (you can find my previous write-ups here, here, and here).

Well, recently I discovered something entirely new that I think you'd enjoy getting a look at! Found among personal items belonging to Nathaniel "Nanda" Matthew Benson: a medium-sized external hard drive containing nearly 750GB of photo and video content.

The hard drive was labeled 'Personal'. Police stated there was a second hard drive labeled 'Professional', but what content was on there, if anything, has never been released.

Technically, neither has this. Someone from within the police department leaked a bunch of videos and photos at some point, and I was able to get ahold of them thanks to a friend of a friend (who shall go unnamed, don't want to tip off whatever FBI agent is watching his internet activity, haha... or is it her or their internet activity... FBI Agent will never know.)

In my writeup on Nanda Benson's life with his Boxie, I didn't have a ton of details on how they interacted with each other. Finding this trove of info definitely changed a few things on how I view their relationship.

Take a look and let me know if it makes you maybe reconsider a few details, too. FYI: This does have nudity and some spicy times! Nothing worse than you've seen on HBO or whatever, but like, fair warning.

[Embedded Video Player With Title: Bathtime With Boxie: NSFW and Yet Somehow Still Oddly Wholesome Kind Of]

The video begins with the tub already filled with water, hot enough to gently steam. It's a gigantic soaker tub, large enough for four people to easily sit without crowding, nestled alongside a window in a truly enormous, incredibly well-lit bathroom. Everything is in shades of white, which makes the person in the frame even more immediately the enter of attention.

A young man with short, shaggy brown hair and dark eyes sits in the tub. He looks up, wrinkling his nose and glancing away. Only then does a bright red mark, darkening already to a bruise become obvious on one side of his neck.

"Don't fucking tape this," He says. His voice is slightly rough-edged, as if he's been screaming, and he sounds exhausted. "That's weird. Not taping the fucking but taping the after bit."

Red welts are visible above the line of water, marking his shoulders and arms. The welts are a deep red that is nearly purple - they are surrounded by bright red irritated flesh.

"Oh, but I like you like this." The voice holding the camera is deep and amused. The camera wobbles slightly and then settles, and soon enough a second man enters the screen. It's clearly Nanda Benson himself, stark naked.

Where the Boxie is heavily bruised and beaten, Nanda himself would be spotless if he weren’t flecked with drying red spots that are clearly the pet's blood.

"Yeah, well." The pet shifts to the side as Nanda steps in, hissing softly in contentment at the sudden burst of heat when he enters the water. He settles down against a bench set in to the side of the tub, and opens his arms.

The pet moves immediately into them, without hesitating. His eyes flicker nervously back to the camera and then away again.

"Yeah, well-... yeah well what, pet?" Nanda laughs as he pulls the Boxie into his lap, toying one hand already damp from the tub over the ring at the front of his collar. "Cat got your tongue after that fun we had together?"

"Tongue's the only thing you didn't take," The pet responds, almost playfully flirtatious. "I guess you'd miss it too fucking much."

"If I took your voice, who would call me a fucking idiot before I fuck him into the ground, hm?"

The pet flushes, looking down at the water, at the slightest pink of his blood still running into it. "Sir-"

"Ssssshhhh. I like you insulting me. I like punishing you for it more." Nanda mouths at the unmarked side of the pet's neck, pulling him back-to-chest where he sits, so he's facing the camera directly again. The pet's back arches when Nanda's teeth dig in, making a soft, high-pitched whine as his head drops back onto the man's shoulder.

The camera picks up the quiet splash of water as the pet tries to move away and is pulled roughly right back, catches the refracted sight of Nanda's hands on the pet's thighs forcing them apart, each of his calves on the outside of Nanda's thighs.

"Please-... H-hurts-"

"You love it," Nanda whispers, and bites down again, right into the crook of the pet's neck where it meets his shoulder. The cry this time is wild with a mix of pain and something darker, the pet's hands moving helplessly up and back to clasp just behind Nanda's head. His back is nearly a bow, every muscle trembling with a need to escape and to hold perfectly still, both at once.

When Nanda pulls back this time, the camera picks up the blood smeared on his teeth before he runs his tongue over them. It finds the light glinting off the fresh blood welling from the new bite along the pet's shoulder.

"It's too much," The pet says, struggling to sit back up straight, turning to look at Nanda. For a moment, his shaggy damp hair and angle hides his expression from the camera's gaze.

The twist of his spine, though, shows the bloodied whiplashes making their way up his back nearly to the nape of his neck.

"It's too much," The pet repeats, in a whisper. "Please. Please, it's too fucking much, if you fuck me again I'll fucking die. Please."

"Now, pet," Nanda teases, flirts shamelessly, running his wet hands through the pet's hair. He grips on tight and forces his head back again. The profile of the pet's face shows the slight bump of a broken nose healed almost perfectly, but not quite. The gasp he makes when Nanda's free hand presses over the welts on his chest is loud enough for the camera to catch. "You know you don't get to say when it's too much."

"You'll f-fucking kill me," The pet protests, voice tight from the angle forcing his collar to dig painfully into his throat. "Please, I... everything hurts so much..."

"You love the pain." Nanda's eyes look up to meet the camera before a more sinister smile finds its way across his face. "I know what you can take better than you do, pet, and I think you can handle one more. Sssshhh, here we go. There..." Nanda exhales softly as the two of them shift in the tub, the pet making a soft pained sound, his hips rolling as he is worked slowly down into position.

Then Nanda chuckles and slides his entire arm over the welts marking the pet's torso, holding him tightly in place. "Now take a deep breath."

"Wh-what?" The pet's eyes widen, comprehension coming a half-second too late. "Wait, don't-"

Nanda's hand gripped into the pet's hair plunges him forwards, bent at the waist, forcing the Box Boy's head suddenly under the water. The pet struggles desperate trying to get his head back up to breathe. Nanda grunts in a rhythm as his hips snap up and down again. He groans, "So fucking tight, goddamn I love you, you fucking slut for me-"

[/END VIDEO]

The video cuts off there, but my friend tells me the rest of it is basically the kind of stuff you have to pay a monthly fee for everywhere else on the internet.

But there's another video, from way later, that I find a really interesting contrast and comparison. Same friend got me this one. It involves Robert, whose write-up you can see right here.

[EMBEDDED VIDEO: Titled Holy Shit, No Wonder He Killed Him]

The screen is black for a few seconds, with the sound of someone taking the cap off a camera before things come into blurry view and then slowly into focus.

The bathroom in this video is tiny. It's barely large enough for everything in it, and a person sitting on the toilet will damn near bash their knees into the side of the bathtub. The grout in the tile floor is dark with old stains, and the tile itself needs either serious scrubbing or an exorcism.

Sitting naked in the bathtub is a young man with long blond hair that hangs in filthy, dirty clumps down to his shoulders. His face is streaked with mud and worse, and he has a black eye that has nearly swelled his left eye shut entirely. His hands are bound with rope stained brown with dried blood, held up in front of him.

His one good eye, maybe blue, follows with a kind of resigned terror the person behind the camera.

He sits in water up to his waist, but by the way he is shivering, it's clear that the water is not even warm, let alone hot. Further bruises mark his ribcage and his legs. One leg juts out in front, and something about it seems like it might be broken.

The camera is handheld, panning slowly from the young man's torn and lacerated heels and feet through his bruised leg - one swollen - and then back up to his face.

"Tell me your name." The voice is Robert Weber's.

The young man's mouth twists in a snarl that fades as quickly as it came and he looks away, to the side of the tub marked with deep soap scum. When Robert's house is searched, there are scratches in the tub as though someone had clawed that deeply into the sides in an attempt to escape. "It's..." The young man inhales, winces at the pain. "It's twe-... Twenty-One. M-My name is... Twenty-One."

"Good. And-... what did we practice saying next?"

The man's jaw trembles visibly onscreen. Then he says, flat and numb, "My name is Twenty-One and I have... two weeks to l-live."

"Perfect. Now I promised you a good scrubbing if you played along downstairs-" The young man flinches, closing his good eye and curling up in the tub as best he can. "-and I will keep that promise." There's a pause, jostling as the camera is slotted into a tripod to continue filming. Then, Robert's voice is suddenly deafening. "Dog! Get the fuck in here!"

The door opens with the creak of hinges deeply in need of oiling, and then the Boxie moves into view. He's skinny, malnourished and underfed, and his hair is roughly cut short in uneven hunks. He has bald spots worn in by the muzzle that is buckled over his mouth, making his breathing an audible rasp. He glares with unhidden hatred.

"Give Twenty-One a bath," Robert says, and his hand moves into view as he pats the Boxie on the head. The Boxie flinches but then forces himself to hold still, closing his eyes as the pat turns into prolonged petting. His muzzle is unbuckled and then removed. Robert's fingers drift over his bald spots, play along the red marks pressed into his skin by the muzzle, move over a scar cut into one side of his mouth that wasn't there in the video with Nanda.

The Boxie is naked but for an old dog collar around his neck.

Robert hums, disappears entirely from view. The door opens and closes again. The sound of a lock clicks.

The Boxie looks at the young man in the bathtub, who doesn't look up. "Fuck this shit," The Boxie mumbles, but he moves - dragging one of his legs a little, and there are ropes tied around his ankles that ensure he can do little more than shuffle - and finally kneels next to the tub. "Are you going to be a shit?"

The young man looks at him with surprise. "You... I've never heard you talk before," He whispers, looking fearfully to the side towards the door.

"You've never seen me without the fucking muzzle before, either," The pet replies. His voice is far rougher than the first video, suggesting long-term damage to his vocal chords. "I asked you something. Are you going to fight me and be a shit about this or no?"

The young man hesitates, then shakes his head. "I couldn't fight if I wanted to anymore," He says, like a man confessing a sin. "It all hurts too much. You know? I had a girlfriend-"

"Stop it." The pet cuts him off and leans over, picking up a stiff washcloth and soaking it in the water until it's soft enough to use again, running it over the young man's shoulders. For all the edge of meanness in his voice, the pet's touch is clearly gentle. "You're going to fucking die here, better if you don't talk about stuff that gets you fucked up first. Forget her."

The young man leans over to give easier access to his back. The soft whimpers he makes show that there must be some grievous injuries back there that the camera can't see. "I-I know I will. Die, I mean. Do I really have-... is it really two weeks?"

"Yeah." The pet takes a bar of soap and runs it over his own hands, rubbing them together to work up a lather. The soap found in Robert Weber's house after his death is Irish Spring and Dove - it is believed he used different soap for different captives according to his own odd whims. "He's put little heart shapes on a calendar he marks off. He'll hurt you a little worse every fucking day and then make you beg for him to end it."

The young man slowly nods, looking at his bound wrists. There's a soft sniff, but he seems too tired for tears. "There's no chance of getting away, is there."

It's not really a question.

The pet answers anyway.

"You're the twenty-first, and none of the others have. What do you think?"

"I-I can't do this."

"You have to." The pet gets a red Solo cup sitting on the side of the tub, fills it with water, and pours it down the young man's back. He hisses and cries out softly in pain. "He doesn't exactly ask your goddamn preferences."

"Help me escape," The young man pleads. "Help me get out of here."

"I'm fucking hobbled," the pet snaps. "He'll be on us both before we even made it out of the hallway. You think I'm fucking stupid? I'm the only one who might not die if I stay good. Come on, lean forward so I can wash your hair."

The young man moves to obey, hands disappearing beneath the filthy bathwater, and then he turns, looking over his shoulder. He and the pet share a long, silent moment. Then he leans over far enough to put his mouth nearly to the pet's ear and whispers something so low that the camera doesn't pick up the words.

The pet inhales sharply.

He looks at the door, and then back to the young man.

"Are you sure?" He asks, and the edge is totally gone from his voice, now.

The young man nods, slowly. "Please," he says, a little louder. "If I have to-... please. Not him. I-I know you'll get punished, but... please. God, please, just this one thing." His hands come back up to grip onto the pet's hand where it lays along the side of the tub.

The young man leans forwards, and his forehead gently rests against the pet's. They are silent for a long moment.

"Please, don't let him be the one to kill me," The young man says. "I know I'm g-going to die, but... let me take that a-... away from him. Please. God, I don't even know your name, but-... please."

The pet swallows, then nods, tipping his head back to press a kiss to the young man's forehead. "I don't have a name. What's your name? I'll remember it. Your real name."

The young man's throat bobs and he whispers into the pet's ear again.

He sits back up, leaning over until some of his long hair falls into the water. "I'm-... I'm ready."

The pet takes a deep, deep breath, moves up to kneeling with his thighs vertical, lays both hands on the back of the young man's head, and says, "I hope it's better, wherever you go."

Then he pushes the young man's head underneath the water.

[/END VIDEO]

According to my friend, there's more to that video as well, but obviously it's been cut to take out the end of the poor guy. Now, my friend swears up and down the pet is crying at the end of the video, that he can see tears, but I'm not sure.

That doesn't really line up with the pet killing people before this, you know?

But one thing it does prove is that the Boxie knows the name of one of the unidentified victims. If he could be found, we could give that man back his name and get his family the closure they deserve.

I know some of you argued with me last time that the Boxie is clearly a VICTIM and not a PERPETRATOR, and I definitely admit this second video maybe suggests you're on to something there.

But I still think we have a Boxie killer on our hands here - I just think maybe I was wrong about why he's killing them at all.

I guess we'll find out if he kills again.

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary @burtlederp

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valdomarx · 4 years ago

Text

Untouchable

Octoberfest day 31: cursed

“Fuck! Geralt! Help!”

Geralt rolls his eyes as Jaskier comes skidding to a halt in front of him. He dreads to imagine what trouble he’s gotten himself into now.

“Something terrible has happened! I had an, umm, unfortunate encounter with a sorcerer.” He blushes, pink creeping over his cheeks. “And he put some horrible curse on me and portaled away, the bastard.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“And now I can’t touch anyone. Look!” Jaskier holds out a hand to stop a passerby. He goes to shake the confused man’s hand, but the moment their skin makes contact Jaskier gives a yelp of pain and leaps back.

That reaction isn’t feigned, Geralt is sure, even as the man gives them both an odd look and leaves.

“When you touch someone, does it hurt badly?”

Jaskier’s bottom lip wobbles. “It really does.”

He sighs. A lack of touch might be a mere annoyance for him, but he knows it’s more than that for Jaskier. “I’ve heard of a mage who specialises in lifting curses. But he’s all the way in Kovir, and that’s no small journey.”

Jaskier turns big, pleading eyes on him. “Please, Geralt, I’ll do anything. You have to help me.”

As if he could ever refuse him anything. “Alright,” he grumbles. “We’ll head to Kovir.”

At first, Jaskier appears as bright as ever. Yet as the days pass, more and more often he chews his lip in a nervous habit, and he rubs his fingers together when people come too close. He smells of anxiety and restlessness.

Each evening, once the dinner has been eaten and the sun has set, they lay out their bedrolls by the embers of the fire. The scent of anxiety is replaced by one of loneliness and Jaskier will curl in on himself, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. It’s sad, how much lesser Jaskier seems to feel without touch.

Geralt is used to being shunned, to going months without a friendly clap on the shoulder or shake of the hand. But Jaskier isn’t, and the curse is taking a toll on him. Geralt wishes he could help, that he could provide some comfort, but he knows right now all he can cause Jaskier is pain.

They need coin for their journey, so Geralt takes jobs along the way. He’s on a contract to clear a nest of nekkers and he has, for some unknown reason, allowed Jaskier to accompany him. Jaskier had wheedled and pleaded and in the end Geralt had found himself unable to say no.

It should be fine. A nekker nest is an easy job, and as agile and springy as the creatures are, they’ve no stamina and they’re easy to kill.

That must be why he allows his concentration to slip when he’s approaching the nest, his eyes darting to the side to check Jaskier is safe behind a rock. The momentary slip lets one of the foul little things bounce up to him and sink its teeth into his gauntlet, more of an annoyance than a real threat. He shakes it off with one hand and uses the other to cut more of the creatures down with his silver blade. His gauntlet goes flying, but no matter, he can collect that later.

He rounds on the last few of the creatures who are nickering angrily. As he circles them he sees Jaskier peeking his head over the rock and then creeping closer, trying to get a better look.

Fuck. He kills two of the nekkers quickly, but the last three have picked up on Jaskier’s scent and are eyeing him with interest. Geralt sees two leaning back on their hind legs, preparing to leap at Jaskier and cut him to shreds with their sharp claws.

He has a split second to make a decision: Grab Jaskier and risk hurting him himself, or leave him where he is and watch the creatures go for his chest. It’s no choice at all really, so Geralt sends up a quiet word of apology and grabs Jaskier firmly around the neck with his ungloved hand and shoves him out of the way.

The last two creatures leap into the air, but with their target gone they’re easy prey. Geralt cuts them down with minimal effort and turns, expecting to see Jaskier writhing on the ground in pain.

He’s not though. He’s sat in the mud with a puzzled expression on his face.

“That didn’t hurt,” he says, seemingly mystified. “Well, being thrown to the ground was not the most delightful experience, but when you touched me - it didn’t hurt.”

That is strange. Geralt had been sure he’d triggered the curse.

Jaskier gets to his feet and regards Geralt quizzically. Very carefully, he reaches out and touches his fingertip to Geralt’s bare hand. He doesn’t flinch back or gasp in pain. Instead, he takes Geralt’s entire hand in his own, and a beautiful smile blooms over his face.

“I can touch you! But how?”

Geralt stares down at their joined hands, unsure why he feels unsteady. “Witchers are immune to magic?” he guesses. “I suppose that could be -”

He’s interrupted by Jaskier throwing his arms around him and hugging him close, happy little sounds of joy and relief spilling from him. “Oh, Geralt, thank the gods, I was losing my mind.” He snuggles deeper against Geralt, rubbing his face into his neck and hanging on tight.

“Oh. Well.” It seems the only thing for Geralt to do is to hug him back, so he puts his arms around his shoulders and draws him in.

Jaskier keeps touching him all the rest of the day. Whenever he bumps their shoulders or grabs Geralt’s hand, he breaks out into a wide, goofy smile, like it’s novel and fun every time.

Perhaps the curse has worn off? The next traveller who passes them by, Jaskier finds an excuse to stop him and shake his hand. But the moment their hands touch, Jaskier yelps in pain.

He’s still cursed then. But he can touch Geralt. Strange.

And Geralt can’t help but indulge him, even though he knows Jaskier is touching him because he’s the only option, not because he really wants to. He reminds himself that Jaskier would surely rather be off with some pretty lady, not grasping at a crotchety witcher for comfort.

But still, every time Jaskier brushes their hands together and smiles, he feels a little wobbly inside.

That night, he watches as once again Jaskier curls in on himself, small and sad by the fire. The further north they travel, the colder the weather grows, and the more distressed Jaskier becomes.

“Hey.” He keeps his voice soft, and Jaskier turns to look at him with big, wide eyes. “Join me?” He lifts a corner of his bedroll and waves him over; an offer, not a command.

Jaskier immediately scurries over and burrows into him, all hands and hot breath and happy murmurs. He settles into Geralt’s chest with a contented sigh, and Geralt wraps his arms carefully around him.

This, at least, he can do. Jaskier will find someone else to warm him soon enough, but for now, he has Geralt.

Geralt is on his way back from a job when the sound of raised voices makes him quicken his step. Outside the inn where he’d left Jaskier, he spots a distinctive bright blue doublet in the midst of a gang of angry-looking locals. They’re poking at him and taunting, and Jaskier is gasping in pain.

“Look at this precious little thing,” one of them sneers. “So delicate he can’t even bear to be touched by us lowly folks.”

The man reaches out and grasps Jaskier firmly around the wrist, and Jaskier screams, raw and excruciating. The sound reaches into Geralt’s chest and twists painfully, and he breaks into a sprint.

