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uwuwriting · 4 years ago

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Boyfriend w/ Megumi, Itadori and Gojo

Request: hii I just read your jujutsu nightmares piece and oh my god I am indeed a very simple simp and your writing just makes my heart go uwu so may I maybe req a very soft, fluffy s/o for Megumi, Itadori Sato and maybe Sukuna if you write for him? I hope it's not too much, thank uu <3 - anonymous

I can’t get enough of the JJK content, I love them so much my heart can’t take it. Sadly I don’t write for Sukuna *I think I mention it in my rules but I’m not sure*, he pissed me off big time in the manga so yeah sorry about that. Really all the curses have kinda pissed me off but that’s a story for another day lmao. Love ya.💖💖💖

masterlist II rules

warnings: boyfriend things lol, fluff, maybe some angst sprinkled on top but not a lot.

Fushiguro Megumi

-Megumi reminds me of Suna from Haikyuu.

-Like a lot.

-He will put effort in the relationship of course but he won’t flaunt it around in everybody’s faces.

-Yes he has a s/o and yes he is in love but in his book that should be mostly kept in between you two, no one else has to know.

-So at first your relationship isn’t really acknowledged by the others.

-It’s so subtle at casual that everyone around you thinks that you’re merely best friends and close to each other.

-Only Makki knows that you two are a thing since she sees how you worry and take care of him after he has been injured.

-It’s different from platonic concern and she knows what’s going on.

-Plus she saw you steal a kiss one time and that sealed the deal.

-Eventually the others figure it out and they are losing their shit, for completely different reasons though.

-Nobara can’t believe Megumi got a s/o before she did.

-Gojo is hurt because neither of you said anything and he has been trying to hook you up for the past two years now.

-Itadori is just confused because he thought that you were like that to everyone.

-Now PDA is non-existent with this one.

-He doesn’t feel comfortable touching you in public even if it’s a small peck.

-He prefers showing his love behind closed doors or through acts of service.

-So expect to find multiple bentos waiting for you in the kitchen each morning or a hot bath on the ready when you come back from a long mission.

-You are okay with the no PDA rule, your only request is that he at least hold your pinkie when you need it.

-It grounds you and who is he to say no to that?

-During missions he doesn’t underestimate your strength and let’s you do your thing.

-He only interferes when you ask for help or when he notices that you’re extremely overwhelmed.

-He doesn’t smother you and you are eternally grateful for that.

-Training sessions between the both of you are brutal.

-Neither holds back and you're left a panting, sweating mess at the end, crawling to your respective rooms to change before you settle for a movie later that afternoon.

-If either of you gets injured it’s mama bear time.

-You need to change your bandages? Megumi has already taken out the kit and all the essentials.

-He needs to take some meds to calm the pain in his ribcage? You have the pills in hand.

-He is a shy boy so even in private he hesitates to touch you.

-Don’t get him wrong he loves holding you and feeling you close to him but he is also afraid he will make you uncomfortable or overstep.

-So you will be the one initiating cuddle session during the first months of your relationship.

-After a while he will simply pick you up and carry you to his bed for cuddles if he needs them without uttering a word the whole time.

-Good morning/Goodnight kisses are a must.

-It’s a ground rule that he follows religiously since day one.

-It doesn’t matter if it’s a simple peck on his lips or a passionate kiss, he just wants to get a kiss before starting/ending the day.

-Sleeps on his stomach with an arm always draped over your waist.

-Isn’t really into the whole sleeping on each other thing but he won’t say no to being the big spoon or even better the little spoon.

-He gets flustered when you kiss his knuckles or trace patterns on his palms.

-He knows his hands are rough from all the training but after your touch they feel tender and gentle.

-Prefers indoor dates rather than outdoor ones.

-His favorite is cooking dinner together and then cuddling on the couch *in hopes you won’t get interrupted by Gojo*.