The next thing he knows, the man is on the ground before him, sobbing as Geralt twists his arm to the point of breaking. The others have fallen back, trying to hide behind each other, and Jaskier stands off to one side cradling his wrist.

“You don’t touch him,” Geralt growls, and the man before him pales even further. “Understood?”

The man nods frantically, babbling apologies, and as much as he’s tempted to break a few bones to drive home his point, he knows Jaskier wouldn’t want that. He drops the man’s arm and snarls, “Go.” He and his friends beat a hasty retreat, leaving the street empty but for him and Jaskier.

“Jask,” he says, and it breaks his heart to see Jaskier so pale, a tear running down his cheek. “Are you alright?” He’s wracked with guilt - he should have been here to protect him.

Jaskier smiles sadly. “I’m fine. My own fault, really.” He reaches out as if to touch Geralt’s hand before faltering, unsure.

He’s clearly in need of comfort, so Geralt pushes his own uncertainties aside and steps closer. He brings up one hand to wipe away the tears from Jaskier’s cheek, and cradles his face as gently as he can. “It’s okay,” he says in the tone he uses to reassure Roach when she’s frightened. “I’ve got you.”

Jaskier blinks up at him with watery eyes, but his smile is more genuine now. “Yeah,” he sighs softly. “Yeah, you do.”

Jaskier still insists on performing as they travel, and as much as the thought of him among all those grasping hands sets Geralt’s teeth on edge, he does understand. For all the times that he’s been injured and insisting on continuing to work, it would be hypocritical of him to deny that to Jaskier.

He sways carefully around the tavern as he plays, and to a stranger he’d seem relaxed and at ease but Geralt knows him well enough to see the anxiety in his rigid movements. Each time a hand reaches out toward him he flinches, though normally he’d be luxuriating in the attention.

Each flinch has Geralt’s grasp on his mug of ale tightening, until the wood is groaning beneath his hand and he has to shake it loose lest he crack the mug and send ale flowing over the table.

Jaskier can take care of himself. He’ll be fine.

He certainly does seem fine, and by the end of the evening he’s caught the attention of a pretty girl with voluminous curls spilling out from the dainty handkerchief tied around her head. When Jaskier is done with his performance she buys him a drink, and she leans over the table to giggle as they speak in low voices.

Geralt watches from his corner table and scowls. He tells himself his foul mood comes from concern for Jaskier, from worry that this woman might hurt him unintentionally. He almost has himself convinced it’s true.

There’s no point skulking in the shadows all night, he knows, so he finishes his ale and heads upstairs to their room. As he lays down, the bed feels strangely empty without Jaskier’s bustle and scent and colour. Wondering when he became so damn soft, he slips into a meditation.

It’s not long before he’s revived by the sound of Jaskier creeping into the room and hurriedly undressing.

Geralt rubs his eyes, dispelling the lingering wooziness. “I thought you’d spend the night celebrating,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “With that nice young lady.”

In the low light, he sees Jaskier shrug. “It got rather awkward when she kept trying to touch me and I kept having to run away.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah.” He settles into bed next to Geralt. “It’s just -” Geralt can smell the mixture of exhilaration, arousal, and frustration on him. “It’s frustrating. Wanting something and not being able to have it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt knows that feeling all too well.

“I’m -” Jaskier turns his head away a fraction, and Geralt can see a blush spreading over his cheeks. “I’m not used to going so long without… you know. It’s making me antsy.” He rubs the palm of one hand against his crotch, shifting awkwardly in the bed.

“Hmm.” He inhales again, and the scent of arousal is sharper, more prominent. He rolls onto his side, tentatively places a hand on Jaskier’s thigh. “I could help,” he offers. “If you want.”

He’s expecting to be told no. He’s expecting Jaskier might even push him away, disgusted. He’s not expecting the way Jaskier sucks in a breath, the way the scent of arousal blooms, the way Jaskier squims beneath his hand.

“You’d do that for me?” Jaskier’s voice is breathy.

I’d do anything for you, he thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he places his hand on top of Jaskier’s and guides it to the fastenings of his trousers. Jaskier unlaces himself in a clumsy rush which Geralt can’t help but find endearing, and then he’s working his cock free, rubbing gentle strokes with their two joined hands.

It’s nice like this, where Geralt can let Jaskier guide him, show him what he likes. His fingers tease along the soft skin on the underside of his cock, the delicious slick at the head. As he strokes, Jaskier shakes in his arms, gasping and writhing. When he comes, it’s with a soft, gentle sigh of contentment that Geralt wants to bottle and keep forever.

Jaskier makes a tokenistic effort to wipe himself down with a shirt and collapses back into bed. “Should I…” He chews his bottom lip. “Would you like me to return the favour?”

Geralt’s cock is pressing against his trousers like iron, and Jaskier must be able to feel it. But he didn’t do this with the expectation of recompense. He just wants Jaskier to feel good.

“No, it’s okay,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Jaskier sounds disappointed, almost. “Okay.”

They fall asleep like that, curled up close together, but a feeling of uncertainty hanging between them.

In the weeks after that, Jaskier takes to touching Geralt even more. They sleep close together every night, and they find pleasure in each other when they need to. Geralt makes his peace with this unspoken arrangement: he is a hand to Jaskier when he needs it, and Jaskier returns the favour as a politeness.

The first time Jaskier kisses him while they rut together, his heart is fit to burst out of his chest. Trading favours is one thing, but the surge of love and heat and affection that erupts in his chest when Jaskier brings their lips together can’t be denied. He could kiss Jaskier every single night and never tire of it, he thinks. Late at night, as they move together, Geralt feels himself falling.

It’s not everything he wants, but it’s enough.

It has to be enough, because soon they’ll make it to Kovir, and then they can lift the curse, and then Jaskier won’t need him at all any more.

Geralt catches himself wishing that the curse won’t be lifted, and then he’s disgusted at himself for being so selfish.

Kovir is beautiful. Sharp, snow-dusted mountains dart up into the sky, and great rivers flow with fresh water through green, lush lands. The city of Pont Vanis is breathtaking, with spire towers reaching up toward the heavens and rich mosaics of glasswork covering every surface. Each new corner seems to hold some elegant delight of artistry, and Jaskier grabs his hand to pull him along each new street to behold some fresh wonder.

But they are not here for gawping, Geralt tells himself, and he steers them toward the address of the mage he’s heard is an expert in curses.

Once inside, the Koviri mage stares at the pair of them.

“A curse, you say?” He raises an eyebrow.

Geralt stands protectively behind Jaskier, ready to leap to his defense should the mage prove troublesome.

“Yes. Whenever anyone touches me, I feel horrendous pain.” Jaskier grimaces. “Except for Geralt. For some reason, he can touch me and it’s fine.”

The mage nods. “I see. Did you perchance anger a magic user?”

“Ahh.” Jaskier looks at his feet. “Well. There was a mage whose acquaintance I made. He seemed… less than happy when I declined his offer of companionship.”

The Koviri mage shudders. “What monsters southerners can be. Cursing someone because they rejected you, what hideous behaviour.”

Geralt is warming up to this mage already.

“Let me see what I can do.” The mage closes his eyes and reaches out his hands, holding them a few inches from Jaskier’s chest.

He opens his eyes again and squints curiously. “Strange. I can’t feel any curse upon you.”

He reaches out, and pokes Jaskier in the chest. Geralt leaps forward, ready to defend his bard from this onslaught, but he’s stopped in his tracks by Jaskier’s voice.

“Huh.” He sounds perplexed, not pained. “That’s odd. That didn’t hurt at all.”

They reason perhaps it’s because the mage is a magic user too, so they bring in the mage’s servant. He touches Jaskier’s hand and again he’s fine. Then they try the washerwoman next door. That’s fine too.

The mage shrugs and smiles. “It seems that the curse has worn off. Some weaker enchantments only last a matter of days.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “You mean… all this time, I’ve been fine? I could have been touching anyone?”

The mage hums, eyes sparkling. “So it appears.” He looks at Geralt, and his gaze is penetrating. “Perhaps it has not been such a loss for you though, hmm? There are many paths to knowledge.”

They stagger out into the weak Koviri sunshine and Geralt is consumed with guilt and relief and worry. Surely Jaskier will hate him now. Hate him and leave him, now they’re no longer tied together.

“Jaskier-” he begins, just as Jaskier turns to him to say, “Geralt-”

They stare at each other a beat too long.

Geralt’s shoulders slump. Let the end come if it must. “Go on,” he says, bracing himself.

“Thank you.” Jaskier is giving him that soft, quiet smile that he loves. “For taking care of me.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I should have known better. I understand if you want to leave.”

Jaskier shakes his head and takes his hand. “Come on.” He leads Geralt toward one of Kovir’s elegant public parks. “Let’s walk.”

They stroll beneath a series of wooden archways, woven thick with roses. The sunlight peeks through in dappled spots on the springy grass.

“I don’t regret it,” Jaskier says. “These last weeks. I don’t blame you. You’ve done nothing but try to help me.”

“But you could have been with anyone.” Geralt’s stomach twists at the thought he’s been keeping Jaskier against his will. “You could have touched anyone. Kissed anyone. Found anyone else to bring you pleasure.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier stops and tenderly brushes a stray hair from Geralt’s face. “I didn’t want anyone else.”

Geralt barely dares to breath. Hope rages within him, frothing and exuberant. “You mean-”

“I didn’t want anyone else then, and I don’t want anyone else now.” He leans in and presses the softest kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I always just wanted you.”

His heart feels like it could beat out of his chest. “So you’ll stay with me? Even now?”

Jaskier strokes one finger down his cheek, and his entire world narrows to the joining of their bodies. “Always,” Jaskier promises. “There’s no one I’d rather be with.”

#obsessed with touch... me... hahaha. it's fine i'm fine.#geraskier #the witcher #my writing #octoberfest #we did it folks!! 31 fics in 31 days!!#i enjoyed writing this one especially

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allisondraste · 3 years ago

Text

Death and Other Things That Should Have Been Fatal

Fandom: Mass Effect

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian

Word Count: 4715

Summary: A follow up to Cockroaches and Other Things That Just Keep Living, Shepard wakes up after destroying the Reapers and copes with the fallout. Thankfully, she doesn't have to do so alone.

[Click Here for AO3]

“Shepard?”

The voice was little more than static in her ear, jarring her back into excruciating consciousness, head throbbing, extremities numb. Spears of pain coursed through her chest with each and every breath, and she didn’t know whether it was the several broken ribs or the sight of Anderson's lifeless body slouched next to her. She tore her gaze away from the closest thing she’d ever had to a good father figure, eyes fluttering closed as she attempted to focus only on the person speaking to her.

“Garrus?” His was the first name that rolled off her tongue, the only person in the galaxy she wanted that disembodied voice to be.

“No.” Came the stern reply. There was a long pause as any hope for comfort in her final moments came crashing down around her. Then the voice spoke again. “It’s Hackett.”

A jolt of resentment toward the Admiral coursed through her at his introduction. What more could he possibly want from her? Had she not already done enough, sacrificed enough for just a ghost of a chance to stop the reapers. Surely someone else could take it from there. Why did everything fall on her?

Because someone else would have gotten it wrong.

She shook herself out of her head and back to the present. She would have been mortified under normal circumstances, but she couldn’t bring herself to give a damn now. “I apologize sir, I’m— What do you need me to do?”

“The Crucible is docked, but is not activated,” he explained, “We think there’s something that needs to be done on your end. Is there a trigger? Some sort of terminal?”

His words clung to the air around her, and her eyes locked onto the terminal the Illusive Man had used earlier. It was just a few feet in front of her and still so far away. She tried and failed to bring herself to her feet, legs buckling beneath her and sending her plummeting to the floor. Hot tears burned in her eyes as a new array of pain shot through her body, and she groaned in agony.

“Shepard?”

“I’m here, sir,” she growled, forcing herself up onto an elbow and dragging her body to the terminal, vision beginning to blur at the corners.. Not yet , she pleaded with her consciousness as she reached up toward the terminal, hand sweeping clumsily across the haptic display. Not. Yet. “I’m at the terminal but I… I don’t— I can’t find—”

Her vision went dark, supporting arm trembling and giving out as her consciousness faded. Hackett’s voice called out to her repeatedly, further and further away until it was gone entirely.

She awoke to bright, burning light, buzzing in her ears, sensations anyone else would have associated with death. But Shepard had been dead before, and this was nothing like the last time. She’d never forget that dark, quiet empty.

“Shepard,” shouted a voice, both familiar and foreign, “Wake up.”

“What?” Blood dripped into her eyes from a wound she couldn’t feel. “Where am I?”

She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand, blinking until her vision cleared. Her body screamed in protest as she rose to her knees, louder still as she brought herself to her feet and searched for who—or what— had spoken to her.

“The Citadel,” came the reply, “It is my home.”

She snapped her head in the direction of the voice, it’s owner a glowing, translucent entity in the shape of a ghost. Her heart slammed against her aching ribs, and a name rushed to her mouth before she could stop it. “Kaidan?”

The entity examined her for a moment that felt more like an eternity, long enough for her initial relief to fade, consumed by dread as she awaited its answer.

“No,” it stated in a cold, matter-of-fact way Kaidan could never have managed, “I am the Catalyst.”

Rage ignited in her stomach and chest at the sound of him twisted and distorted by a chorus of synthetic echoes, and she growled. “I thought the Citadel was the Catalyst.”

“The Citadel is part of me,” it explained, then paused, tilting its head in examination of her again, “My appearance disturbs you.”

Shepard let out a derisive snort. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“I apologize,” it said, “I chose a form that I believed would help us communicate. You had fond memories of this one.”

“Too fond.” She looked down, unable to meet its vacant eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Is this one more suitable?” It’s voice shifted registers and when she glanced up Thane stood before her.

Hot tears burned in her eyes but she held them back and shook her head. “No.”

“Perhaps you would prefer this?” This time it’s tone was higher pitched, clipped. Mordin.

“No,” she spat through clenched teeth, “I’d prefer if you’d just pick a nightmare and tell me whether you can help me or not. ”

“Very well,” it said, Kaidan once again as it motioned for her to follow after it toward the beam of light before them. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

She limped after it, listening as it spoke, as it explained its creation, it’s function, the purpose for its very existence. It was nothing the Leviathan had not already revealed to her, but spun in a way that painted the Reapers as innocent pawns simply fulfilling their duty, wiping out entire civilizations to ensure galactic balance, to protect organic life from its own chaos.

Bullshit , she thought as flashes of destruction played behind her eyelids with each laborious blink. She remembered the sinking void in her gut as she fled Earth, watching it burn beneath Reaper hands. She thought of Palaven, the harrowed Turian faces as their military and government collapsed, the anger and disbelief that vibrated in Garrus’ voice and beneath his skin. She recalled Thessia, the most advanced civilization in the galaxy reduced to rubble before her eyes and she, helpless to even salvage one artifact, Liara’s anguished sobs as she trembled in her arms.

The Catalyst and its Reapers were responsible for every lost colony in Batarian space that Shepard had shouldered instead. Every single face on the memorial wall at the Citadel, every orphaned child and refugee, every life touched by this goddamn war, and the lives of those in every cycle that came before— it was all their fault. They had corrupted and indoctrinated some of the greatest minds of her time, broken some of the strongest wills. She wondered what had been said to convince Saren and Benezia. What had the Catalyst become to take hold of The Illusive Man?

The echoes of Sovereign’s boasts of supremacy and Harbinger’s threats of annihilation rang out in her ears as clear as the days they’d been spoken. And this entity, this artificial intelligence with the power and capability to stop it all, expected her to believe they were simply creatures bound to a purpose. The Catalyst truly believed she would help it achieve its pinnacle of evolution.

No, just because it was in a shark’s nature to eat her, did not mean she would allow it to do so. Despite the original intent behind their creations, the Reapers were monsters, and they had to be stopped. The galaxy deserved justice. She took one lumbering step toward the trigger on the right, one step closer to settling things once and for all.

“It will happen again,” the Catalyst called after her, “Machines will be rebuilt, and chaos will continue. Organics and synthetics cannot coexist separately.

“That’s…not true,” she grunted, and took another step, “The geth and the quarians have brokered peace.”

“It will not last.”

“You don’t know that,” she shouted, fists clenched at her sides, “The beauty of chaos is that you can’t know that.”

The entity fell silent, briefly considering what she said, then continued. “Perhaps not; however if you choose to destroy the Reapers, the geth will be destroyed as well. The two will not have the opportunity to disprove your hypothesis.”

A pang of guilt pierced her and she halted in her tracks.“All of them?”

“Yes. The Crucible’s beam is powerful but unfocused. It will be unable to distinguish between Reaper technology and other forms of synthetic life.”

Another pang of guilt as realization dawned on her. That meant EDI would die, too. Someone who was every bit a friend and member of her crew as anyone else, someone who had put herself on the line multiple times to protect Shepard, to make certain she could get the job done. EDI, who confessed just before the battle that she finally felt alive. Now, Shepard was forced to weigh her newfound life and the newfound intelligence of the geth race, against the destruction of the Reapers.

What was it Garrus had called it? Ruthless calculus, that brutal math that awaited anyone who spent enough time at war. Shepard had done plenty of those calculations, had made more than her fair share of difficult decisions, and she’d dealt with the consequences, good and bad.

This time, it was different, more final. And she was entirely alone. The future of the galaxy lay upon her weary back, and she was far past the point of compromise.

Shepard wanted the Reapers to pay for what they had done for millennia, wanted to watch them disintegrate in space as the cheers of her fleet rang out over the comms. She wanted to know with certainty that the war was over.

More than anything, however, and most heavy on her mind, she wanted to survive. It was a potent wave of selfishness that overwhelmed her as she thought of her friends back on the Normandy, of the relationships she’d forged and that had forged her. Her heart ached at the thought of never seeing them again, never hearing their voices. She was sick at the possibility that her last moments with those who had carried her through every storm were hurried and spent in a war torn camp on Earth.

Knowing that they were worried and waiting for her to return, remembering Garrus’ desperate plea that she come back alive, it was more than she needed to motivate her to do so. For the first time in her three decades of life, she had something to go home to. She had given so much of herself to save the galaxy, and she had more than earned the right to live in it.

There was no certainty that destroying the Reapers would ensure her survival, but it was the only choice without the certainty that she would die. She was willing to take her chances. She had to. With a trembling arm she raised her pistol, aimed at the glass case guarding the trigger mechanism, and fired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as the glass shattered and her vision faded to white. “I’m so sorry.”

Shepard had been dead enough times to know that sound always came first, the discomforting beeping of medical equipment and garbled chatter ringing out in the darkness as her nervous system attempted to orient itself. Smell and taste came next, a package deal. This time the antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood barely masked the rank of burnt flesh.

Then the pain set in, dull but constant and everywhere, numbed only slightly by neural blockers and local anesthetic. She did not need to see her injuries to know how serious they were, how fatal they should have been. Yet there she lay, once again waking up from something that would have killed anyone else.

And she was alone. Again.

She began to panic as her eyes opened to the empty, sterile room, setting off the many monitors she was hooked up to. Her heart pounded violently, each breath she took sharp and shallow as she yanked herself free from the dozens of tubes and IVs constraining her. How long had she been out this time? What covert operation for which secret, extremist organization had found and resurrected her for their benefit? How much more could one galaxy ask of her?

There was a hiss of opening doors and an unfamiliar asari entered the room urgently, arms extended out in front of her. In one breath she reassured Shepard that everything was going to be all right and in the next called for a medical restraint, a sedative. She stepped slowly toward Shepard as one would approach a frightened, feral animal, and two more uniformed aliens entered the room. Shepard stood tall, despite the ache in her bones and glared at the three of them.

“Ma’am, I know you must be very disoriented right now, and I am happy to answer any and all of your questions,” the asari said, holding her hands up, “But you are in no shape to be out of bed. I need you to calm down before you hurt yourself further.”