-The only thing he dislikes about the whole relationship thing is the teasing he receives from Gojo.

-He is ready to rip his ears off.

-Boy has murder on his mind 24/7 and it is all directed to his mentor.

-Gojo noticed that Megumi had you as his wallpaper ONCE and now it’s game over for your boyfriend.

-The thing is that you don’t get teased as much and he is *salty*.

Itadori Yuuji

-He is such a lovable boy, how could you NOT fall in love with him?

-Your relationship is naturally effortless.

-Everything flows so naturally and without even trying you two have formed such an unbreakable bond that not even Sukuna himself can tether even if he tried.

-Many MANY spontaneous trips to the nearest convenience store at 3 am.

-Oh you are craving some popcorn? Well go on, get your shoes, we are going grocery shopping.

-Won’t hesitate to do anything for you and when I say anything I mean it.

-He ditched Gojo once because you had bad period pains and said you needed cuddles.

-What cruel creature would he be if he denied his beautiful girlfriend her cuddles???

-Sukuna has cockblocked you two and has ruined your cuddles on multiple occasions.

-From weird noises to rude comments to interrupting Yuuji’s thoughts with random shit.

-Real party crasher.

-Yuuji’s love language is touch mainly so expect a shit load of hugs and kisses.

-Won’t let go of your hand while you are out in public.

-If he can’t hold your hand he will place his palm in the small of your back or wrap his arm around your shoulders/waist.

-It’s a physical need.

-He has to be touching you at all times because that reminds him that you are truly here beside him and that you are okay.

-The sorcerer's life has already taken a toll on his mentality and he hates leaving you alone so most of the time you go on conjoined missions.

-Unlike Megumi he tries to protect you during fights by all means.

-He doesn’t do it because he sees you as weak and in need of protection it’s just an instinct that he can’t control at all.

-He will put himself in immense danger, taking all the blows just so you can leave the scene unscathed.

-You have scolded him on his complete disregard of his own life and the tears that pooled in his eyes as he explained that his body moves on its own when he sees anything darting towards you, breaks your heart.

-If you kiss the little marks under his eyes all his worries fly out the nearest window.

-He forgets about everything around him, about the looming threat of his imminent execution, the only thing on his mind are your lips on his cheekbones and your thumbs rubbing circles on his cheeks.

-If you pepper him in too many kisses he will begin his own assault by first tackling you to the floor or the bed and capturing you in a hug before the smooches begin.

-He has a tendency to leave hickies on your neck which you struggle to cover each morning and you are always real close to glaring at him when he beams like the sun itself at you in the morning but your mild anger fades the moment his lips meet yours.

-You have your suspicions that he knows what he is doing with that, he knows his kisses make you weak so he uses them to his advantage.

-Will never admit it but it always places a small smirk on his lips every time you clutch his shirt for balance or rest your forehead on his shoulder to regain your composure.

-An I love you a day is required for good vibes.

-Won’t hesitate to shout it even in front of others, he just has no filter and no shame.

-Makes you turn tomato red and he snickers.

-Fuck him, literally.

Gojo Satoru

-This fucking tease.

-He has no chill!!!!!!

-How are you with him?!?!?!?!!

-My man fine af and he drinks his respect for y/n and y/n alone juice every morning.

-That doesn’t mean though he won’t try to fluster you throughout the day.

-It’s his main goal really.

-Full blown make out sessions in the hallways of the school, ass smacks in front of others and trying to leave hickies on your neck during your lunch break.

-It simultaneously pisses you off and turns you on so you can’t decide if you should smack him or jump his bones.

-It’s a never ending debate and his chances of getting the quawk quawk 5000 are 50/50.

-He respects your boundaries when you give him a sign that you really don’t want him to be like that on certain days.

-He is a very observant individual in general so it’s not hard for him to take note of the signs of pure discomfort or awkwardness.

-True he loves flustering you but the moment things get out of hand and you don’t feel okay with how he is acting, he is throwing his attitude out the window and becomes respectful Gojo in a flash.

-Likes having his arm draped over your shoulder.

-He is super tall so chances are he towers over you.

-He has used you like an armrest several times which resulted to a trip to Shoko for a dislocated wrist/shoulder.

-You make him bentos almost everyday and he waits for them like a lost puppy.

-No matter the time, he doesn’t care if he is late, he will wait for you to make him a little bento to take with him.

-Curses can wait, he needs to receive his first dose of y/n love of the day.

-Brags to his student about you and to Nanami, much to the blonde’s dismay.

-Talks everyone’s ear off.

-He becomes super protective when an elder shows up or at the mere mention of them.

-He will grasp your hand, keeping a firm grip as those pretentious fucks stare down at you.

-They really don’t care about Sato’s happiness and they will never show you a fiber of respect despite being chosen by the strongest sorcerer.

-You are not part of one of the three clans so you are worth nothing in their eyes.

-Gojo hates them for that.

-Deep rooted hatred that could turn into a mass murder if one of them call you a distraction or a slut one more time.

-You are really grateful for him in those moments.

-You are grateful in general but during those times when you are being bombared left and right with rude comments, he will remind everyone in the room that he doesn’t give a flying fuck about what they believe.

-He fell in love with you because you are your beautiful self and not because you are a powerful sorcerer.

-He wants to imagine your kids as a sign of your love and not as an item of power, as a weapon like many of these people see him.

-He has ditched the elder meetings on many occasions just because he wasn’t in the mood of listening to their bullshit so he came home to you and spent the rest of his night cuddled up under the large comforter, watching a movie while peppering your shoulders with kisses.

-Adores seeing you in his clothes.

-They are so big on you that you wear them as dresses around the house.

-He especially loves the sight of your bare legs peeking from underneath his black t-shirt.

-99% of the time this ends up in you getting your guts rearranged.

-Surprisingly remembers all the important dates and he makes it to as many dates as he can.

-Being a sorcerer is difficult man, give him a break curses he has a date at 8 and he needs to get his formal glasses.

-All in all he loves you to the moon and back and would do anything to keep you safe and next to him.

TAG TEAM AY:

@the-arcana-fan-fic @angelwritings @axerrri @reinyrei @dnarez @storage11037 @ezoyscorner @letscheereachotheron @wolfkid22 @dark-thoughts-and-red-roses @threeamwriting @ysatrap @yashinosakura @angel6786

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megan-is-mia · 4 years ago

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Hi! Is it okay if I request a poly Pomefiore nsfw oneshot with the prompt starter 103- “You’re so beautiful, chained up like that on my bed. I think I might just fuck you like this.”

Thank you!

(Hopefully, this will make you happy despite how late it is >_<) 103. “You’re so beautiful, chained up like that on my bed. I think I might just fuck you like this.” (Yandere! Pomefiore Dorm x Fem! S/o) (Warning NON-CON AND NSFW AHEAD)

(Y/n) had always been an early riser, ever since she was a child she’d been that way. Since coming to Night Raven College and being sorted into Pomefiore that had not changed. While others rolled out of bed and tamed their bedhead into a presentable coiffure before greeting the day, she’d spend the hour of the sun’s rising just basking in its splendor. Yet today was one of the few times she despised her early-rising nature. For by waking up she had returned to the horrifying nightmare that was her reality.