Shepard glanced from the asari to the two salarians on either side of her. They all wore generic attire that was standard for medical professionals across the galaxy, but their uniforms had no indication of their names or who they worked for. She crossed her arms and winced through the pain as she argued. “How about you start by telling me where I am, then I’ll decide if I want to calm down or not.”

Just as she finished speaking the doors opened again, this time to faces she knew, and the subsequent wave of relief that washed over her nearly knocked her back into the bed on it’s own. On the right stood Dr. Michel, who she remembered helping out on several occasions during the Reaper War. A bit sweet on Garrus, if she remembered correctly. On the left, wearing a smirk and a raised eyebrow, was none other than Miranda Lawson.

“Sit down, Shepard,” Miranda asserted in her trademark tone. She flashed the hint of a smile and continued, “The residents aren’t being paid enough for you to harass them.”

Shepard’s eyes flicked over to the three aliens who’d been tending to her just moments before. They were now speaking nervously with the doctor, who muttered something about tests they needed to run followed by some other medical jargon that Shepard couldn’t decipher. She did as her friend directed and eased herself back down onto her bed, offering a sheepish grin as she did so. “I feel like such an ass.”

“Don’t,” Dr. Michel chimed in as she approached the bed, and began to scan Shepard with her omni-tool, “You have been in a coma for almost a month. It was expected that you would be agitated when you awoke, especially considering everything you’ve been through.”

Shepard’s chest swelled with something like gratitude. A month . She’d only been out for a month, and she had woken up in what she could now tell was Huerta Memorial under the care of a physician she trusted and one of her closest friends. This was nothing like the last time she died. She looked up at Miranda and asked,“Had to put me back together again, I see?”

“I only helped this time,” Miranda explained as she worked to reconnect some of the IVs Shepard had ripped out, “Dr. Michel contacted me a few weeks ago for a consultation about your cybernetic augmentation. I was already on the Citadel, so I came in person to oversee the repairs.”

“Is everything working?”

“Mostly,” Miranda shrugged, “Not quite up to specifications, but your injuries are still healing. With time, you should be fine.”

“And hopefully far away from any more life-threatening battles, yes,” remarked Michel, moving to a terminal near the wall and transferring data collected from her omni-tool scans.

Shepard let out a huff, and let herself recline onto the bed, walls crumbling away at the comforting conversation. She took a breath and let her eyes flutter closed for just a minute, and said, “If I can. If the galaxy will let me.”

“The galaxy’s going to have to,” announced an unmistakable voice from the door, and Shepard bolted upright to face it. To face him .

She hadn’t even heard the door open, and yet there stood her turian, with all that easy confidence he’d always carried himself with and a bouquet of indistinguishable gift shop flowers in each hand. Her pulse jumped, a fact the vitals monitor in the corner was quick to inform her and everyone in the room about. She would never live that one down.

“Garrus!”

“Is that cardiac arrest—“ he motioned toward the screen with one of the bouquets— “Or, uh… are you just happy to see me?”

Shepard just rolled her eyes, unable to stop the grin that twitched at the corners of her mouth as he sauntered up to the bedside.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d like better,” Garrus explained, glancing with uncertainty between the flowers in each hand, “So I got both. There’s also some chocolate and a few books of hanar poetry back at the gift shop if you just absolutely hate the flowers. I can run back down and—“

She laughed and shook her head at him. “They’re perfect.”

“Are you sure?” He examined each bouquet again. “You might need the poetry to bore you back into a coma.”

“I thought that anthology was quite beautiful and romantic, myself,” Michel remarked, amused. She approached Shepard again and administered something that relieved the throbbing pain in her head she’d barely noticed in all the commotion. “There, that should keep you comfortable for a time. I will come and check on you in a few hours ”

“I’ll be going as well,” Miranda said, eyeing Shepard and Garrus knowingly. “Call me if you need anything.”

She turned to follow the doctor out of the room but stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and Shepard? I’m glad we got to see each other again “

Shepard nodded. “So am I.”

With that Miranda left the room, the door sliding shut behind her. Shepard turned her gaze up to Garrus who was already looking at her, pale eyes scanning every inch of her face intently. His mandibles twitched and flared in the very specific way they always did when he was agitated or worried. He shook his head, discarded both bundles of flowers onto the nearby bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, staring off at the wall in silence.

“Shepard I— I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” he said finally, turning to look at her and placing a hand on her leg, “I’d just gone to get some air…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“It’s okay,” she reassured him, reaching for his hand and wondering just how many sleepless hours he’d sat by her bed waiting for her to come to. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, lingering there for several long moments. She brought a hand up to trace the rough ridges of scarring along the right side of his face. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, and he let out a heavy sigh, as if she’d lifted some invisible weight off of him with just the tips of her fingers.

“You know,” she spoke up, breaking the powerful silence between them, “I think I finally have some scars that’ll give you a run for your credits.”

Garrus laughed, but it was quiet—almost sad— and he pulled back to examine her.

“How bad is it,” she asked, “There aren’t any mirrors in here.”

He laughed again, this time with more enthusiasm. “Hell, Shepard, I don’t know. You always were ugly, so it’s hard for me to say.”

“Okay,” she admitted with a smirk, “I had that one coming.”

The room went quiet again, with the exception of the buzzing and whirring of the equipment around them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though— nothing had ever been uncomfortable with Garrus— but it was heavy with unspoken pain and unasked questions for which Shepard wasn’t sure she wanted answers.

“How’s everyone else,” she ventured.

“Recovering,” he answered with a sigh, “Joker tried to outrun the blast, but even the Normandy wasn’t quick enough. Crash landed on some human colony world. Everyone made it except—“

“EDI,” she said, name bitter on her tongue. She’d hoped the catalyst had been lying about the Crucible’s effect on synthetic life.

“Yes… how did you—“

This time, she was not able to dam up the wave of emotions that crashed into her. Tears rushed to her eyes, shame and remorse tightening her chest like a vice. She was a soldier, and she knew that sacrifices won wars, but that did not make it any easier.

“It’s a long story,” she said with a sniff, looking away from him and attempting to wipe away the tears before he could see them, as if he hadn’t already.

“Well—” Garrus reached out and grabbed her chin, gently, giving it a tug until she brought her gaze back to him. “It’s a good thing I cleared my afternoon schedule, then. Tell me everything.”

And so she did. With a shaky voice, she recounted everything that happened from the time she called the evac for Garrus and Liara to the moment she was struck by the Crucible’s blast. She told him about The Illusive Man, Anderson, the Catalyst who wore Kaidan’s face, and the impossible choice she was given. He listened to every word, offered her his hand, and didn’t complain as her grip grew tighter and tighter with each devastating revelation.

When she was finished, eyes swollen and head throbbing, she looked at him and said, “I fucked up, Garrus. I had a chance to save EDI and the geth, but I just… couldn’t do it. I was so angry and… scared , and—“

“Shepard,” Garrus interrupted her, laughing and shaking his head.

“What?”

“You’re about the only person I know who could save the whole damn galaxy and feel guilty because you didn’t save it better.”

“My life isn’t worth more than EDI’s was, and it definitely isn’t more important than the entire geth race,” Shepard argued.

Garrus blinked back at her a few times, then responded. “It is to me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come, so she clamped it shut and frowned. Her entire argument fell apart in the wake of his blunt confession. How the hell was she supposed to respond to something like that?

“It was selfish,” she finally managed past the lump in her throat, “It was genocide.”

“Maybe,” he answered, firmly, “Maybe not. We have no way of knowing that anything the Catalyst told you was true.”

“Why would it lie?”

“I don’t know, maybe to save it’s own ass?” His words were pointed but not directed to her. “It was clearly trying to get in your head, Shepard, using Alenko like that.”

“But—”

“No,” he snapped, “You made the right call, and no one is going to fault you for it except you.”

“ Garrus …” she began, but trailed off when she noticed him looking down at their intertwined fingers, shaking his head and seeming to struggle with his emotions.

When he spoke up, his voice was hoarse. “You’ll forgive me if I say I don’t think you owe anyone—not EDI, not the geth, not the Alliance, not the rest of the galaxy— any more than you’ve already given.”

He paused for a beat, then added in a lighter tone, “Except me. You owe me a long retirement on your fancy Alliance pension.”

Shepard snorted out a laugh, despite everything, and reached up to take his face in her hands. She pulled him closer to her, just so that she could press a kiss against the side of his mouth.

“I’ll think about it,” she whispered.

Just as they pulled apart, the door opened and they both turned to see who had entered. Dr. Michel stood at the threshold smiling at them apologetically. “I am sorry for the interruption, but—”

“Someone tell Garrus to quit hogging the Commander,” complained an all too familiar voice as he pushed past the doctor and into the room. “The rest of us have been waiting just as long as he has.”

“Joker,” Shepard exclaimed, nearly jumping up out of the bed to greet him.

“The one and only,” he said proudly then held up a small plastic crate to show her, “And I brought you something. Basically had to wrestle the Alliance brass for it when they declared you dead.”

“What—,” she asked as she squinted at the box, noticing movement in the corner, “Is that my hamster?”

He sat the container down carefully on the table next to the flowers Garrus had tossed aside, “It’s not two bouquets of useless flowers or anything, but, well…you know.”

“We can’t all be as romantic as you,” Garrus said sarcastically as he stood up and stepped away from the bed, allowing the other man space to approach Shepard.

“Thank you, Joker,” Shepard said with a nod as she sat up in the bed, “And about EDI, I—“

He cut her off with the shake of his head, clearly not ready to discuss it. “Not your fault, Commander.”

Shepard just nodded, sorry, but not wanting to force the issue. Joker puffed his chest out and saluted her, just as more commotion rang out from the door. She darted her eyes across the room again to see the flood of other people pouring in from the hallway.

Ash was the first to rush to the bedside, throwing appropriate Alliance protocol out the window as she threw her arms unceremoniously around Shepard. The embrace was firm, but not so forceful that it caused her aching body any extra pain, and when Ash pulled away, Shepard could see the tears glistening in her eyes. She stiffened up and saluted just as Joker had done, and said “Ma’am.”

Much to Shepard’s surprise, Ash then approached Garrus and embraced him briefly as well, pulling away and then giving him a pat on the arm.

The others followed suit after that, offering words of gratitude that she had saved the galaxy, and relief that she’d managed to pull through. Tali and Liara had followed Ash’s example and hugged her. The others didn’t but greeted her with enthusiasm all the same. Vega mentioned how “epic” it was when the fleet realized she’d made it to the Citadel and got the arms opened while Traynor and Cortez nodded along. Javik, in his typical fashion stood quietly in the corner but nodded at her with a look of admiration she had yet to see from the Prothean. Dr. Chakwas and the crew from engineering squeezed themselves in the now cramped space as well. Chakwas approached the bed and gave Shepard’s hand a firm squeeze.

Humbling was not a strong enough word to describe the experience of seeing everyone who’d been on the Normandy with her in that final journey to Earth gathered around celebrating her survival. They had all meant so much to her, and only now did she realize that she’d meant the same to them.

She’d grown accustomed to being a sole survivor, watching her own back and carrying on alone with each of her mistakes strapped to her shoulders. She was used to blaming herself with the voices of those she lost, of nightmares and flashbacks and consoling herself back to sleep in the middle of the night. She had trained herself to be numb because she could not bear feeling guilty.

Now, she didn’t have to. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she had people who cared about her, people who she trusted, and they had survived. For the first time, she wasn’t alone with her grief and she didn’t have to be numb. She had friends who would hold her together while she sorted herself out, just as she had done for each and every one of them.

“You okay,” Garrus asked as he approached the bedside again, letting a hand tousle her hair gently before falling to her shoulder.

“Yeah.” She nodded and glanced around the room slowly, taking it all in. “I really actually am.”

#mass effect #mass effect legendary edition #garrus vakarian #femshep #shakarian #angst #hurt/comfort #fanfic #my writing

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kiki-shortsnout · 3 years ago

Note

For intimacy prompts: #36 being pushed against a wall for Frostironstrange! 💚❤️💙

I might have cheated a little and made it a door....

***

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion Stephen had much experience with. He’d been top of his field when he’d been a doctor, a pioneer, a trailblazer, he was the one people regarded with envy. Even in his romantic life, jealousy wasn’t an emotion he’d fallen victim to, never having formed a lasting attachment to another person.

He knew the root of the emotion stemmed from a feeling of insecurity, that the best thing he could do was turn his gaze inward and think about his own personal growth, to address his feelings of low self-esteem.

This…didn’t feel like feelings of low self-esteem. It felt like a coiled ball of barbed wire and razor blades sitting in his stomach, strangling the life out of him every time he saw them together.

The words on the page wavered as his eyes went unfocused, his ears straining to hear sounds of them whispering, torturing himself further by hearing fragments of their conversation, his mind filling in the blanks.

Why couldn’t it have been me?

Stephen had fallen in love with Tony first. He’d agonized over that, spent countless nights thinking about the reason why, if the rationale behind his jealousy was born from some adolescent feeling such as, I saw him first so therefore he’s mine, but that wasn’t it.

A bond had formed between them when fighting Thanos, a trust that Stephen seldom found in others. He knew Tony, probably better than anyone else in the world after his little exploration of millions of possible outcomes, but that wasn’t what made him fall in love.

It was the man’s determination, his courage, his sarcasm, all wrapped up in an appealing aesthetic package that was Tony Stark. He had been willing to sacrifice himself for the world, just as Stephen had sacrificed countless lives in the Dark Dimension, and at that moment against Thanos, Stephen knew he’d found someone in this huge, boundless universe who could understand him.

He looked up at that moment, staring at Tony across the gloomy Sanctum library. His legs were folded beneath him on the armchair, his elbow on the desk as he rested his head on it, idly swiping through his Starkpad as he worked.

Stephen hadn’t been able to let him die, had used every possible resource he possessed and those around him to save his life. He hadn’t even known Tony that long, but he had still sobbed alongside Rhodey and Pepper as Tony finally inhaled a lungful of battle charred air after excruciating seconds of being dead.

Sensing Stephen’s stare, Tony glanced up, giving him a gorgeous smile, the type that sent euphoric sensations squirming through his stomach. Ignoring Tony’s mouthed question asking him if he was okay, Stephen turned back to his book.

He’d never understood what it meant to love someone until the moment he’d lost Tony. Despite already witnessing millions of potential lifetimes, ignoring millions more, Stephen still wanted to remain by Tony’s side, as a friend, a lover, whatever capacity he was allowed as long as he could be part of the man’s life.

‘What’s got your attention, Anthony? I’m over here.’

Then Loki had happened.

The trickster had faked his death at Thanos’s hand. Not for his own personal gain this time, it was the only way he could save Thor and Bruce, ensure that Thanos would leave whatever Asgardians he hadn’t slaughtered alone. Stephen had doubted Loki’s intentions were as honorable as that, believe a large part of his actions were to save his own hide, but he wasn’t made of stone, despite how he was perceived, and Thor begging him to help find his brother hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

It was Tony asking him to help bring Loki home, to give him the second chance they’d all had at some point in their lives, that swayed Stephen into action. The man didn’t even know about his repressed feelings, and even then, he was powerless to Tony’s wishes.

‘Lokes, I can barely concentrate as it is when you’re near me,’ Tony flirted.

He ripped the corner of the page from the tightness of his grip.

Stephen couldn’t actually put a finger on the exact moment where his feelings for the God of Mischief had changed from irritation to begrudging respect.

And then into complex complicated feelings of their own.

But he’d known when Loki’s and Tony’s relationship had changed, had seen the way both of them looked at the other, the swollen lips after they returned from meetings.

‘Stephen? Everything alright?’ Tony asked, destroying the painful recollections, making him look up at them both. They were trying to hide their relationship from him, and he wasn’t sure why.

I’m not important enough to know.

‘Yup,’ Stephen snapped, slamming his book shut and throwing it onto the desk between them.

‘Usually, you only look like that after I have spoken to you,’ Loki teased, placing both hands flat on the desk and leaning forward, goading him. That was their relationship, provoking each other, encouraging character growth through spite and teasing.

Today it felt like salt was scouring the wounds on Stephen’s soul.

He needed to control these feelings, these emotions. He’d already convinced himself that he was content with being Tony’s friend, that whatever stirrings of interest he had towards Loki had to be his libido talking. Tony Stark deserved whatever happiness he could find, and Stephen was the biggest advocate for it.

‘No, you’re not, honey.’

Stephen flinched in his chair as he looked up, Tony directly in front of him, his hand reaching out. The way his eyes had become soft and tender with worry for him made Stephen want to weep, to launch himself forward into his arms and speak his deepest desires.

They already have each other. There isn’t room for you.

He batted Tony’s hand away, ignoring the way the man flinched even as a wash of shamed nausea crept over him.

What are you expecting, Strange? That they’ll include you? That Tony will leave Loki for you? Normal people don’t have two partners.

‘Hey, it’s okay…I didn’t mean to scare you, we can leave if you’ve got things on your mind,’ Tony reassured, taking a step back.

‘Nothing’s on my mind,’ Stephen answered straight away, his voice coming out too loud and panicked. He saw Loki’s eyebrow raise in question, the Asgardian looking between them both, analyzing.

Shit.

‘Stephen, something’s obviously wrong, and I don’t think it’s because you don’t understand…’ Tony paused, tilting his head so he could try and read the title of Stephen’s book. ‘Yeah…I don’t know what you’re reading. Look, if it’s something I did don’t be shy,’ Tony told him with a playful grin, but Stephen knew what was behind it, the insecurity he hid behind those smiles.

‘No! It’s nothing you’ve done,’ Stephen lurched forward to grasp Tony’s elbows before remembering who else was with them. Immediately he let go, shoving his chair back with the force he used to escape. Cursing his treacherous body, his gaze went to Loki who was watching the whole thing unfold with shrewd eyes.

‘Come on, asshole, what is it? I’m not a mind reader you know.’

‘No, but I am. I have a glorious feeling this is going to be fascinating,’ Loki’s silky voice wrapped around them both, his fingers lit up with his magic.

He can’t find out.

‘Leave me alone…’ he spat, his hands readying themselves to create a portal as he leapt to his feet. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Deadly,’ Loki growled, extending his fingers with a snap, his emerald magic twisting forward and nullifying the portal Stephen had been trying to create.

I need to get out of here.

‘What? What’s going on? Loki, stop it don’t-’ Tony yelped as Stephen launched himself into a run, barreling him over in his haste to escape. Loki gave chase, both of them scrabbling against the wooden floor as they sprinted to the door.

Tony can’t know. Neither of them can know.

Stephen ignored Tony’s frantic shouts for them to stop, the burn in his lungs as he ran, the pain in his shoulders as he collided with the bookcases. Books rained down on him, the library around him fading to one, singular point.

Get to the door!

He could hear Loki hot on his heels, felt the tendrils of his magic trying to ensnare him, his snarls of frustration as Stephen ducked and weaved around the bookcases, no finesse to his movements, just a dogged determination to escape the situation.

Crying out in relief when he made it to the door first, he skidded to a halt when the Cloak billowed up, blocking the way, trapping Stephen inside.

‘They can’t find out! Move!’ Stephen hissed at the Cloak.

The Cloak shook its collar, spreading itself out so it appeared huge.

‘Please!’ Stephen pleaded, his voice cracking. ‘I’ll lose them both otherwise!’

‘What the hell is going on? Are we under attack?’ Feet pounded on the floor behind him, the sounds of his suit forming was audible even over Stephen’s pounding heart.

Think. Think!

Reaching forward to rip aside the Cloak, Stephen found himself slammed against the back of the door, a lithe muscled body pressed against him, and a hot mouth sealed over his. Despite wanting to moan into it, the electric current of unbridled lust surging inside of him, he didn’t stop fighting to escape.