She was aware that she was considered a beauty, even among her fellow Pomefiore students where good-looks are almost a requirement to be in the dorm she was considered to be far above-average. Such good looks might have made another soul happy or greedy but not her, for paired with her fair features were a reclusive mind and timid heart that made that gift of beauty a curse. (Y/n)’s discomfort with dealing with people was half the reason she’d become an early bird as to avoid the conflict before it began. Yet how could she avoid conflict when the place she’d awoken would bring her nothing but conflict? How could (Y/n) hope to continue her life of trying to blend in when people were sure to ask questions at breakfast? Try as she might she couldn't think of a way to explain why she had slept in the dormhead’s bed instead of her own. Yes, that’s where dawn was greeting her. From the unfamiliar warmth and comfort of Vil Schoenheit’s bed as the male in question continued to sleep seemingly undisturbed by her distress. It shouldn’t have been possible for things to be worse, but somehow they were. For it wasn’t just the beautiful boy with his blonde hair that turned lavender at the ends that kept her company but two additional bodies that ensured she wouldn't move a muscle while they slept on. If (Y/n) turned her head she could see the vice-dormhead Rook Hunt snoring peacefully with his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, his breath ruffling her hair as he breathed in and out.

As for the third occupant nestled snugly in the bed… It took (Y/n) a few moments to recognize the first-year who’s taken the liberty of using her chest as a pillow in his sleep. In her defense, Epel Felmier was basically a stranger to her. The one time they’d spoken being when she’d tried to turn him down gently a few weeks back. After that awkward encounter where she’d had to tell him she wasn’t interested, she’d been making more of an effort to try and blend in with the masses. So why was she here? And why… did her lower body feel so numb? Her head throbbed when she tried to think about it and she let out a small groan of pain as she did so. The moment the sound left her lips, the arm around her waist tightened as Rook let out a yawn. She felt his mouth press against the nape of her neck to place a kiss before he buried his nose into her hair with a contented sigh. “Good morning (Y/n)” the green-eyed male purred softly, his voice still rough from sleep and made her shiver in disgust. (Y/n) imagined that if she were to speak her voice would sound even rougher than his. considering all the screaming she’d done the night before. Yes, despite the pounding headache she had, the memories of the night before were beginning to make their way back to her. How she’d felt unusually tired after dinner, how she’d woken up with her hands cuffed above her head. She’d called out desperately hoping that someone would hear her plea and come to her rescue. Oh her pleas were heard alright, heard by the very souls who’d put her in this situation. She did not remember what exactly they’d said to her in the moment. Yet one phrase from Vil came back to her loud and clear as when it had been first uttered. “You’re so beautiful, chained up like that on my bed. I think I might just fuck you like this” the blonde had growled out, his perfectly cultivated appearance and personality torn away to reveal a man utterly consumed by lovesickness. Epel would have been the first one on her had he not been held back by Rook who reminded him playfully to respect his elders. The first-year had retorted back that it wasn’t fair for him to have to wait when he’d been pining the hardest and been the only one formally rejected by (Y/n). Still, he’d acquiesced to the matter, standing with crossed arms as he watched Vil run his hands over the girl, muttering a mix of criticisms and compliments as he went lower and lower. The entire time the young woman’s only contributions had been pleas for them to stop, for them to let her go, for them to act like nothing had ever happened. All these requests had been met with callous laughter and condescending platitudes. After Vil had completed his overview of (Y/n) he gestured to the other two men to come join him on the bed. Now instead of one set of roaming hands on her body, there were three: pinching, squeezing, petting, and stroking. It was all so overwhelming; one moment she was struggling to keep her legs closed so her pants couldn't be removed, the next she was naked as a newborn babe with her legs thrown over Rook’s shoulders as he ate her out. When she tried to protest again, Vil’s lips were pressed against hers as he shoved his tongue down her throat. As for her bust… well it seemed Epel seemed to be quite interested in that part of her if the fact he was suckling greedily on one nipple while pinching the other between his fingers. Why it’s a wonder she was able to resist cumming for so long with all the stimuli she was being barraged with. So when she lost it, she lost it hard. Moaning into Vil’s mouth arching up into Epel’s touch, and drenching Rook’s face with her juices. Yet the man had kept going, tongue fucking her ever though she was already overstimulated to give the other two men a chance to undress and jerk themselves off to full-hardness. (Y/n) was on the cusp of a second orgasm when Rook pulled back and Vil took his spot between her legs. She’d whimpered when Vil had pressed his cock against her dripping entrance but hadn’t been able to stop him from sinking into her with a soft growl. Nor had (Y/n) been able to stop Epel from prying her mouth open so he could stuff her throat with his dick. A few moments later she felt something prodding at her already stretched-out cunt as Rook eased his cock in beside the other blonde’s with a low groan. She would have tried to protest this move, had she been able to speak that is. Wasting no time, all three men began fucking her with reckless abandon. Every nerve in her body seemed to be on fire, and her eyes rolled back in her skull as she was fucked senseless. And their stamina, dear lord their stamina. The three must have taken some kind of recovering potion ahead of time in order to keep going when she was nothing more than a limp noodle from overstimulation from her fourth orgasm in rapid suggestion. (Y/n) was already half-unconscious when they’d all finally had their fill of her. Epel forced her to swallow his load as Rook and Vil pulled out of her to watch their cum drip out of her well-fucked cunt with rapt attention. Eventually (Y/n)’s wrists were released from their bindings and kisses were pressed against the skin that had been rubbed raw from her struggles. Someone, she wasn’t sure who used a damp towel to clean her up before she was helped under the covers and felt arms wrap around her body as the three males got comfortable beside her. (Y/n) wanted to try and stay awake so she could have the chance to escape, but she was truly too weary for that and fell asleep after only a few minutes of laying there. Which then of course brought her back to the now of this morning. The now, where she had a blonde hunter speaking sweet-nothings into her ear as the first-year beside her pressed his face more insistently into her bosom and the dormhead slumbered on totally unaware of the situation at hand. She let out a deep sigh, slightly displacing Epel with the moment so he lifted his head from her chest with a sleepy expression. He stared at her with big, innocent-looking eyes. If this had been the first time she’d seen such a face (Y/n) might have been inclined to stroke his cheek and coo. However, she now knew too well what horrors hide under the pretty exterior. “Heya (Y/n)” he said his words slurred as he let his face fall back into place in her cleavage with a soft yawn. “Bonjour Monsieur Crabapple” Rook said, lifting his hand from (Y/n)’s waist in order to ruffle Epel’s hair affectionately, even as the younger boy let out a whine of protest at the gesture. If she hadn’t been scared out of her mind, the young woman might have tried to shush them so they wouldn’t wake Vil up yet. Everytime she closed her eyes she saw his depraved expression in her mind and she wasn’t sure she had the willpower to deal with that sight yet. Too bad that choice wasn’t up to her, as the male in question let out a yawn and stretched his arms over his head before turning his head her way with one beautiful violet eye open to gaze at her. Whatever he saw, seemed to please the young man as his mouth curled into a smile as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. (Y/n) forced herself not to recoil at the kiss, despite how much she wanted to. Vil’s expression was so sickly sweet that it made her stomach tie itself up in anxious knots. “Morning my darling” Vil said, before pressing a second kiss to the girl’s forehead. The pet name only made her insides twist-up tighter. (Y/n) could feel the panic she’d been repressing since she woke up finally got to her. As her heart began to thump wildly and her body quivered like a leaf in the wind with fresh tears forming in the corners of her eyes. If she thought such a display wouldn't faze the boys she was wrong as it only put them all on high alarm and fussing over her. She could feel her grip on the waking world begin to fade as her vision blurred and she passed out amidst frantically shaking and worried words from the three males. (Y/n) would have to face reality sooner or later, but it didn’t have to be now. Now she could drift through her own personal dream world for a few more hours of peaceful, blissful ignorance before she would be forced to start adjusting to being the trophy-girlfriend to the trio of insatiable men who’d ruin her life otherwise… THE END

#Yandere Epel Felmier #Epel Felmier #Yandere Rook Hunt #Rook Hunt #Yandere Vil Schoenheit #Vil Schoenheit #Twisted Wonderland #Yandere Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Yandere TWST

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thecitythatdoesntsleep · 4 years ago

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Vampire Master-Guide

First of all I want to start off by saying I've gathered inspiration from MANY vampire medias. Fictions, games. The biggest influences are Vampire the masquerade (primarily bloodlines) and Vampire Knight (manga). As well as honorable mentions to Vampyr (game), Queen of the Damned (movie) and Van Helsing (movie, anime). So if anything sounds familiar, chances are it is. I highly encourage you to explore them as they are a few of my favorites.