He didn’t want to hurt Tony with his lustful feelings and burgeoning affection for his lover, didn’t want to damage their friendship. Then there was Loki, whose tales of cruelty had reached them all. Who knew what he would do to Stephen for coveting his lover? He would desecrate the feelings he held dear, spinning this into a story that they shared with other while in bed, their mocking laughter surrounding them.

‘Desist your struggles, Strange,’ Loki whispered when he stopped, leaving another scorching kiss on his lips as he held him still. ‘Your feelings are making you foolish. You know I cannot read minds, yet you crumbled under your fear and left your true self bare.’

Stephen strained against the hold, his head banging back against the heavy door, nails gripping the wood. Loki didn’t budge, his strength far exceeding Stephen’s, but he moved his hands to his forearms, allowing the blood to flow back into his damaged hands with a pained hiss.

‘Sorry,’ Loki murmured. ‘It is not my intent to-’

‘You already knew I had feelings for him,’ Stephen hissed, looking over Loki’s shoulder, trying to understand what the expression on Tony’s face was, memorizing the detail of him before he’d be no longer allowed to look.

I never wanted this to happen.

‘Yes, but I did not know of your attraction to me. Which makes this conversation so much simpler,’ Loki answered.

‘What conversation?’

‘You are not alone in your feelings, darling,’ Loki called over his shoulder, his sharp green gaze never leaving Stephen’s.

He slumped in Loki’s hold, hanging his head as shame burned his cheeks.

‘You’re not listening to my words, Stephen.’ Loki brought his head down to whisper in his ear, adjusting his grip so Stephen could rest against him, holding him instead of restraining him. Even with all of the panic making him light-headed, his chest flayed open for all to see, Stephen still took the time to breathe in Loki’s scent, the unique alienness of it.

‘Stephen? Is Loki right? Do you…have feelings for me?’ Tony asked, his voice wavering in bewilderment.

Rubbing his head against Loki’s shoulder for a moment, Stephen took a huge, quivering breath before he drew back, trying to find his courage.

‘No, Loki’s voice rumbled through his chest, oscillating through to Stephen’s skin. ‘It isn’t just lust you have for me. You hold feelings for us both.’

‘Stephen?’

‘Yes. God, I’m sorry, I fell for you, months ago, Tony,’ Stephen sighed, not looking at him, staring at the glossy black hair brushing against Loki’s collarbone. ‘I knew you were together, thought I could be happy…No, I wanted to be happy for you-’

Stephen stumbled as Loki vanished from before him, flailing until he was caught by Tony’s smaller frame. He only had a second to figure out what had happened before he was being kissed again, a sharp whipcrack of shock drowning out any thoughts.

He retained enough sense to break apart, his gaze seeking out Loki, fearful of retribution. Loki’s façade cracked at his stare, relaxing into an expression he’d often seen him look at Tony with.

‘You were blinded by what you did not have, saw only what you wanted to see. You never realized that Anthony was watching you too, snatching gazes of you when you were preoccupied with your melancholy.’

Stephen looked down at Tony in his arms, his brown eyes blazing in that look of determination he’d fallen for.

‘Stephen, I…you too? I never thought…you never gave any indication of-’

Stephen silenced the words with a kiss, reaching up to cup Tony’s face with his hand, expressing everything he could through his actions, his longing, his repressed desire, his love. Their tears mingled together, seeping down to their lips, binding their kiss with suffering sweetness.

‘Idiots, the both of you,’ Loki said, wrapping his arms around them. ‘I know this type of relationship might not be considered… acceptable on Midgard, but I believe now that I know of your feelings, it would be wise to explore the possibilities.’

‘This, this isn’t normal though,’ Stephen mumbled against Tony’s lips, lifting his free hand so he could grip hold of Loki.

‘Who cares about normal? I’m Tony Stark, I do what I want,’ Tony asserted, kissing him soundly on the lips, before turning and kissing Loki’s jaw.

‘Ineloquent as always, but I believe this time the sentiment comes across nicely,’ Loki said, eyes closing as he accepted Tony’s bestowed kiss.

‘You both? How long?’

‘Since Thanos-’

‘Since you found me-’

They answered together. It was Loki who blushed though, uncertain how his own declaration would be taken.

‘I’ve known Tony longer, understood and accepted my feelings for him before I found you, but that doesn’t mean what I’m feeling towards you isn’t real, Loki,’ Stephen assured, his confidence growing, the earlier panic and fear dispelled by their touch.

Loki swallowed and nodded once, his grip tightening before he took a step back, gesturing at the Cloak to move aside.

‘I realize we’ve forced this confession from you, and if you would rather take some time to-’

‘Do you want to go on a date?’ Tony interrupted.

‘A date?’ Loki deadpanned.

‘A date? Like drinks? Food? Music? Somewhere we can get to…well not know each other better, but talk. About what this means for us?’ Tony encouraged, his gaze darting between them both.

‘Anthony. I do not think-’

‘A date sounds great,’ Stephen interrupted him this time, pressing his lips together to hide his amusement at Loki’s confusion, reaching down to take both their hands in his.

#frostironstrange #fanfic prompt #ask answered #thank you so much #thanks for this!#stephen strange #tony stark #Loki #Yet more Kiki prompts!

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yusuke-of-valla · 3 years ago

Text

Peace of Mind

Whumptober Day 3 Prompt: “Who did this to you?”

Summary: Shiho decides to find out what Ann is keeping from her.

Wordcount: 1330

TW: Mentions of Kamoshida, mentions of abuse, nothing explicit.

AO3

Ann, bless her heart, is a terrible liar.

She passes of cuts and bruises as “work out trainging” or clumsiness, but Shiho isn’t stupid. She knows Ann is lying to her and that hurts. Wasn’t keeping secrets from each other what caused all the trouble with Kamoshida?

The voice of Shiho’s therapist reminds her that Kamoshida is responsible for all that trouble with Kamoshida, but even if that’s true, that thought doesn’t help. Her therapist says it will, eventually, but eventually isn’t good enough because Ann’s being hurt now.

They go for a walk and Ann can barely keep up because she’s so sore. Shiho slows down to keep pace, and asks, gently, if everything’s alright.

“Everything’s great!” Ann says, cheery as always, and something in Shiho’s heart twists because Ann means it. She’s lying when she says she got knocked over at a photo shoot or that she cut herself cooking, but she’s telling the truth when she says things are fine.

Ann’s getting hurt and she thinks it’s fine.

Shiho wants to be sick.

Her parents are touchy about her going anywhere near Shujin, so the school is a no go. Instead, she hangs around Shibuya keeping an eye out for familiar faces before she finally spots Ryuji. She weaves through the crowd, trying to catch up with him and breathes a sigh of relief when he finally stops near the accessway.

Shiho finally manages to catch up with him when the world rips itself apart.

The people disappear and Shiho stops cold. The sky is red suddenly, and the air feels wrong. On the bright side, Shiho now has a clearer view of Ryuji. Ryuji who is... wearing a strange costume? And also with a bunch of other strange looking people. There’s someone with a mop of black fluffy hair… Kurusu? And then there’s one in a catsuit with twintails and.

Oh.

Ooooooooooooh.

Ann is a Phantom Thief. They’re all Phantom Thieves. Shiho kind of hates how much sense it makes. Because of course Ann would fight Kamoshida for her. And given that they have weapons, it probably involves fighting somehow?

Well, that answers some of Shiho’s questions. It raises many many more but at least she now understands why Ann was lying. She isn’t sure it’s safe though and Shiho… really wants Ann to be safe. So, while Ann and the others are busy discussing something, Shiho slips behind a post so they can’t see her. She’s not going to stay long, she just wants to get a sense of how much danger Ann is in for herself, since Ann is clearly willing to downplay things for Shiho’s sake.

And what do you intend to do if she is in grave danger? You think you’ll be able to stop her?

Shiho’s nails bite into her palms. She… she doesn’t want to be kept in the dark at least. Even if she can’t stop Ann, she wants to know. The Phantom Thieves start down the stairs and Shiho follows closely, trying to match their pace, but that doesn’t last long.

The tunnels don’t have nearly as much space to hide, so Shiho has to stay behind a bit further so she can hide behind corners and hidden areas. Still, she manages to keep up.

Or she thinks she does, but she ends up in an open area and they’ve all disappeared.

“Are you serious?” Shiho moans. Gah, this is probably why they’re called “Phantom” Thieves. Her best bet at this point is probably to turn back the way she came when there’s movement out of the corner of her eye.

Shiho brandishes the baseball bat she brought (what you thought she would go to investigate her best friend's mysterious injuries and not show up ready for a fight?)

“Who’s there!”

“I think I could ask you that first.” One of the Phantom Thieves slips out of the shadows -- one of the ones Shiho doesn’t recognize, a tall guy wearing blue. “You’ve been following us since the station. Who are you?”

“I’m-“

“Shiho?!” Both of them turn to see Ann leave her hiding spot. Shiho has a good look at Ann’s outfit which is uh… very reminiscent of the types of outfits supervillains on shows Shiho really enjoyed watching used to wear. Shiho’s thankful for the red lighting of wherever they are because that’s probably hiding her blushing.

Probably.

Hopefully.

“What are you doing here?” Ann asks.

“Uh… making sure you’re alright?” Shiho says, fumbling with her bat. “I mean you were clearly lying about the bruises and the injuries so I just wanted to know.”

The rest of them have caught up now and Ryuji looks at Shiho’s bat. “Wait, were you planning to investigate Ann’s injuries and just… start swingin’ if you found out who caused them?”

“Yes.”

“Hell yeah!” Ryuji puts his hand up and Shiho returns his high five.

“Let’s not encourage people rushing into danger unprepared,” a thief who kind of looks like -- oh what was her name? Niijima! That’s right, -- the student council president says.

“Isn’t that literally what you did three days ago?” Kurusu replies.

The thief-who-is-probably-Niijima’s face goes red under her mask. “Well yes, and I think we can all agree that was a bad decision.”

“We can catch up later,” the tiny... cat thief thing? (Wait -- no. He’s a literal Cat Burglar!) who Shiho completely missed says. “Hanging around too long in one spot is dangerous, especially with someone who can’t fight.”

“I’m not helpless.” Shiho says. She wants to sound tough, but it sounds like she’s pouting, even to her.

“Mona didn’t mean it that way,” Ann says, placing an arm on Shiho’s shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

That should be the end of it. They pile into the cat burglar (Mona’s)? My Neighbor Totoro-inspired bus form, and they leave Shiho at the entrance and Shiho continues worrying over Ann, even though she knows what’s going on now.

Ah, but how often are things that simple?

They’re almost at the exit when some huge hulking mass barrels into the side of the bus, and suddenly the group is surrounded by strange looking monsters. Ann and Ryuji waste no time putting Shiho between the two of them. Niijima is doing something to help the unconscious Mona. One of the monsters sends out a blast that chills Shiho to the bone. The tall one whose name Shiho hasn’t learned looks takes it the best of them, standing tall and immediately going in to counter attack.

Ann and Kurusu take it the worst, in taking sharp breaths and shivering due to the cold. Shiho rushes to Ann’s side, taking off her jacket and putting it over Ann.

As if that will help.

Ryuji’s looking at Kurusu, incredibly concerned, but throws a look back at Shiho. He’s tense. Shiho’s heart gets caught in her throat. He doesn’t want to leave her. He wants to protect her.

Because she’s always getting protected, isn’t she?

Hmm it seems as though you can’t do anything.

The words are true, and they are devastating. But still, Shiho grits her teeth and stands up. “No. I can do something. There has to be something.”

Suddenly, pain rips through her skull. She doesn’t flinch though, because even if it’s excruciating, well. She’s felt worse.

Very good. If it seems like there are no paths before you, ‘tis best to cut your own, isn’t it? If we’re in agreement, shall we forge our contract?

Shiho’s hands find her face, and after digging her nails beneath the hunk of metal in front of her eyes, it’s easy to rip it off.

“Isabel! I need you!”

A burst of energy shakes the very foundations of the tunnel they’re in. There’s a large disk in Shiho’s hand, a gem that shines a brilliant blue even amidst the red light of the tunnel placed in the center. She doesn’t really understand what just happened, and she doesn’t care.

Shiho Suzui is going to fight.

#whumptober2021 #no.3 #who did this to you #persona 5 #fic #mentions of abuse #alto writes #shiho suzui #shihoann #wordcount: 1000-1500 #'oh this'll just be a quick Shiho awakening fic!'#narrator: it was not quick #phantom thief Shiho #First yusuke appearance of the month everyone! How long til he suffers #(spoiler alert: it's gonna be like 3-4 days)

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aotimagines · 4 years ago

Note

Can you also do a scenario for Levi with Hanahaki disease?

I haven’t written a scenario for Levi since 2018 and this is what I come back with. Um...I’m so sorry. Angst is my forte and it’s easy for me to write, so...yikes. I also listened to drivers’ license on repeat to set the ambiance for this piece and now I’m sad, lol. Sorry! Maybe I’ll write something happier for Levi to make up for this one, lmao. Enjoy!

It was happening again.

The tightness in your chest constricted your lungs like a snake had coiled around the base of your throat and squeezed, cutting off the air to your lungs. Your head spun, black dotting across your vision, and the uncontrollable urge to cough itched in the back of your throat. You had to hold it down. ‘Please, not here,’ you mentally begged to any entity listening above the skyline to not expose your dirtiest, darkest secret to your colleagues. Your nails dug into the wooden table, leaving behind crescent-shaped marks in the cherry-colored lacquer and the color drained from your cheeks.

No one would notice your struggle if you kept it together, you reasoned. Hange was going over something about Marley and you had, admittedly, tuned out about thirty minutes ago. Whatever it was had to be important because they had everyone’s attention, to your knowledge. Out of the corner of your eye, you were vaguely aware of Levi’s sharp, piercing gaze lingering on your face, but you squeezed your eyes shut and internally begged him to just look away.

Inside of your chest, the flower that bloomed burned like a kindling ember, the stems brushing against your lungs and taking up space you needed to breathe. Experiencing this was painful, but it was nothing like the white-hot agony you felt whenever you realized that the person you loved would never return your feelings.

You had tried to let go—had tried to release your feelings and live with your fragmented heart—but nothing had worked. How could it when the person whose affections you desperately wanted worked alongside you every day, helping and caring about you in his own awkward, weird way? It wasn’t fucking fair that you had to live like this.

Except you didn’t. You knew about the removal process and, as a soldier, you knew that it was what you needed to do for yourself, for the future and for humanity. Every time you thought about getting the surgery performed, the aching of your fragile heart—the singular bloom of hope still lingering in the pit of your stomach—protested against the idea. You had never felt this way for anyone before in your life; how could you just ignore that and have the flower removed? How could you forget about happiness that the feelings gave you, or how it felt to just be by his side in silence of the night?

Living with this flower growing inside of you was painful, but the thought of having to give up Levi Ackerman was excruciating.

“That’s all I wanted to talk about today! If everyone could follow me, I want to discuss some improvements to the thunder spears I’ve been working on…” Hange’s voice flooded through your reverie, snapping you back to reality. Your knuckles were stark-white from the tight grip you had about the wooden table, your fingers easing from the leg once the feeling of having to cough seemingly passed.

As the group shuffled out of the room, there was one person who waited—one person whose unreadable facial expression made you tense up where you sat. “Four-eyes was that boring?” his flat voice drawled and, even without looking up, you knew his slate-colored irises were glued to where you sat. It had you anxious, the sensation of having to cough flaring up in the back of your throat once more. Instead of answering verbally, you shook your head and prayed that Levi would take the hint that you wanted to be alone. The sound of his shoes reverberating off the flooring allowed the tension you had been holding between your shoulders to dissipate, a wave of relief washing across your body. You were finally alone to cough in peace.

The instant you opened your lips to try and draw in a shaky breath, it began. A powerful cough strangled your breathing, the sensation of something lodged deep inside the back of your throat causing your body to lurch forward. Tears pricked your eyes as your coughing turned into violent dry heaving, the wheeze from your lungs desperately trying to push out the planet inside of your body echoing throughout the room. Hange and rest of the Survey Corps’ higher ups were probably in the weapons room by now, leaving you alone to your own suffering. Your fingertips dug into the stone flooring, your sputtering finally expelling the first fist-full of bright-blue, blood-slicked flowers from deep within your chest. Once it began, it didn’t stop. Over and over again, you threw up the bright flowers, their beauty tainted with the crimson blood dribbling from each and every petal.

At some point, you became aware of a hand resting against your back, dread serving as an anchor tethering you to where you knelt on the floor. When your gagging calmed down, you sharply sucked air in through your teeth, desperate to catch your breath and stop the feeling of your head swimming. You knew you were covered in spit, blood, and forget-me-not petals, but you didn’t care about your physical appearance. The person at your side didn’t have to speak—you already knew who was at your side.

“Please,” you croaked, voice husky and hoarse from having just coughed up over a dozen flowers in one go, “don’t say anything. Please, Levi.”

“You want me to sit back and watch you kill yourself?” came his blunt remark, much to your dismay. He wasn’t going to let it go; of course he wasn’t. The two of you had been together for a decade at this point and the worry that he felt for you buzzed through the air like electricity.

Your wild eyes met his taciturn expression, tears streaking down your face. “I don’t want to talk about this. Why did you even come back in here?”

“If you were hiding this, you did a shit job. You acted weird throughout the meeting. How long?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Levi clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Is that something you could be saying?” He was quiet, gaze flickering to the pool of flowers on the ground before tentatively bringing up in a quiet tone that was almost uncharacteristic of him, “You’re dying, and you didn’t say anything. Were you just going to lie down and not fight this?”

A laugh bubbled from the back of your throat, disbelief written across your face. Pushing off the floor, you sat back on your knees. “I don’t want to have the surgery.”

“…That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Levi brought himself to his feet, hands brushing off the imaginary dust that clung to his clothing. Without much warning, his hand hooked around your arm and hoisted you up, his strength guiding you towards the door. “You want to die? Then do it under someone else’s watch.”

“Let go,” you demanded, yanking your arm away from his grip. Frustration simmered inside of your veins, your hurt and anguish for this man finally spilling out in one fell swoop. Hot, fresh tears gushed from your eyes, yet you made no move to conceal them. Your heart was, for the first time in over ten years, on display for Levi to see and the fear of his rejection wasn’t enough for you to keep your silence any longer. “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t do! So what if I don’t want the surgery? So what if I’m being stupid? Even though I’m like this, I can’t let go! So, what am I supposed to do, Levi?”

The raven-haired male was silent for a moment, drinking in your broken features with a glint of concern etched into his body language. It was faint and difficult to see, but you knew him like the back of your hand; it was easy to tell and see what he was thinking, at this point. His lack of response prompted you to shake your head, your voice small and as fragile as splintered glass as you asked, “Is there really no way you’d love me back? Am I putting myself through hell for nothing?”

Levi was tight-lipped, body tense and unmoving as he continued to study you. Desperate, you latched onto the sleeves of his jacket, voice thick with tears. “I fucking love you, Levi. If there’s even a chance for you to feel the same, please tell me.”

A long, drawn out pause filled the air until Levi’s fingertips—calloused from years of training and fighting—uncurled your hands from his frame, features pressed into the same, apathetic expression you were so used to him wearing. “Get the surgery,” he said firmly, his singular sentence tearing you asunder from the inside out. Your face crumpled, the flower inside of your chest throbbing painfully at the notion that he would never love you back.

No matter how much you wanted him, Levi Ackerman wasn’t in love with you.

“I’m telling Hange when I walk out this door. Once it’s over, things can…go back to the way they were.” Helplessly, you watched Levi exit the room, missing the way his features twisted in misery as he listened to you collapse into yourself, your sobbing playing again and again inside of his head.

How could he promise you something when everyone he ever loved withered and died underneath his touch? You were too precious to lose, even if it killed him in the end.

Inside of his chest, a familiar burn pulsated, the urge to cough becoming more and more difficult to ignore even as his legs carried him down the hall.

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi scenario #levi imagines #levi ackerman images #levi ackerman scenario #aot imagines #snk imagines #snk x reader #aot x reader #mod elle #y'all i'm sorry lol

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internalsealpanic · 4 years ago

Text

Love Through the Ages (Tim Drake)

Summary: Love like baggage needs to be declared.

a/n: This is part two of a series that is a fic rec list disguised as a fic. For these fics, most of the characters will be speaking different languages, so unless specified otherwise assume that the characters are speaking in the first language I mention. They’re all vampires with centuries under their belt. Why wouldn’t I make them all polyglots. Also, thank you to the proof reading gang for putting up with my shenanigans. I will have links to the fics I recommend in the fic itself.

Warnings: Everyone is dramatic.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist.

You watch the rusty green of the warehouse wall disappear behind a spray of orange paint. There is nothing more satisfying than watching paint make old things new.

A whistle interrupts your reverie, making the can slip from your hand. You swear, the harsh syllables echoing in the empty air. The can bounces down the scaffold and lands in someone’s hands. Tim’s face gets sprayed with a mist of orange. He makes a noise and rubs at his face. You bark out a laugh and he grimaces at you. The begrudging fondness obvious on his face.

He waves at you, eyes still stinging from the paint. Giddiness flourishes in your chest. “I knew I’d find you here!” He shouts in a dialect of Mandarin that you hadn’t heard in ages.

It takes you a moment to understand him. You’re honestly extremely rusty. It takes you another moment to realize that it made no sense for him to find you. “How?” You shout back in Romanian.

Tim shakes his head, throwing his hand over his shoulder. “Open canvas.”

You snort, looking down at him. Tim’s breath catches as he stares up at you, your smile. You’re haloed by sunlight. You look like an angel descending from heaven.

Tim’s forced to pick up his jaw when he hears your voice again. You’re tapping your watch. The words are lost to him.

“What?!”

You shake your head, strands of hair coming loose from behind your ear. “I asked...” You shout in a coarse frawl. “... Isn’t it a bit early for you to be here?”

It was.

He was only 30 minutes early. No big deal.

He shrugs. “I just wanted to watch you paint.” He says, trailing off. Oh God, Tim thinks. Does he sound lovesick? Is Cassie right? He pushes the thoughts down, opting to look at the building instead. On the side of the building was an immaculate portrait of the Red Hood rendered like a saint, haloed in golden light and surrounded by your orange marigolds. It would look at home in any grand cathedral. Your talents never ceased to amaze him.

“Should I ask why you’re defacing a building?”

You turn back to the building picking up a can of yellow paint. You tilt your head. “It’s a massive improvement, yes?”

Tim looks around. The pavement is littered with wet trash mixed. The buildings were rusted. Everything else is covered in grime. “You’re rude… but not wrong.”

You preen, electing to ignore the first half. You turn back to your canvas before Tim can get another word in. He knows he’s lost you.

“So, why *the* Red Hood?”

You look away from the portrait, setting the can of yellow spray paint. It sprays your sweatshirt and Tim laughs. You stick your tongue out at his face flushing. You liked this sweatshirt. He gave it to you the last time you had meandered into Gotham. “Why not? We’re in the Bowery. He’s like a saint here.” You snip, switching to Russian. Ok, that made sense. You toss your sweatshirt into Tim’s face. The fabric is lousy with the smell of paint and of 5-hour energy drinks. It was an improvement over the pungent odor of garbage.

He tries to rub the orange paint on his face away before he tucks your sweatshirt beneath his arm. You’re still looking down at him, wry amusement on your face. “I’ll paint your beloved Red Robin when I get to China Town. Heard he was quite popular in those parts.”

Tim’s heart flutters. He stutters out his next question. “Why are you using spray paint for this type of illustration?”

“Kon said I couldn’t do it.”

Tim snickers, “As if Kon could tell the difference.”

You frown only realizing your mistake. You curse under your breath. Tim doesn’t stop laughing at you. “Shut up!” You snarl.

Tim dodges the next paint can you throw but the next one hits him square in the face. You grin triumphantly. Tim raises a middle finger at you and you giggle in response. You feel bad, seeing him wince in pain. You’d buy him apology tea later but for now, you clasp your hands and call out to him sweetly. “Sorry, Timmers!”

Tim, equally as mature and well aware that you’re only half sorry, blows out a breath, muttering something colorful before shouting back: “we should get going if we wanna eat out after looting the museum.”

At that, you launch yourself off the scaffolding, your body feeling weightless as it falls. Tim drops your sweatshirt as he holds his arms out to catch you. He catches you easily. You two spin as you wrap your arms around him.

“You are certifiably insane.” He laughs. His nose smooshed against yours.

“And so are you.” You snort, hugging him.

He hugs you back. You hum so softly into his hair that Tim wouldn’t be able to tell it from a breath if he were human. Tim holds you close, hugging your waist tightly. He doesn’t really want to let you go. You don’t either. You and Tim stand there for a bit when you hear his cell beep.

“Why does your phone sound like a pager?”

“Because Babs told me how to.”

“That literally explains nothing.”

“I’m not taking crap from the gremlin who had ‘Baby Shark’ as their ringtone for 12 months. WILLINGLY.”

You pout at him, your face so close to his. Tim’s only half paying attention to your defense. To be fair, it basically boiled down to ‘it isn’t that bad’ and ‘Bart’s ringtone is worse’.

After a short shopping trip and a cab ride later, you arrive at the museum in fresh clothes and less paint on his face for Tim.

“All the World’s a Stage. They botched it! The nerve! The barbarity of it all. It's just like when they botched ‘Words with Friends’ or ‘In Ice We Trust’ or even ‘Tomcat’. That last one was pretty much gift wrapped for them!” You say throwing up your hands nearly hitting Tim and whatever poor bastard was unlucky enough to be behind you.

“For someone who isn't invested in modern media, you're getting fired up.” Tim chuckles, eyes flickering behind you. You had managed to miss the people behind you but you do have a rather conspicuous space behind you.

“They had such good material to work with” you say, gesticulating wildly. “And- and they butchered it.”

“You need a 5 minute breather?” Tim asks, resting a hand on your back.

“Shut up,” you laugh.

Tim grins at you as if he had no idea what this ultimate betrayal feels like.

Determined to prove him wrong, you say : “C'mon, Timothy, you ranted like this when they botched the star thingy.”

“It’s Star Wars, you heathen.”

“Star. Thingy.” You repeat, crossing your arms.

Tim squints at you. You know he’s not gonna blow up at you but somehow that’s scarier.

“You can pay for your own cab later.” He grumbles.

“Star. Thing-Y.”

Tim turns to leave. This always worked. Always without fail, you grab at his hand, lacing your fingers with his. Tim tries not to smile.

“Fine.”

“Was that so hard?”

“It was excruciating actually.”

“You're being dramatic.” He says, showing the woman behind the ticket counter your passes.

“Excuse me, I left all my drama in the Renaissance.”

“Oh really?”

“Ok not really but admit that both Andromeda and Stars, Forgive Me have better writing.“ You bite out.

“I- That’s unfair,” he says. You raise your brow in response.

“...”

“Fine,” he sighs. “But admit that Andromeda should have been named ‘Space Whores’.”

You squint at him then smile. “Oh abso-posi-tute-ly.”

“Have you seen this dirty old hockey mask?” You ask, tapping the glass as if the hockey mask would react if you just agitate it enough.

“What is that?” Tim asks, looking over your shoulder. His brows crinkles when he sees the mask. “How is that romantic?”

You hum. “Ask the curator?” You suggest, looking around. He was usually out and about. He could never sit still even if he tried. You lean down narrowing your eyes at the plaque. “Says here some dude called Jason terrorized 3 kids over summer.”

“That’s very romantic for our Jay to do.” Tim says, crossing his arms and switching to Cantonese. It was a weird habit but you knew why. Apparently for all Jason’s skill in languages he somehow could not get a handle on Cantonese.

“Not that Jason.” You say, smirking.

“You sure?” Tim asks, leaning closer to you.

You snicker, “As in character as that would be...”

“True,” he says, edging closer and closer to you. You rock on your heels nervously at the proximity. “It’s a shame, I thought there would be a machete to match too…” You can feel Tim’s breath on your cheek.

“OH LOOK AT THIS.” You say twisting away and pointing to a black and white photo. Tim’s hands leave his sides to grab for you, to pin you to his chest, but he has enough self control not to. Instead, he follows you.

“It’s just a man and a woman in business suits. Yanno something you can see in any metropolitan city.”

“Yes but,” you say, tracing a nonsensical pattern into the air, “I’ve heard a story about this, they were both extremely rich and heads of their companies, went from enemies to lovers - my all time favourite.”

Tim looks closer at the photo of the man and woman with their backs to the camera just holding hands along the NYC sidewalk. It’s cute. “I thought your favorite was lovers to enemies.”

“Well of course, it is! The drama, the absolute tragedy. It’s better than any trope in existence. But I love that this is just black and white. You don’t need anything else to indicate they’re in love with each other.”

Tim is all too tempted to point out that that likely wasn’t intentional, that it was a limitation of the time, but the look in your eyes robbed him of his breath, so he swallowed his thoughts.

Your eyes rove over the room frantically in search of something.

“So is there any reason you wanted to go to this exhibit instead of watching lavalantula 10 in theaters?” Tim says, tapping another case.

You turn to look at him, shock etched into your features.“10? We've seen lavalantula 1 through 9 in theaters? Why did I agree to that?”

“Cus you love me?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Probably not.”

Tim gives you a hurt look.

You scowl at him. You have no idea why everyone thinks he’s the nice Wayne sibling. He is a manipulative little shit who plays you like a fiddle. And yet here you are falling for it. An absolute buffoon.

You grumble an apology under your breath before continuing. “This is more cultural Timmers and lord knows we need more culture.” You wave sarcastically.

“I think we've lived enough culture.”

“it cannot hurt to experience more Tim,” you snort. He rolls his eyes. You grab onto his arm and look up at him bright eyed. Two can play it at that game. “Please Tim....”

He scowls at you. “Fine-”

“Yes!”

“-but you owe me a movie marathon.”

“Fine. Fine,” you nod, “just don’t pick something dumb.”

“I just got the new star trek box collection.” He beams.

“You could just shove me into a grave.” You sigh dramatically.

Tim grins. “The Renaissance called-”

“Oh fuck you, Grackle.”

He snorts and you hate that you fall in love with him more every time he laughs.

You cross your arms giving him a hard look. “Fine but we have to have an intermission of my choice.” You say, offering a hand.

“Deal.” He says, shaking your outstretched hand.

“Great, you've just agreed to watch the Great British Baking Show with me.” You say smug.

Tim curses himself.

"Are you still looking for that one painting?"

You tip your body back to look at him, your eyes wide and startled. It takes no time at all for them to shift to their usual angry shape. "Yes," you say quietly. It's Tim’s turn to be startled. Your hands curl into a fist. "It wasn't done and those bastards took it."

Tim reaches out to put his hand on your shoulder.

You cast your hands up to the sky dramatically. "The barbarity of it all!"

Tim smiles, letting his hand fall to his side. You would be ok.

You two walk on as Tim rants about StarGate could have had a bigger fanbase if it hadn’t excluded so many people. You add StarGate to the list of things to not remember.

You stop.

Your heart presses a bruise in your throat.

Framed in wood laden in ivy and marigolds is a painting that was painfully familiar. Even unwashed, you can still see the bright reds of rose petals, the wild greens of the women’s skirts, the brilliant oranges of marigolds, and the blinding whites of cobble stones. The image was a practice in entropy made into perfection. The chaos of Valentine's day in a small town square reduced and captured in an infinitesimal moment.

Damian told you that people had started calling them Warsaw’s Faceless Sweethearts. You hated that. A part of you wants to scream. You want to tell them that this wasn’t for them. This painting was made for one person and one person only.

You’ve been staring at it too long. Tim looks at you. You’ve known him too long to not know that he’s worried. That he’s feeling that stupid surge of protectiveness he always does when you go quiet. It’s in the cautious way he reaches out to you, slow and steady the way you approach a spooked animal. You want to lash out at him but he’s your Tim. Besides, too much of your mind is trapped in the painting, in the white gazebo, in between the couple who’s stuck in the moment before a kiss.

Tim stands closer to you, his fingers lacing into yours with centuries worth or practice. He looks at the painting. “This painting looks familiar.” Tim says for the lack of anything better to say. It was yours. He knew that with only a few seconds of looking.

“I… I don’t think so,” you say clumsily, “that’s definitely not the painting I’ve been looking for. Yup that one looks completely finished. Yup definitely.” You tug at Tim’s arm.

He gives you a look, staying perfectly in place, before turning back to the painting. His gaze draws low. In a glass case sits scraps of paper lined with charcoal. It takes an embarrassingly long time for Tim to realize that they’re sketches the artist did. Tim recognized the baker, the blacksmith, the seamstress, and even the constable. Most glaring of all he recognizes your marigolds. His eyes drift to the sketches of the couple in the gazebo. They were numerous, haphazard and unsatisfied. You were clearly frustrated with the groom’s face. Tim wonders who the poor guy could be.

In the corner of the page in the center, he sees it. “Wait… is that me?”

“NO!”

“Is that you?” He asks, pointing to the figure next to his. In the sketch, your lips are brushing against his. Tim’s lip tingles trying to replicate the sensation.

You’re frozen stiff. You try to pull your hand away. You want to bury your face in them. Scratch that, you wanna be buried six feet under. Tim doesn’t let go of your hand.

“That’s the umbrella you lost back in London.”

“I lost a lot in London, Timmy.”

“Well...” Ok. Yeah, you did. Hence why he can’t get you to London even with the promise of letting you ‘improve’ Buckingham palace. But that isn’t the point. “(Y/n), this is gorgeous.” He says, turning to you. You look at him stunned and scared. He squeezes your hand.

You shake yourself out of his grip. Tim lets you. He knows when to back down.

You step forward leaning on the rope separating you from your work. “I told you it wasn't finished.” You say, glaring at the painting as if willing the colors to move.

“What happened?” He asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.

You bump your shoulder against his. “Warsaw.”

“I don’t follow.”

“That little town in Warsaw. It was kind of hard to finish the painting when soldiers were setting fires to houses. Ok, they didn’t do it directly but there was smoke.”

“Yeah kind of.” Tim agrees, smiling sadly. He looks back at the painting. “I want to keep it.”

“What?” You blink not quite following the shift in conversation.

“Darling, I think we should have it. It’s ours after all.” Tim says holding your hand in his. Your mind is bouncing between too many things. He called you darling. He’s holding your hand. He’s smiling so sweetly at you. You’re addicted to that look in his eyes, pure unadulterated adoration.

You cover your face with your free hand, feeling the smile on your face go uncomfortable wide. You feel something on your forehead, a kiss like a raindrop. It comes again and you feel like you’re going to collapse.

“It’s yours..” He trails off hesitantly. “..if..” You look up at Tim, waiting with bated breath. Tim squeezes your hands. “...if you’ll be mine. ”

@batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @bungunz, @birdy-bat-writes, @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

#Tim Drake #tim drake x reader #tim drake imagines #vampire au

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milfnearyou · 4 years ago

Text

𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧: 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞.

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦.”

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟑.𝟐𝐊 | 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 | 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐗 (𝐗-𝐄𝐗𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐈)

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: KIDNAPPING. TORTURE. PTSD. TRAUMA. WHIPPING. HARASSMENT. NO SMUT IN THIS CHAPTER. MENTIONS OF PSYCHOLOGICAL ELEMENTS. LIGHT TALK OF PERSONALITY DISORDERS AND SCHIZOPHRENIA WILL BE DELVING INTO MORE DETAILS ON THE NEXT CHAPTER.

I ALSO DECIDED TO MAKE THIS A SERIES TO PREVENT MAKING THE WHOLE THING REALLY LONG ON ONE POST SINCE TUMBLR GLITCHES A LOT BUT ALSO FOR PEOPLE WHO CAN’T FOCUS ON VERY LONG FICS :)

VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

To say that you were hurting would be an understatement.

Everything and anything served as an infernal memory. Whether it be an object or something as simple as the weather, the effect it had could potentially be triggering for you. This new way of life felt more like a slow, painful process in which you were dying.

Overwhelming, things were now always overwhelming. Your anxiety shooting through the roof, the small person inside of you crumbling away into nothing as you screamed at the top of your lungs only to never be heard.

Your life felt orchestrated, the strings and rhythms conducted by no one else but Lucifer himself. With your pain, he created a symphony for a play, one that was to be forever engrained within your mind, body and soul.

It felt surreal, a simulation with you as its subject and yet, it was in every way authentic. None of it was a figment of your imagination, it wasn't just a bad dream but it was your reality. The scars that littered your body like a tormented and abused piece of canvas served as proof that it had all happened.

Your body ached, countless spikes of excruciating pains rushing through your many vessels and arteries, the nerves on your body were almost always on edge. It was difficult to hold onto reality, the point of returning being so far away that the thought of just letting go, would be a much quicker and simple solution. After all, you were halfway to insanity and the thought of being sane no longer remained a possibility.

It didn’t stop there. Your biggest enemy was your mind. The cursed piece of soft tissue that sat right in the middle of your enclosed skull was the one thing quickest to abandon you, betraying you within a blink of an eye and letting your body act on its own. It was impossible to control your thoughts when you almost always gravitating towards self-destruction.

Day and night, your mind screamed at you, unleashing a cacophony of howling, piercing screams that made your head ring. Blaring on and on, it had no limit. Going as far as venturing into your dreams late at night, filling your only moment of peace with countless nightmares. It was driving you mad. Always pushing you to constantly fight with yourself. You tried your best to ignore the urges but it seemed impossible.

Loudly, you'd scream into the emptiness of your surroundings telling yourself to shut up, to make it stop. Occasionally going as far as becoming physical, slapping the palms of your hands against your temple in attempts to strike yourself awake or hitting your head against a flat surface in attempts to knock the thoughts out.

But there was no chance to wake up. You were long gone. Stuck in a deep slumber that caused your physical state to act like a zombie. Almost as if your frontal lobe had shut down. Everything occurring in a rather monotone way. Laced with a sudden breakdown that hit you every other day, exploding with fear and anger. The effects of your past trauma reminding you that you still had feelings within, that you had emotions but that they were no longer positive. The negativity overflowed within you and was always ready to burst.

You saw people, individuals who claimed they could help. Medically known as psychiatrists but in your opinion, middle-aged women who seemed lonelier than you were. Portraits of Persian cats hung all over their workrooms, the scowls plastered on the faces of the felines were ones also visible on the psychiatrists themselves.

They always said it was the voices, emerging from your previously traumatic experience. Well no shit, of course, you knew that. It was a no brainer that there were voices in your head, you had diagnosed yourself of having un-welcomed people inside your mind a long time ago.

However, unbeknownst to the therapists themselves you also knew that they'd been planted into your mind from god knows how long ago. They simply waited for something to set them free, triggering the alarm and giving them proper cause to make you lose your mind.

All they needed was freedom and they were granted access to that with the help of a certain someone. A man who shared the same looks, name and identity as someone you grew close with, someone you developed feelings for. A man you fell in love with that had a terrible secret. It was hard to determine what exactly his secret was until you came face to face with it yourself. And when you did, you wanted out. Pandora's box had been opened and yet, it wasn't even your fault that it had.

You simply had to face the consequences of falling in love with someone who had a duplicate. Was it a clone? Or was it a twin? It was hard to say because he seemed to be from another world, a different planet even but in reality, he was conceived by the hands of a twisted mind. Fabricated inside a laboratory, only to be sent out many years later to wreak havoc upon your life.