Second of all this is going to be massive, so I'll be putting it under a cut. But it will be a comprehensive guide to my personal vampire lore that I've crafted and worked with through the years. If you like it, feel free to use it! I'd absolutely love to be tagged (so I can shower the creations with praise) but it's not required. I'm just out here making one more version of vampires that hopefully inspires you. There will be a couple different categories that I will touch base on.

History (this part is super short)

Physicality - Medical Information

Physicality - Appearance/Body

Mental Effects

Society

Anything from my vampire lore will be tagged #vlor

Now follow me under the cut, lovelies. But please be Warned: We'll be discussing blood, violence, physical and mental illness. As well as regular vampire related things. If any of this could trigger you, please kindly skip this post because you're far more important to me!

'History'

The original vampire to walk the earth, cursed by the heavens was Caine. After committing the first murder, a blood-soaked punishment was to forever be banished to walk the darkness with a constant reminder of his crimes. Thirst. Craving for the same blood he shed against his own kin. The sin was carried through the years and he came upon another outcast kindred by the name of Lilith, cursed by God in a different way and hexed with powerful disciplines.

They bonded as kine and Lilith taught her chaos to Caine in hopes they'd rule together. In the end his nature stayed true and his now empowered wrath befalls Lilith, committing murder yet again and taking her life.

To feed upon and be fed, was a now animalistic instinct that spoke louder than supposed human nature ever could. And thus the curse spread. To anyone that drinks from the tainted or is bitten by a rabid, is surely to bear it at the final heartbeat. The path to redemption is sealed but survival is nearly infinite. So long as the beast is obeyed and satisfied, there is no constraint on lifespan. They will be damned to an eternity enslaved to thirst.

(Primarily from VTMB but I really like the idea of it being some sort of ancient curse from the gods so I thought I'd include this tiny historical bit. Onto the good stuff.)

Physicality - Medical Information

Vampires are anemic, let's just establish that all vampires are what modern day medicine would consider anemia. But they also have super aggressive red blood cells that function x100 that of human white blood cells. All in one combo of super cells. No illness spreads. No disease can contract, nothing can live in their system. They don't fall ill with colds or flu. STD's aren't feasible. Their systems are far too strong and combative to infections, bacteria.

Their integumentary systems regenerate about x200 - x300 times faster. Within seconds (if there is or has been fresh blood in the system recently) their skin regenerates and goes even beyond that. Mere hours and limbs grow back, bones realign.

Vampires don't have functioning organs. (If they are turned from humans they are there but they don't work and will eventually wither.) Hearts don't beat, lungs have no need for air.

Vampires can't drown. They don't breathe and even if water fills their lungs, they would be weighted down but not die. They also don't float like humans do naturally.

Vampires can go out in the sun but they have hard times with sun poisoning. Think of a sunburn but more like a rash. They can't process the vitamin D very well and almost all of them have trouble with getting severely burnt very rapidly or having a rash from the sun. Prolonged exposure can make them feverish, nauseated and give them body cramps and fatigue. Even longer can make them violently ill and can essentially melt their skin. It can be healed but takes longer.

Staking their hearts immobilizes them but does NOT kill them. They can be detained this way and it is excruciatingly painful. But it doesn't kill you.

Vampires can't eat food. Only few can consume liquids aside from blood. They have no ability to digest it and no longer make acid. They'll usually heave it up along with whatever blood content is left in their gut.