And one dreaded night, he arrived. Snatching you away and hiding you for what added up to be weeks of torture. A show in which you were the leading role, the subject to many horrendous acts that one could never imagine. Acts that he always said were done because he “loved” you.

“You know I love you?” He’d say, all while his nimble fingers danced along the grains of your skin. Brushing up and down your arm as the fear raced through your veins. Your blood running cold, the hairs on your neck standing upwards. Your body was all too familiar with reacting with terror.

A few painfully quiet moments would pass, the sound of water dripping from the faucet, filtering into your conversation until he’d clear his throat. Leaning in forwards and resting his lips just above your left ear, his hot breath burning against your skin as you feel yourself holding in your breath.

“Silence isn’t an option, you either speak or be spoken for,” He warns and you nod rapidly in response. You knew the protocol and you knew exactly what it meant when he said that.

“Do you love me like I love you?” He asks. Circling from your back as he stands in front of you, using his calloused hand to hold your face upwards. Cupping your chin, his touch is moderately tender but you know that with one wrong move, everything could change.

“Define love,” You respond, not wanting to give him the direct answer he wanted. It would feed his ego all too much if you were to be so direct and yet, secretly he enjoyed you defying him. He loved how you didn't give in so quickly, it allowed him the chance to get physical and boy, did he love to get physical.

“Define love? I— obviously, don’t understand the concept of love as much as I'd like to admit. But when I look at you, the sickening feeling that emerges within me makes me think that yes, this is love. It’s everything that suppresses inside my chest, threatening to explode at any given moment. The oxygen that carries through my blood, that fuels the life inside me is filled with the thought of you. Love is, being alive and there’s nothing else except for you that makes me feel more alive.”

You fall silent at his response. Simply because none of it made sense, a cluster of babbled words falling out of his mouth as you stare at him watching as his expression slowly falls apart. The look of love is no longer there, replaced with infatuation, obsession and anger. He acted as if he’d known you for an eternity, professing his delusional love as if it mattered. As if you’d have a change of heart and drop everything within a blink of an eye just for him.

“...You must also understand that I love you because I can’t let him be the only person who loves you too,” He adds, “So do you love me like I love you? It’s only fair you do.”

“Love is a blessing in life. Something that isn’t forced upon, a concept in which— it may hold the key to your life in its hands but cannot be obtained without the honest feelings of another. It takes two to tango, not one, but two."

Momentarily pausing, you swallow the lump inside your throat, pushing it downwards. Allowing the newly found courage inside your body to come forward, "...And I'm afraid I can’t dance with you.”

Your rejection is something that hits him hard. Time seems to stop as the fleshy look on his face drops, the expression in his eyes have been replaced with a newfound fury. But it quickly wipes away as you watch him throw his head back letting out a cackle, his voice echoing inside the dingy, dark basement.

Like a slideshow, his emotions were quick to change moving from pure anger to joy as he laughs at your response. You can't help but sit there and think that he's absolutely mad. A man who shares the same body, face and voice as your lover but seems to be much more cunning and sinister. He's evil and he proves himself to be just that with his following actions and honestly, you aren't even surprised at this point.

His large hand that once caressed your face had now found its way to the knotted locks of hair, gripping it tightly as he shoves you to the ground. Pushing you down from the chair you once sat on and glueing you to the floor. The coldness of the surface is somewhat, soothing against your painfully hot skin as he presses your face against the ground. The weight of his body adding more pressure as he straddles you from behind, moving strings of your hair aside just so he can see your face. Amused, he smirks to himself when he sees you withering in pain, strings of saliva dripping past your chapped lips and leaking onto the floor.

"Oh dear, what a waste," He pouts, bringing forward a free hand to wipe your drool away. The tip of his finger now covered in your bodily fluids as he brings it to his lips, licking his finger in excitement. His eyes practically rolling to the back of his head as he moans in delight, "Deliciously, sweet."

Disgusted by his actions you can't help but shut your eyes. Shielding yourself one way or another from looking at his grotesquely beautiful visage. Naturally, the tears also begin to seep past your eyes, drifting down your cheeks. You can feel him lean in, hovering over you. A whimper squeaks past your lips when you feel his tongue dragging itself across your cheek, it feels like he's about to eat you alive. Like a lion licking its prey.

Removing his tongue from your cheek, he brings it towards your ear. Licking your helix before sucking gently on your earlobe, “I hope, you consider this next special thing. Perhaps, as a warning of some sort?”

Pushing himself off of you, you can hear him rummage around in the drawer he’s got next to the chair you once sat on. The sound of metallic objects rattling around and clinking against each other until it comes to a halt. The silence isn't soothing, it's terrifying.

Your heart begins to thump profusely, rapidly beating. You find it hard to breathe, to possibly calm down as your mind races with all the possible objects he could’ve chosen to use on you. A knife? Perhaps a nail gun.

The possibilities were essentially endless due to his massive collection of murderous weapons. But you receive your answer when you feel the long, multiple strips of leather entwined in cotton and tiny pieces of cattle bone brushing against your skin.

“Cat o’ nine tails,” He answers, introducing the weapon to you. Teasingly he brings the weapon up and down your bareback. Shuddering in fear as you feel the item grind against your back, the softness you feel now will be nothing in comparison to what you'll actually feel.

"Baby, remember that I have to do this because I love you."

Thwack!

The first blow that hits you makes your ears ring. The sensation feels hot, tingling at your skin. It's a mixture of pain along with pins and needles, only getting worse with each blow that he gives you. The stinging had a pain so strong and immense that it was hard for you to even lay there still, writhing around on the ground like a worm on hot pavement. You began to feel overwhelmed with pain, your nerves essentially on fire as you struggled to keep yourself awake.

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

You could feel the skin on your back begin to rip open, the crimson blood seeping from your wounds as he kept going. There was no mercy as you screamed, your vocal cords straining so hard your voice went hoarse. Slowly, you began to shut down. First, your hands falling limp at your sides, your body cased in sweat as you felt drained to a pulp. Then your screams came to a halt, the breathing in your voice drastically slowing down. Finally, your eyes began to droop, fluttering shut as you saw nothing but black.

Was this the end for you?

Jolting upwards, you topple off your bed and collide with the ground. Gritting your teeth in pain when you feel your back begin to burn, your semi-healed scars becoming agitated from the impact. Slowly rising upwards you panic at your dark surroundings but calm down once you realize that you're at home. Your sweet Maison, inside your calming bedroom with your lover sound asleep on his half of the mattress.

He's at peace with his soft and supple cheek squished against the fluffy pillow. Strands of his brown hair sticking about, his eyes shut tightly. You can't help but mumble to yourself about how adorable he is before leaving your room. Quietly heading towards the kitchen and flickering on the lights, flinching when everything seemed to be much too bright.

Your eyes gravitate towards the clock on the wall, it was four in the morning. You decided that there was no way you were going back to sleep at this hour. Shuffling towards your coffee machine, you brew yourself an iced coffee mixing in a shot of almond milk with your drink. Adding in a few ice cubes, you stir your drink slowly trying your best to ignore the pain in your back.

"You alright?"

Turning around you see Jongin, standing there shirtless in his teddy bear PJ pants. He rubs his eyes a few times before putting on his circular framed glasses, giving you a sleepy smile when he finally sees you properly through the lens. He looked beautiful in his groggy state and so did you to him with your hair flowing freely. Dressed cosily in his white tee with your supreme briefs underneath it.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Did I wake you up?" You ask, taking a sip from your drink.

"No, you're good. Can you make me one too baby?"

Nodding in response you turn towards your coffee machine, your back facing towards him to brew him a drink. "Latte?" You ask.

"Mhm, you know me so well," Slowly he wraps his arms around you, failing to notice how you slightly flinch at his touch. His hands travel towards your stomach as he hugs you tightly, placing his nose in the crook of your neck as he inhales your scent, "I love you so much."

The scene feels all too familiar and it makes you nervous. Gently you push him off of you, unaware that your gesture has hurt his feelings. Departing from your back he comes to your side, leaning against the marble counter.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He questions.

"I'm fine, just...don't, do that," You reply, the tone of your voice is soft, almost delicate as if you spoke any louder something would break.

"Do what?" He asks while bringing his hand towards your shoulder, frowning when he sees you dip your shoulder away from his touch, "You don't want me to touch you?"

Sighing you turn to face him, observing his hurt expression. His eyes are slightly glassy as he looks at you for an answer.

"Nini, it's not that I don't want you to touch me. It's because I'm still injured from the incident, so everything's just a bit fragile," You explain, partially lying through your teeth. It was true you were very hurt but you also didn't want him touching you because everything he did reminded you of the other him.

He nods quietly, smiling softly at you as he slowly gestures you to have a seat at the coffee table, "I'll cover the drink, you go rest."

Sitting down at the coffee table you quietly enjoy your beverage. Jongin soon joining you, seated at the front. The kitchen is quiet, dimly lit by the singular overhanging light you've got on. Jongin's caramel complexion shining underneath the lightbulbs rays. His eyes are affectionate, his gaze never leaving you as he chews on his bottom lip.

"I'm sorry," He starts, "I know it's been hard and I'm really sorry that you have to be hurting. I just wish that the incident could've brought us closer somehow but it's just, pushing us apart."

Drumming your fingers against the table you avoid his gaze. You don't know what to say, you can't blame him for what happened. But you also can't help but think that had you not known Jongin then you would've never met the other him. His twin or, whatever he was.

"I should've told you about him. Then maybe I could've prevented this somehow," His voice falters as you look up to see him. He's wiping his tears away, the whites of his eyes are slightly red.

"Jongin—”

"Tell me," He interrupts, "Do you see him when you look at me?"

Looking at Jongin, you can definitely see the other him. Except for the fact that the other him or Kai as he liked to call himself had dark green hair. Besides the difference in hair colours, they were pretty much identical. Opting to remain silent, he receives his answer.

"I wish it had never happened but, now that everything's passed I want to be by your side to help you heal. I want to help you through this," He explains. Nonchalantly sliding his hand forwards, he offers you to take his hand and you do, though not right away. Intertwining your fingers with his, you feel his thumb rub the skin of your palm gently.

"You know I love you?" He says and you can't help but shudder when those words come fluttering out of his mouth. Looking up at him you momentarily see Kai rather than Jongin and your heart stops. Afraid that you'll be punished for not speaking back. You say it back, in an almost trained responsive way. Even if the man that's in front of you isn't Kai but Jongin. You say it back because you're still afraid, you're still scared and those affectionate words do nothing but terrify you.

"I love you too."

#🧗‍♀️: queue!#ficscafe #kai x reader #kai angst #exo angst #exo x reader #exo fanfic #kai fanfics #x exo kai x reader #kindly leave a review if you’d like! feedback is appreciated!#chapter two coming soon :)

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tare-anime · 4 years ago

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Just a TwiYor Identity reveal scenario that pop up in my head....

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Twilight ran after the culprit, who managed to sneak in despite WISE constrict security, and killed the secretary of the very important person in the event. He was curious, because the culprit didn't savagely kill any other people there, aside from that one specific target. Was that an honor way of Garden assassins?

But the truth that made Twilight run even faster now was the fact that the silhouette of the person was so familiar, he didn't dare to deduce until he confirmed it with his own eyes.

When he finally caught up with the person, they exchanged blows several times. Somehow the agent already expected that he would be no match against the assassins. But only after she slammed him to the ground and took out her knives for the finishing blow did he finally dared to call her.

"Yor, wait!! It's me!!" As he ripped opened his mask.

Immediately her movement stopped. Her eyes widened in surprise.

However, those seconds of doubts were fatal for her, as another WISE agent, in their try to save Twilight, released a shot, and it injured her shoulder.

"NO!!" Twilight shouted to his fellow agents. Yor took the distraction to flee. She ran towards the edge of the building.

The agent took another aim, which Twilight tried to stop by tackling him. However to his horror, the shot still happened, and he watched in dismay as the bullet grazed his wife's leg and it made her lose her footing and she fell to the alley below.

Twilight angrily pulled his fellow agents' collar, "I told you to stop shooting!"

"But you were in danger!"

"I already had it under control!"

"But I-...."

"You should listen to the order next time."

The younger agent nodded and gulped when he asked, "Should we-..."

"No. We better return and secure the perimeter."

Twilight did what he needed to do, despite the escalating worry in his chest. He kept reminding himself that his wife was strong enough that she would still be alive despite the wounds and the fall. He took several minutes to linger within his fellow agents to not attract suspicions, before he slowly sneaked out of the place, and went to search for his injured wife.

He started from the place he calculated would be the place she might fall down into. His keen observant eyes managed to capture a trail of blood, which led him into an abandoned building, about two blocks away.

The blond agent carefully entered the building, still following the blood trail, until at certain place where it suddenly disappeared.

He frowned at the peculiar sight, and just when he thought about searching the place, he felt the cold tip of a blade at the back of his neck.

He gulped, raised his both hands, and spoke slowly, "Yor, it's just me."

"........."

"I'm sorry that you're injured. Please let me help you."

"........."

“Yor, please. We have to stop the bleeding.”

“Why..?” came the rasped reply, which knotted Twilight's stomach in a painful way.

“Because you’re my wife?”

“We’re just pretending.”

The sharp reply stabbed and twisted his heart in a new level of pain he never knew he could ever feel up until this point.

True that they were just pretending to be husband and wife in a family full of lies that Twilight had made for his mission. At first.

But during the journey, Twilight couldn’t deny no matter how hard he tried, that he had fallen for this family and the warmth it brought him. That he had fallen for real, for the amazing woman standing behind him.

The proof? Well, the excruciating pain of betrayal he currently felt deep down in his rib cage. After all, betrayals could only hurt so much if it was done by those who were the closets to someone.

And judging by the sharp yet wavering tone of his wife, he suspected she was also experiencing the same pain right now.

Which meant…..

“True, we started out by pretending. But…. were you only pretending when you protected and showered Anya with your love? Were you only pretending when you laughed and cried when you were around us? Were you only pretending when….. ” he gulped, “... when you kissed me back the other night?”

“..........”

“I want to say I did pretend in all that. But the pain in my chest right now, proved me otherwise.”

“.........”

“Yor?”

She sobbed and lowered her weapon, “I don’t know… Loid…. I don’t know…..”

In an instant, Loid turned and hugged her tight, letting her cry to his chest. When he felt her knees buckled under her weight, he slowly kneeled down with her, never letting go of the hug. “We do have a lot to talk about, but right now, let us stop the bleeding.”

He felt her nodded, slowly let her go, and started patching her up.

They didn’t talk at all ever since he started helping her patched up. To Loid’s concern, his wife didn’t even grunt or hissed when he stitched her wound close.

Was the shock of the current event numbing her that much?

The man bit down any of his questions and just tried to be grateful that at least she was still conscious.

After changing her clothes, Loid was now back carrying his injured wife and on their way home. Still in silence.

It was not unusual for them to have their silence during their walks, however, this time the heavy atmosphere almost suffocated him.

As if sensing his uneasiness, suddenly he heard Yor whispered, “I’m so tired….”

Loid widened his eyes a bit, but then smiled and answered, “Just sleep then. We’ll be back at home in no time.”

The woman then tightened her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder.

Loid took a deep breath.

In all his life, he never felt this lost and so unsure of what to do next. But no matter what, he would never let go of this woman currently sleeping in his back, and the family that he currently had.

#spy x family #sxf #twilight #loid forger #yor forger #twiyor #angst #sxf ficlet #ficlet #mine

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cherrysha · 4 years ago

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1.english is not my first language so sorry if something sounds strange. I realized that the requests are open and I would love it if u wrote something with the feitan pls. maybe a headcanon of him dealing with a very affable s / n (?) kkk i can't explain but like he is disturbed because she is accepting very well the fact that she was kidnapped and now she is forced to fall in love with him, and he is like "me I'm a fucking criminal, why are u so calm?"

It doesnt sound strange at all! This went in a completely different direction and its part headcanon but mostly just a short drabble. I’m not one hundred percent happy with this piece, but i wanted to get it out there!

Also, This is a universe in which I deny the fact that he sounds horrible in the dub. We only stan subbed Feitan over here.

word count: 1572

My requests are open atm

Warnings: TORTURE. thats it. thats all it is. just one big torture scene.

So if his s/o didn’t resist...

• He’d prolly just think they were biding their time

• He wouldn’t ask, he’d just straight up assume that they were playing the long con

• And a few months of it and he’d be sick and tired

• They were so agreeable, they let him touch them even when he was covered in blood

• And I don’t see any way this doesn’t end in torture

• He’d be really pissed off abt it

• Probably goading you the whole time

• “It doesn’t have to be like this if you just tell me.”

• And in truth he knows no plan would work, but he just wants some confirmation that you were going to try to escape

“Plan for what?” And he sighs. Part of him knew this was going to happen; that you’d still feign innocence. And that same part of him revelled in the course of action he’d decided to take. Basking in the chance to finally cause you pain. It’s a deeply rooted desire, one he isn’t accustomed to controlling. He wasn't one to pass up an opportunity such as this one.

You’ve been tied, arms above your head as the balls of your bare feet support the weight of your full body on the unforgiving concrete floor. The blindfold he had used to lure you into the room with is now converted into a gag as its shoved into your mouth. He’s done listening. Maybe when he’d given you incentive to be more... forthcoming, he’d remove it. The knife glints in the low light, the sight of it seemingly manifesting out of nowhere is startling to say the least. He takes a minute to ponder the situation. The apprehension on your face. You’d never seen him like this, only ever catching glimpses of his profession in the blood soaked clothes you washed so diligently. Was that not enough of a warning? He makes quick work of cutting off your top as well as the bra underneath. He deftly moves behind you, the sound of something heavy being picked up as he opens his mouth to speak. “This is going to hurt.” And it’s the most warning he’s given any of his victims. The suspense they felt, the jagged breaths they took as he circled their body like a hawk; it was part of the excitement for him. The whip cracks against your back one, two, three times before he takes a break. Your mouth opens in a wretched scream, but Feitan has become accustomed to the noise. It’s as irrelevant as the sound of the overhead light buzzing in the background. Blood seeps from the places the whip had licked your skin. Dark red as it lazily rolls down your back and soaks into the top of your cotton shorts. He stands back and admires the way your muscles bunch up under your skin in a useless effort to pull away from the pain, lifting you off of your toes until your feet lazily swung away from the ground. He was starting to enjoy the weak noises that left your throat. You don’t even notice when he forces your shorts and underwear down your legs. There’s a pool of cloth lying at your feet, dainty fabric that had been soaked with blood and cut into ribbons. He hits your thighs and ass with the next five strokes of the whip. Before moving again, he stutters, torn between being forgiving or continuing his endless assault of your soft flesh. The way your head falls limply to your chest, a sheen of sweat coating your body as crimson red rivulets silently descend to the ground below you, as if it’s their duty to entice him. To push him over the edge with need until he couldn’t take it anymore. It makes him give in, seven more and then he drops the instrument in an attempt to contain himself. He takes a moment to look at his work. Lover’s blood, he’s sure that he’s read something about the beauty of it. But seeing it for himself, hearing your shallow breaths as you succumb to the pain and your body slackens against its bindings, is more beautiful than he’d imagined. - He wakes you with even more pain. A faint trickle of something searingly hot burns down the fresh wounds that mar the opened flesh of your back. The scream you let out is the loudest yet, and he takes pride in the fact that he was able to wrench such a sound from you. A noise that no one else had heard and it was all because of him. “It’s just a disinfectant.” In all actuality he knows the level of pain you’re experiencing is probably on par with receiving the injuries, but he can’t stop himself from teasing. He finishes with a sigh and walks around to your front, smiling slightly as he sees your face. You looked wrecked, completely sinful as ribbons of pink tinged liquid dribble down your legs. It’s an encouraging thing. Feitan was the only one to see you this way, would only ever be the one to see your face streaked with tears and sweat, eyelids drooped and breath heavy from the excruciating pain he’d given to you. It makes his own breathing heavier. The spit slicked gag is ripped away and you don’t budge, head still slack against your chest as you stare dazedly at the floor. “Were you hoping to gain my trust so you could try to escape?” He whispers. And you almost don’t hear it over the sound of your own breath. You stutter out a feeble ‘yes’, because you know it’s what he wants, but it doesn’t seem to placate the man. He’s done this long enough to know when someone is lying to him. He’d previously came to the conclusion that you were just good at telling him what he wanted to hear, the paranoia settling over his mind like a heavy blanket as months stretched on and you’d remained unwavering in your acceptance. He can see it now, the truth of the matter enclosed in your feeble attempts of stopping the torture. He takes a step forward and smiles at the slight hitch in your breath at his sheer proximity. You were finally giving him a reaction he was accustomed to, one that he knew all too well. “See, I’m not so skilled at keeping people.. alive” he twists the blade in his hand, eyes shying away from your own as if he’d just revealed a weakness to you. He’s deep in thought, mulling over what exactly to do so as not to harm you too bad. You had told him the truth, after all. “This.. this is where I’d sever your leg from your body.” The knife is red hot as he pierces it through your skin, successfully drawing the image onto you. “At the joint.” After doing the same to the right, he digs it into your lower stomach, “if I had cut here, your entrails would cause such a mess.” Groans leave your throat in your attempt to breathe through the pain, rolling your head back to avoid looking at him. Its hard to contain the excitement he feels just from looking at your debauched state. You were enticing to him, enough so that he had gone out of his way to pluck you from your miserable life and let you start fresh with him. But right now, all he could really think about is how alluring your body was. Bloody and raw, so vulnerable in every sense of the word. He closes his eyes and lets out a puff of air through his nose in an attempt to contain himself. After he has, he continues his earlier ministrations. “The arms would be next, as you’d imagine,” And the lithe blade penetrates the meat of your shoulder as he continues with a downward stroke. It’s debilitating at this point. In a desperate attempt to block it all out, your eyelids involuntarily dance closed. Your body felt utterly destroyed, but your mind was in even worse shape; Choosing to forego the pain, black dots clouded your vision as you felt yourself being quickly tugged under and into unconsciousness. It’s a gentle slap, in his opinion, a warning to keep you alert. He didn’t want you to block this out. Not yet. He’s talking more than usual, a pent up frustration at the fact that he didn’t get what he was looking for. That he was denied the satisfaction of making you admit your wrongdoing. So, he snatches it from the crunching noise of your body hitting the floor. “If I did that, you’d die. Do you think I want that?” You only have enough strength to nod ‘no’, and your answer gains you a swift kick to your gut. He knew you were lying. “I’m not going to kill you.” He lets out something akin to a shaky laugh, the revealing sort that lets you glean just how unhinged the man truly was. He only meant to punish you, to force the truth from your mouth. But once he had a taste of the way you shrieked at his touch, how sweat made your naked body glow in the dim light, he knew this would be the first of many punishments to come.

#feitan #feitan portor #feitan x reader #yandere feitan

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nepenthendline · 4 years ago

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Trust - Tsukishima

wow is this actually part 2 of what I started like two months ago? mental

this is what was going to be the reality series but honestly, we all know thats gonna take ages for me to actually find motivation to do so im just doing them as and when I feel like it lol

Summary: Your relationship with Tsukishima isn’t going as strongly as you wanted, but Tsukishima is struggling to trust that you won’t hurt him (angst but it doesn’t end badly, 2.7k)

Tsukishima had been part of your life for the last two years, you both now being in your third year of high school. You had been in the same class every year, and little interactions such as brushing past each other to get to your desk, and asking him for a pen every now and then, turned into a budding friendship that left you both feeling safe and settled. You’d become close friends with Yamaguchi who was also in your class, so spending more time with Tsukishima was unavoidable. You were thankful for it though; both of you were.

Tsukishima was difficult; you either loved him or hated him, and unfortunately most of those who loved him were girls who thought he was hot and had never actually spoken to him, but his cool persona alluded them. Even you at first found his personality a little too prickly, not knowing how to deal with his teasing or aloofness, but slowly and subtly, you began to see these little parts of him that drew you closer.

Like the evenings where the three of you would hang out and his walls seemed to fall a little to the point where you’d see him smile and let out little giggled that he hid behind his hand, the time when you went to a museum together for a school project and watched as he beelined for his favourite exhibitions and spent hours reading every single informative poster, or how he would present you with small encouragements whenever you were getting overwhelmed. He was more than his teasing, his remarks and the detached role he played. There was a warmth to him that sparked at times; this particular quality that surfaced whenever you needed someone to talk to or take time away with.

He hated that you had become such a big part of his life, but he didn’t want it to end. You were so different from him, yet so similar. There was a brightness to you that he could never emulate, but you understood him. You never got pissed off with his, sometimes rotten, personality; you listened to him and you never once pushed him further than he was comfortable with. He appreciated it, but he had no idea what to do with that. Slowly, he noticed how his heart would race slightly whenever he was around you, how his palms got a little sweaty and the way you plagued his thoughts way into the night.

Late into your second year, you confessed your feelings to Tsukishima, someone accidentally as you had been ranting to him about your thoughts recently one evening. Shockingly to you, he accepted your confession. Even more shockingly was that he didn’t tease you at all for your feelings towards him, but instead offered you a nod, and a ‘me too’.

You were nervous, but excited at how your relationship could progress and deepen with him. There was a sense of pride in you about how this distant boy had chosen you, that maybe there was someone good enough for him and that would be you out of all the others. And that you would get the be the only one that heard about his secrets, his deep thoughts, his happy moments where he couldn’t help but smile, and darker ones. That you would be the one who could warm his heard and show him a life of light.

It was never like that. After 6 months together, it was as if nothing had changed between the two of you. Sure, you hung out together away from Yamaguchi at times, and you still talked to him when you needed to offload at points, but it was like you were just friends. The relationship wasn’t bad by any means; he was never nasty to you and he showed you nothing but respect. It was as if his walls were being rebuilt, one brick at a time.

He rarely told you how he was feelings or his thoughts, he never showed any sign of vulnerability to you, but he also rarely showed love. You didn’t want to get ahead of yourself, after all you hadn’t been together for that long, but it felt like any previous feeling he had for you had disappeared. But maybe not? There were nights were you’d be talking, sitting on his bed together, and his hand would brush over to yours, lightly trailing over your skin as his eyes focused on you. He seemed so settled with you, so calm, and he would talk to you, tell you things about his past and his struggled. But then the next day he would keep his distance, barely laying his eyes on your or sharing his mind. You’d walk into class and he’d simply place his headphones on, turning his head away from you.

His mind was tormented, and you knew that. He had told you on a couple nights about the haunted thoughts that spiralled in his brain often, of the anxieties that built up in him that he wasn’t worthy, that there was no point trying because it was already decided for him to fail. Even if he didn’t tell you, it wasn’t so hard to figure out when you actually paid attention to him. Often at school or around his club members, he’d mention how he could never compare to anyone else and that he was merely an inferior being.

And so he pushed. He pushed people away with his quick quips and his disinterest in anything or anyone. His brother, his team and even you. He removed any chance of himself getting hurt, or rejected, or used. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself and put his heart into things that were only going to hurt him in the end. If it wasn’t for the way his heart twisted in pain at the idea of leaving you, he would have never let you into his life. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you, but he knew how things were going to play out, so he did the next best thing and pulled himself away from you. Every day, he tried to drown out the thought of you in his mind, the idea that, possibly (almost definitely), he wanted to be your everything. Because if you hurt him, he would have nothing left. It would simply prove every worry, every excruciating thought he bottled up for the past many years.

You two were sitting in his room, somewhat late into the evening, with him laying on his back on his bed with his headphones on, reading a magazine, and you sitting sideways on the bed too with your back resting against the wall. You were reading a book before, but your attention on that bad been long gone, and now deeply set on your thoughts. You looked over to Tsukishima, you boyfriend, although you’d never have guessed if it wasn’t for that fact that you were the one that asked him out.

His expression looked so gentle though, something you didn’t see too often expect the odd times where you’d catch him looking at you. His honey eyes moved side to side as he flicked through the magazine, and his fingers often drummed against the pages in what you assumed was the beat of his music. You really couldn’t blame half the girls in your class that gushed over how attractive he was.

“What?” His voice suddenly jolted you out of your stare. You quickly looked away with your cheeks burning a little.

“Uh-nothing,” you stuttered in a low tone, picking up your book again and doing your best to just look like you were reading.

“You were going to burn a hole in my skull if you had stared any longer,” he teased, raising his brow.

“Sorry,” your voice was quiet, weak, as you barely acknowledged what he said. You were too focused on this wandering worries that swirled around inside. You felt him shuffle beside you, putting down the magazine and lifting the headphones off. He sat up, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms loosely around them.

“What is it?” The frown on his face and the way he searched yours was mismatched to the annoyance in how voice, but you were used to it. Honestly, if you said nothing, or didn’t speak, he wouldn’t make you go on and you knew that, you could easily make it out to be nothing. He knew you were lying when you did this, but he wasn’t going to make you talk, and he didn’t want to seem like he cared too much to get it out of you.

“Kei, what do you think about us? About me?” You asked hesitantly, turning to look at him. You couldn’t back away anymore.

“Huh? What do you mean?” His eyes widen a little, and he sat up a little stiffer than before.

“Do you have feelings for me, or not?” As much as you wanted to tiptoe around this, Tsukishima was the master of getting out of difficult conversations and bluntness was exactly what he needed.

He turned his head away from you, looking at the floor beside his bed and took a deep breath.

“I’m with you, aren’t I?”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you have feelings for me, or not?” You repeated. He turned back to look at you, his eyes small as he squinted at you from behind his frames.

“Yes, I do,” he replied, letting out a sigh. Hearing that should have made you felt comforted, loved even, but it set fire to this anger in you.

“You don’t act like it,” his brow raised at you, as if edging you to continue, “we’ve been together for 6 months and what? I probably speak to you less than I did before we were dating, and you don’t seem to care at all.” You let out a heavy breath, looking away from him and staring at his wall. “I’m used to you being distant, but I thought things might change when we agreed to this. I feel like you’re just pushing me away. If you don’t feel anything for me when why lead me on instead of break up with me?” You spoke with a little more hostility than you intended, but you’d been overthinking this for a while now, and it felt good to say aloud.

“I said I do have feelings for you, so can’t we just leave it at that?” He stood up, walking over to his desk and leaning over it, one arm holding himself up and the other picking up his water bottle.

“Then why don’t you show me that? Why don’t we talk more than we do? Why don’t you hold my hand or hug me, or even kiss me? Why do you barely even acknowledge my existence when I’m around?” Your voice grew as you spoke, flooding the room. The room was plummeted into an awkward silence after you spoke; Tsukishima said nothing, and stood over his desk. All you could hear with the thump of your heart and your breathing.

“What do you expect me to do?” He spoke, a bitterness in his voice. Your sight became blurry with tears that threatened to fall, what you expected of him? As if this some transaction that the two of you were involved in?

“I don’t expect anything from you, but if you do have feelings for me then surely you’d want to show me that? And let me show you too?” You lifted up from the bed, quickly coming to his side, “we could be so good together if you let us.” Your lip quivered; thoughts filling your head that maybe this was it, this would be the end of you together if Tsukishima decided he didn’t want this anymore or that he never did. Standing beside him, you saw his close his eyes, his head falling down towards the ground.

“We could be. And then what if we aren’t?” You barely heard him as his muttered, laced with a poison you’ve never experienced before.

“Huh?”

“What if you decide you don’t want this and then leave? What if we both put all our heart into this, and it goes to shit? What’s the point?” He turned to you, his eyes wide and flaring.

“W-well we can work things out. It’s not going to be perfect but we can deal with issues when they come up.” He pushed up from the desk, standing inches above, looking down towards you. His eyes glowed in the dark of his room, but it wasn’t a bright one, more like the light of a raging, agonised flame.

“And what if you decide I’m not enough?” The silence returned as you stared at him, your jaw slack and left speechless. You saw him swallow hard as his throat wobbled, but he remained stiff in his spot. “The more I love you, the more it’s going to hurt when you leave.”

Confused, your brows knotted together and your head titled as you looked at him. “Leave? I’m not going to leave you.” The corners of his lips curled upwards into a sickening grin as he let out a dark, sarcastic chuckle.

“Of course not.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said, firmly, your hands tightening into fists as you watched him. “Look, I can’t promise you that everything’s going to be perfect between us because it probably won’t be, or that we’ll be together forever because neither of us know that, but I can promise you that I’m not going to intentionally hurt you, and that I will do anything I can to make us work. But I need you to trust me.”

His head turned to the side, looking away from you as his fingers fiddled together. You moved forward, slowly brushing your fingers against his, then taking his hand when he didn’t flinch away. “I know it’s going to take a while, I understand. I came into this knowing that, but if you want this too then I need you to try.” You lifted a hand and gently placed it on his warm cheek. You felt him ease ever so slightly into your touch, and you guided his face to look towards you. “Yeah, it’s going to hurt if this doesn’t work, but it could be so amazing, and we won’t know that until we try,” your voice cracked, and you bit your lip to hold back your tears.

His eyes were glassy, empty-looking as he stared back. You both stood still, quiet for a few moments. You were just wishing he would say something, do something. You didn’t expect him to start gushing his love to you, but just something that would show you he wanted this, and that you could both move on together. You searched his face but it was as if he wasn’t even there, simply an empty shell of a body that had already been devoured by the demons in him. A single tear rolled down your cheek and you let your hand fall from his face.

Just as you were about to take a step away, he pulled you into his arms, trapping you close to his pounding chest. One arms wrapped around your waist and the other holding your head close, shaking a little. You let out a gasp, but relaxed into him, hugging him back.

After a few moments, you let yourself nuzzle into his chest, tightening your grip around him for the first time. It felt so comfortable, so natural being in his hold.

“Please, just let me in,” you croaked, tears staining his shirt. His fingers tangled themselves into your hair, the other hand digging into the skin on your hips as he rested his head on yours. “If you think you could, let yourself love me, please.”

He nodded, tilting his head down to place a kiss on your head, leaving his lips to rest there as he shut he eyes, breathing in your scent.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be enough for you, but I’m too selfish to let you go.”

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu scenarios #haikyū!!#Haikyuu x reader #Tsukishima kei #tsukishima kei x reader #Tsukishima x reader #Haikyuu angst

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msmarvelwrites · 4 years ago

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The Winter Ghost - Part 4

Info: A Devastating car crash causes you to lose your memory and start over. The only thing left in the wreckage was the horrific nightmares which plagued your mind. If you knew what today would entail you would have just stayed in bed. But you didn't and because of that, everything you knew was about to change.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Y/n

Warning: language maybe?

W/c: 3.5K (sorry not sorry)

A/n: Shuri is probably one of my favourite characters in the MCU so please enjoy her sass ❤️ Thank you again to @cutie1365 for editing and making this readable 💕

You sat in the cold steel lab, next to a pile of machines that whirled in the silent room. Small wires attached to your temples and hooked into the computers. You didn't know how you imagined Shuri, but a small 16 year old girl was definitely not it. This was who was going to be prying and prodding through your brain? I guess this is how S.H.I.E.L.D felt the first day you showed up. The thought made you stifle a laugh under your breath and wish you could only remember.

Every 10 minutes after scanning the hologram which hovered just above the desk she would stop, and ask if you were okay to continue. You would nod, unable to actually create coherent words. The process of regaining your memories was excruciating, to say the least. Shuri made it better though. She was bubbly and kind. Her voice was bright and reminded you of the wind chimes your mother used to hang on the porch.

Another blast of electricity surged through your brain, causing you to double over and yelp.

"Okay, okay, that's enough for today." She announced, crossing the room and placing a hand on your shoulder. You flinched her away desperately trying to focus away the pain.

"No. Keep going." You gasped, steadying your breath.

"Y/n, we have to take this in steps. If we dig too deep we can risk serious brain damage, or worse." She explained. You looked up at her concerned face, tears welled in your eyes but you quickly wiped them away.

"Dr. Shuri, please-”

"It's Shuri. Just Shuri. And no, I’m serious. I think we've retrieved some core memories, but there's no way to be sure." She spoke over you, turning her computer off and carefully removing the wires from your head. You winced as she pulled them out, but you were finally able to breathe right again. “We’ll just have to keep tabs on ya’.”

"How will we know what I remember?" You asked, watching her pack her equipment away.

"You won't," She stated, placing a small alcohol wipe in your hand. You blotted the small incisions the wires left behind. Gross.

"But, we'll keep doing bi-weekly checkups and monitor your behavior. There could be trigger words that Hydra has hidden in your brain. The last thing we need is you going all ‘Winter Soldier’ on our asses." Shuri giggled to herself and patted you on the back. You tried to hide the scream of pain that erupted from her contact. You suppressed a cry and smiled as best you could.

"Thank you Dr- um, Shuri. Seriously, I can't tell you what this means to me." You corrected, getting up and following him out of the room.

"Anytime. This is my new specialty I guess. I think I should consider updating my resume to super soldier fixer-upper."

You walked through the compound slowly, still unsure where everything was. Steve had assigned you a bedroom on the top level, close to Agent Romanoff, or Nat as she had asked you to call her. She and a few other former Avengers occasionally stayed in Wakanda after everything went south in Nigeria.

You hadn't really been asked if you wanted to stay here, but Nat explained that Hydra was keeping close tabs on you. It would be safer for you here while you remembered what it is they needed.

As you continued through the hallways you happened upon a large floor to ceiling mirror. You tried to not look, but your curiosity got the better of you.

Your hair was a knotted mess yesterday morning, so you decided to braid it back. Now, long strands fell from it, curling around your face and neck adding to your dishevelment. Dark circles bloomed under your y/e/c and reminded you of the sleep you so desperately needed. The faded Stark Industries tee-shirt hung loosely on your frame over the black elastic biker shorts Nat had given you to borrow. She promised she'd take you back to your Brooklyn apartment at some point to collect your own clothes. You huffed, trying and failing to tuck the few strands that fell from your loose braid back, only having two more shake loose.

As you rounded the corner you noticed two large metal doors. Loud thuds and grunts were protruding out from behind them. The closer you got, the better you could see through the small window.

Nat was sending a graceful roundhouse kick to Bucky's neck. He stumbled taking a few steps back but ultimately gained his balance again. You swallowed a gasp. Bucky was close to twice Nats size. You watched in amazement as she ducked between his legs, sending a swift elbow to the crook of his knee. He immediately dropped.

Quietly you slipped through the gym door, careful not to disturb the two while they circled each other slowly.

You watched in awe as Bucky threw a punch with his metal arm at Nat, who skillfully dodged it, grabbing his wrist and twisting. With the added momentum she swung onto his shoulders, still grasping his arm and yanked him backwards onto the mat with a loud thud.

"Holy shit!" You gasped, and quickly regretted it as the two super heros looked up. You knew they were on your side, but damn. You didn't know how anyone picked a fight with either of them. They both looked so venomous. Nats face softened when she registered your wide eyed gaze.

"She lives!" The Black Widow announced, laughing as she grabbed a towel, patting her sweat slicked face. Bucky stood then slowly, watching you intently like he was waiting for something.

You grin sheepishly and nodded. "That she does. Damn, Mr. Rogers wasn't kidding around. I still feel like I'm vibrating." You chuckled.

"Remember anything?" Bucky spoke suddenly, watching you carefully. You shook your head.

"No, not really. Shuri said it'll take time. That she recovered something, but-" you huffed, a little frustrated and body still sore. "I got this wicked headache instead." You finished. Bucky chuckled and ran his metal hand through his dark hair.

"So," You began, approaching the sparring mat, "do you think you could show me how to do that?" You ask Nat, referring to her insane fighting skills. Her eyes sparkled and she laughed softly.

"I don't know Y/n," she motioned for you to step onto the mat, "think you got what it takes?"

Her dazzling grin dropped almost as fast as her fist flew through the air. You could tell instantly that the blow would miss you entirely, but in that moment something snapped. You closed your eyes and you felt your whole body burst into flames. Images flashed through your mind and when you opened your eyes, everything moved in slow motion.

You looked to your left, watching the assassin's fist fly closer and closer. You tried to take a step back, but your body seemed to switch into auto pilot. In one smooth motion you blocked her wrist, and almost as fast jabbed her side with a harsh blow.

Natasha stumbled back, stunned. You looked down at your hands, like it was the first time you were actually seeing them. Holy shit.

“Oh God, Nat. I didn't mean to!"

Another fist flew at you, to which you ducked, dropping into a squat position you kicked your right leg out. In the same motion you twisted your body, sweeping your foot across the mat and taking Nat down as she gasped. You looked up at her, eyes wide and panting. What the-

"Fuck." Bucky finished your thought. Natasha rubbed her hip in discomfort as she reached for Bucky's hand, pulling her up.

"What the hell was that?" She challenged. You stood, stumbling back a few paces and raising your hands in surrender. What the hell had just happened?

"I- I don't know..." You stuttered, "Nat, I'm so, so sorry I-'' she waved her hand stopping you.

"I'm fine, don’t ever apologise for kicking someone's ass... Maybe you remembered something after all?" She spoke, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow sarcastically.

"My turn." Bucky rumbled. You would have frozen at the darkness in his voice, but your instincts kicked in. The soldier leaned back on his right foot, sending his left rocketing through the air and towards your face. Fire erupted through your body again, startling you awake.

Gracefully you wrapped your arm around Bucky's impending kick, absorbing the blow. His sheer strength made you stumble back a little, but you quickly slid back into the routine.

"Попался” Gotcha’, you smirked. Bucky looked at you, mouth slightly agape.

“What did you just-” He didn't have a chance to finish as you twisted your body, bringing your elbow up delivering it down onto his shoulder with a loud crack. You finished him off with a swift kick through his legs, tackling him to the floor.

"Ow," he mumbled through jagged breaths. You gawked at him in disbelief, holding his hands above his head, straddling the super soldier's waist. Bucky shifted slightly, realising the compromising position you both were in.

"Gotta hand it to ya, punk. That one actually tickled." He chuckled, as you removed your hands from his wrists. He noticed your body was still unmoving, eyes almost glassy. Carefully he tapped your thigh, knocking you back into reality. You physically shook your head, trying to center yourself.

"What happened?" You asked, still straddling Bucky. He looked at you quizzically, trying to read your face for any answers, but came up short.

"Y/n, I think we need to talk to Shuri again." He offered, picking you up by the waist and helping you off the mat.

"Yeah, I think that's probably a good idea." You said, staring wide eyed at the two former assassins.

When you entered the lab, you noticed Shuri was still there. She paced around the room, picking up sheets of paper, scanning them quickly before she looked at the hologram.

"Not possible." She breathed, still unaware of your presence. Bucky cleared his throat, alerting the engineer to the three of you.

"Holy crap!" She jolted. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to sneak up on a girl with an endless arsonal of deadly weapons before?" Shuri clutched her heart, steadying her breath.

"No, actually." You voiced. Buck coughed trying to cover his laugh.

"Listen, babe. It's important," Nat started, entering the lab further and hoisting her petite figure onto an examining table. "Y/n just handed Bucky his tight ass without breaking a sweat, so we were just wondering... What the fuck?" She emphasized that last word with a raised brow and wide eyes. Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes as if to say 'she hit you too.' You thought it was probably the cutest thing in the world, watching the former assassin stuff his hands into his pockets and glare at her like he was a kid.

"Y/n, how do you feel?" Shuri spoke, ignoring Natasha, which didn't bother her as she swung her legs daintily off the table.

"Um, fine I think. I'm a little tired but besides that-"

"What's happening here?" Captain America suddenly boomed, storming into the lab. You flinched, startled by his loud voice. Both Nat and Bucky look totally unfazed while Shuri only rolled her eyes. I guess Captains mood swings were a normalcy around here.

Natasha explained the situation to him while he passed the room, arms crossed and a scowl permanently glued to his face.

"How could you let this happen?" Steve finally barked, pointing an accusatory finger at Shuri. You thought if he had spoken to you like that you would melt away, but the small teen only scoffed and brushed him off.

"Hold up, Boomer. I didn't let anything happen. You brought her to me." She started, looking at you almost apologetically. "You told me to find Y/n's memories. That's what I'm doing. Unless you think you could do a better job with your zero years of education and that dinner plate you call a 'shield?'" She scoffed and went back to looking at her computer.

“You made my shield” Steve huffed under his breath.

“Uh, no. How dare you? I would never, the thing is incredibly impractical. I did make it better though.” Shuri mocked the Captain. Jeesh, the girl truly had balls, that's for sure.

"How do you feel?" Steve questioned. It took you a solid five seconds to realise he was looking at you.

"Oh, I'm fine. Yeah, I'm fine. Just really confused." You mumbled, terrified you were going to set the Super Soldier off again.

“Well I can shed some light, would that be okay with you, old man?” Shuri spoke sarcastically to Steve. He only rolled his eyes and waved his hand motioning her to carry on.

“I ran your blood through a few tests. I don't know how I didn’t see this before. I mean it's right in front of us. You failed the drug test. By like, a lot. Which I thought was weird but to each their own ya know? Anyways, I looked into it and your body is literally emanating radiation, which got me thinking. The only people I know who literally sweat steroids are-”

“She’s a Super Soldier.” Steve interrupted. You stared at him wide eyes and back to Shuri. This wasn't possible. You didn't feel super. Actually you felt pretty crappy, to say the least.

“Not exactly. At least, Y/n doesn't have the same chemical compound as you. Whatever serum she's drugged up on, it's not one I've ever seen before.” Shuri finished, holding a test tube of your blood up and analysing it. You felt like you were going to throw up. You didn't know if it was the chaos of the situation or the fun new information that past life Y/n was a steroid junky but it was enough to make you lightheaded. You stumbled back a few paces, uneasy on your feet. A strong arm wrapped itself around your waist, steading you before you could fall. You looked up at Bucky's warm smile suddenly feeling a little more at ease. Gotcha. He mouthed, and you took a deep breath. I am calm, I am okay… Just, breathe.

Ten minutes later and a bunch of arguing the room finally stilled. Shuri explained how she suspected Hydra had a weapon similar to the super-soldier serum, only more complex. The whole thing made very little sense to you.

"Why would Hydra inject me with the serum?" You argued, skeptically.

"Because, they physically couldn't make another drop. Y/n destroyed the lab with all their research. The one they gave to her was the first of its kind. It's flawed and unpredictable. Without her cooperating, recreating a serum was impossible. However, if they injected it into our friend here, they could monitor how it developed in a controlled environment." Shuri explained.

"So, you think the serum they gave me is their super secret weapon?" You asked, stunned. Shuri only nodded.

“You're the blueprint…” Bucky mumbled under his breath. You didn't know if he had meant for you to hear as no one else in the room seemed to notice he had even spoken.

"And you're sure it's in Y/n's system?" Nat asked, her eyes scanning over you.

"I mean, I guess there's only one way to know for sure. I have this…theory. I could be wrong, but I highly doubt it… Y/n, I think it's time you meet our resident teenage witch."

You followed the team into what looked they're common room. Plasma TVs hung on the walls and large floor length windows lined the room.

There sitting on the long couch was a girl. She looked to be about your age, maybe a little younger. You watched as red ribbons of electricity shot out of her hands and through the air like dangerous waves. The small tv remote hovered mid air as her red tendrils held it.

"Maximoff, front and center!" Steve announced loudly, startling the girl causing her to rocket the remote through the air. It flew past you, an inch from your face as it crumbled into the wall behind you.

"Holy shit!" You screamed, ducking as a delayed reaction and holding your hands over your head.

"Language..." Steve lectured under his breath. You mouthed a 'sorry' and stood up again.

"Didn't mean to startle you, I just have someone I'd like you to meet. He gestured towards you as her eyes followed.

"Hi." You spoke quietly. She smiled kindly and spoke apologetically, "Hi. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to throw electronics at you." She shrugged.

"Occupational hazard when you're around me. It's kinda' my thing." You chuckled at that.

"Perfect. Now that you've met... Wanda, will you please fight Y/n." Shuri spoke dryly. The girl, Wanda, looked from Shuri to you.

"Um, no?" You blurted looking at Shuri absolutely terrified. There was no way you were fighting this chick. She just fired a remote at your head with the ease and strength of a shotgun. Hell no.

"Please, you won't hurt her. It's for science." Shuri shrugged, but you weren't sold.

"Yeah, that's not happening. There's gotta be another way we can test your theory." You shook your head frantically. Wanda looked slightly intrigued, crawling across the couch and perching on the arm rest.

"What exactly would you have me do, Shuri?" She questioned, looking wickedly dangerous. The small engineer grinned, crossing her arms over each other.

"Do what we practiced." She cooed, dryly.

The team behind you took a few steps back. You hadn't realised they had deserted you until it was too late. Wanda created a small red blast of electricity in her palm. You watched as she shaped it like a snowball, carefully dropping it between her hands. You watched in awe as it sizzled and sparked between her fingers.

“I really, really don't like this idea.” You voiced, looking back at Steve and Shuri, who only watched in anticipation.

You turned back to face her as the energy surged towards your body. Before it could explode you crossed your arm over your face protecting yourself from its inevitable blow. But it never came.

Carefully you opened one eye, and then the other. More people now gathered in the common room. You looked around at their faces, landing on Bucky who, unlike his teammates looked horrified. You looked down at your hands then, and what you saw made you choke out a gasp.

Your whole body was glowing with the same red electricity Wanda has thrown at you. Your eyes darted up to her and she just stared at you in shock.

"What the hell is happening right now?" You yelled, terrified and feeling like your whole body was vibrating.

"Exactly what I thought would happen. You've absorbed Wanda's powers." Shuri spoke matter of fact, like this kind of thing happened every day. I guess with these people it did.

"Y/n, are you okay?" Bucky demanded. He felt powerless as he watched the Witch’s energy circled around you. You nodded, reassuringly. Though you didn't know if you believed it.

"Okay, what do I do. I don't want this-" you reached your arms out and with a bright flash of red, the electricity exploded from your hands, throwing Wanda off her seat and hurling her backwards. Quickly she caught herself mid air before she crashed through the window, hovering above the floor.

"Holy crap" She screamed, checking she was all in one piece "I sincerely apologise to anyone I've done that to. That really stings." She winced as she landed back on the ground.

"Shit, I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry!" You crossed the room, making sure she was okay.

Wanda laughed, "You sure do make a great first impression." She spoke sarcastically. You half smiled, not knowing how you could help.

"I guess that's kinda' my thing." You spoke, causing a dazzling smile to dance across Wanda's pink lips.

"This is so exciting! I’m going to run back to the lab and run a few more tests. Obviously you aren't able to control how you absorb your opponents powers. You're going to have to practice before we can try that again." Shuri spoke, tearing you away from your exchange with Wanda.

"I am not doing that again." You argued, horrified that you almost chucked Wanda out a plate glass window.

"Sure you are. Come now, science experiment, let's see what else you can do." You huffed and followed Shuri’s voice.

..…………

A/n: as always, feedback it welcomed!! Let me know what you think 💕💕💕

@projectcampbell

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another-snape-story · 5 years ago

Text

Night of Confessions

Chapter XV

After hastily bandaging his leg, Snape hurried straight to your private quarters. The other day he’d never had a thought of visiting you in such a late hour, but tonight everything was different.

“Please, open it,” he knocked at your door. “I need to talk to you…”

No answer followed.

His head almost resting on the wooden surface, Snape called out your name over and over again. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated – all in vain. Not a sound, not a rustle was to be heard from inside.

Frustrated, torn by hatred for himself, he gave up. The flat of his palm hit the door one last time and hopelessly slid down. Devastated, he remained standing there at the threshold, realizing he’s lost the only source of joy in his miserable life. But – what if you were not there? What if –

Snape rushed up to the Entrance Hall and out across the Viaduct Courtyard, past Greenhouses, right to your office. The last bit of hope which smoldered inside him now flared up, once he saw a dim light seeping through its windows.

Stepping carefully, almost stealthily, Snape found you curled up in the armchair. Unaware of someone’s presence, you cried quietly, yet selflessly. Snape’s heart shattered into pieces. Remorse mercilessly clenched its fists around his conscience, as he watched you through the doorway, not daring to enter. It was the first time he saw you crying. Tormenting awareness of being the reason of your tears seemed unbearable. Each second of hesitation caused excruciating pain. Unable to endure this any longer, Snape strode inside.

You jerked, frightened by unexpected stir at the entrance. A brief look was enough to recognize your visitor. You held your breath to suppress weeping and turned away not to let him see your face.

“Leave,” wiping tears away, you rose up to your feet and walked up to the windowsill, where fancy pots with various plants lined up a quaint multitude. Vision still hazy, absentmindedly, you stroked the leaf; not that it was dusty – you just needed to put your hands somewhere.

“No.” Snape slowly approached you from behind. There you stood – so fragile, so vulnerable. Your shoulders still shuddered a little. He instinctively reached out to wrap you into his arms, but stopped halfway – you wouldn’t accept him, not now. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Words came out hard. “I’m not expecting you’d ever forgive me… I lied about the dog…”

No matter how wrong everything turned out just a while ago, internally you felt the need of having him beside. The fact that he came after you, that he found you here in the middle of the night meant he didn’t wish to leave this matter unresolved. Neither did you. You were ready to forgive him just for that.

Uncertainly, you turned to face him. A short woeful glance – and you lowered your head, embarrassed of how ugly, unattractive you might’ve looked.

“The forbidden corridor. That’s where I’ve been,” Snape continued. “The dog bit me, when I tried to find out who was after the stone…” His thoughts seemed to twist together into a confused mass – there was so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t put into words. “I lied to protect you! Keeping you safe – that was my only motivation. And this letter... the moment you saw the inscription… I worried about you! If you needed any sort of help, you could always count on me – that’s all I actually wanted you to know,” he sighed despondently. “I have no excuse for those words, I can’t explain why I had to say it. Of course, you don’t have to – Merlin… I’m bringing it up again…”

Shocked, overwhelmed with gratitude, yet hopeless, demolished with guilt – overflown with emotions – you threw yourself onto his chest.

“If I tell you, you’ll never want to look at me again,” you whined desperately. “You’ll despise me!”

You felt his hands land mildly on your shoulders, as he drew you closer.

“I swear – whatever you say, it won’t change my attitude towards you,” Snape promised quietly, his heart bleeding out.

“Oh yes, it will! It will, Snape!” you sobbed, clutching at his robes. You were so afraid of losing him, but now it seemed to be inevitable.

Without words, he pressed you tighter to himself and rested his chin on top of your head. He would hold you in his arms as long as you needed to calm down.

Tiny forks of flame continued dancing on the candlewicks, lightening two motionless figures merged into one another.

Realizing it couldn’t last forever, you pulled back a little, slipping out of Snape’s hold. Wrecked, emotionally drained, you stood before him utterly exposed. It was pointless to worry what he might think about your swollen face with tears smeared all over any more – another few minutes, and he would never turn his head in your direction.

“Come here,” Snape walked you to the armchair, his voice as soft as his touch. The man’s attention made you want to cry again, and your lips twitched. “Here we go,” he helped you sit, so carefully, as if you were not able to do it yourself and took place on the other armchair, opposite to yours.

“If you still want me to leave – I will…”

You vigorously shook your head.

“Okay… We don’t need to talk, you know. Let’s just sit here for a while…”

“It’s a long story,” you warned him apathetically, resigned with the worst outcome, which was now not to be avoided. What was the sense of delaying it?

“We have enough time till the morning,” Snape smiled mildly, but you didn’t answer.

“Before coming to Hogwarts, I was working in the Scientific Wizarding Assembly. You know it, I suppose.”

He nodded.

“I quitted because my boss was an asshole. He stole my research results. No credit of course. I was so pissed, I wanted to take the shit out of him.”

Snape listened attentively, his eyes fixed on you.

“I falsified some data, hoping he’d screw up. But he just gave it a go! Without testing!” your voice trembled. “Six men were injured severely, two men died! I didn’t mean that, Snape…” tears streamed down your cheeks. You covered your face with your palms, “I had no intention to harm someone…” you wept.

Snape frowned, deep in thought. “Do you still have this letter? May I have a look?”

His question surprised you. You’d expect anything, but this! You weakly came up to your working place, picked the creased sheet of paper and handed it to Snape, who followed you to your desk. You sagged back into the armchair, while he remained standing, intently studying the content.

“That’s where hurt pride and ambitions led me…” you sighed grievously, “…to Azkaban… I deserve this…”

“Stop it. No Azkaban.” His tone so firm, so resolute – the one hard not to believe.

“He says he’s going to imprison me…”

“Just words. Did you answer him?”

“Not yet.”

“Good.” The letter in his hands, Snape slowly strode across the room back and forth, his eyes running through the lines, and yours following his every movement. “So the accident happened after your dismissal.”

You nodded.

“They used your materials without contacting you,” he specified, and you nodded again.

“They carried no tests before bringing your data in operation,” Snape continued summing up the facts.

“He didn’t say it,” you sniffled, “but it’s evident according to the consequences.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Was it an accomplished piece of work?”

“Yes,” you sighed.

“Signed or officially approved any other way?”

“No.”

“It is not valid,” he gave you an encouraging smirk. “Ignore this man. Do not answer his letters. Especially – don’t try to exonerate yourself. The case will be investigated, we don’t need unwanted details to be revealed, do we?”

“But people died, Snape!” you exclaimed, bursting into tears again.

He carelessly threw the damned piece of paper aside and hurried to comfort you.

“It’s not your fault,” sitting on the edge of the armchair, he leaned forward and took your hands in his. “It’s not your fault, don’t blame yourself.”

“You’re not disappointed? Not disgusted?” you looked at him in disbelief.

“I have no reason to be,” he tightened his grip to let you know he really meant it.

“I’m sorry, Snape… I’m so sorry for throwing stupid reproaches you in the face,” you cried, unable and unwilling to hold back.

“It’s okay,” his quiet deep voice caressed your ears, while his hands caressed yours.

“I do trust you! I do! Truly! Entirely!” eyes locked on his, you desperately tried to see if he believed you.

Snape smiled sadly. “There are still many things I can’t tell you.”

“Yeah… I bet,” you gasped for air to even your breathing. “Maybe someday?”

“Maybe someday…” he reassured.

Relieved, untensed, you both sat in silence for a while.

“Snape?” you called him in barely a whisper.

“Hm?” his detached glance regained meaningfulness, as he raised his head to look at you.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.” Although the serious tone of yours suggested it would be tough, Snape couldn’t reject you at this point.

“But promise to be honest with this one?”

Your eyes full of hope, would he dare to betray them?

“You’re putting me in a difficult position,” not very happy with available options, Snape sniggered bitterly.

“Please? Just one answer to just one question.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

“Have you ever done really bad things?” you asked, peering him in the eyes.

Calculating, what would damage your relationship more – if he lied or if he told the truth, doomed, Snape dropped his head. And this already was the answer.

“Don’t…” you stopped him, not willing to force the man so dear to you to say it aloud. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry…”

“I have,” he admitted. “Really – bad – things.” It took him all his courage to look at you again.

You’ve never thought you’d ever be so happy to hear a thing like that. You freed one hand from his grip and put it atop.

“Whatever it is,” you smiled gratefully, “my attitude towards you wouldn’t change.”

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