They have perfect eyesight, hearing, hyper senses of taste and smell. Touch is extremely sensitive as well. Their skin isn't fragile, in fact it's a bit thicker than average skin from how fast it regenerates and is constantly maintaining itself.

They are very resistant but not impossible to scar. Scars from human life are erased with first turning.

Vampire blood tastes like flat soda or icky, room temperature tap water. Unpleasant to other vampires but in a desperate pinch, it will sustain but nowhere near as good as foreign blood does. Even animal blood takes better care of a vampires system than another body of recycled blood. (Think of it as they've already taken the good stuff out of it for their own bodies so all that's left is the taste and a few stray nutrients.)

Vampires fangs grow back indefinite. At about x10 the rate of humans losing and replacing their first set. No matter what comes of them, their fangs will always grow back. No other teeth mutate like this.

Fangs lengthen and retract when around blood or not. It's not something that can be helped or even trained out. When blood is present, fangs will lengthen even if there is no intention to feed. Automatic reaction and a painful one at that. They get used to it but it's a sharp pain like having a human tooth extracted but it doesn't have prolonged swelling or discomfort. Only when getting longer or retracting back in.

Whenever they're in bloodlust or a state of starvation, they gain a sense of x-ray vision but instead it's vein mapping. They can see through skin to arteries and if it's severe blood lust, they can even see the smaller, tinier veins in fingers and faces. This is a sight that ever vampire possesses in order to obtain blood easier or figure out a good place to bite. Anything that is living will be seen in a structure of veins. Animals, humans, other vampires.

Severing the brain stem from the body is one of the few sure-fire way to kill a vampire. Alternatively burning them to pure ash and scattering them or holding them in separate vessels. (If ALL ashes are contained somehow and mixed with fresh blood, there is a reanimation process so beheading them is more permanent.) Silver weapons or exposure to silver prior to wound can result in death as well.

Alcohol is SUPER effective when they drink it. Think of one shot making them drunk because it hits their bloodstream almost immediately. A double would have them seeing double and acting like a hot mess. 3+ for even the beefiest of men would have them blacked out and vomiting on the sidewalks.

Drugs effect them but only in extremely high doses and for nothing really over 2 hours or so. Short, short longevity but they have the same crash that humans do. If it's hard detoxing symptoms for humans, it's the same but faster. They can do a hard drug, feel the high for maybe 1 - 2 hours and immediately go into hallucinating and shaking from the aftermath. The same goes for Pharmacia. There's really no medicine that works.

Garlic is a myth. So is wolfsbane.

Silver on the other hand is a very real, very deadly weapon that still rings true. A single pinprick of a silver sewing needle and it can render a vampire powerless. Slow them down to the speed of a human, take away their rapid healing and remove all of their heightened senses. Silver directly into the bloodstream essentially renders them as they were before they turned in physical response and structure. It's the only metal that burns vampires skin and will char it if it sits in one spot for too long. Silver is the only kind of metal that can forge chain that vampires cannot break and can successfully be restrained in. Any wounds inflicted in silver take longer to heal.

They can't reproduce after being turned. Purebloods + Purebloods are the only exception and it's still extremely rare. (Only 9 children born in over 2,500+ years.)

Physicality - Appearance/Body

Whatever color their eyes are, blood-lust accentuates the brightest color. I.e: Brown eyes turn Yellow/Gold, Blue eyes turn White/Purple exct. (Different powers can change this depending on the vampire and their history, sire.) Just think neon, glowing eyes in the dark if they're thirsty or hunting.

They stay frozen in whatever physical appearance they're turned in. Their metabolism is whack so they don't really lose or gain weight, it's down to cosmetic changes or cosmetic surgery. Which at least it heals flawlessly and doesn't ever change. But there aren't many options for personally invested physical change.

Their hair and nails grow super fast.

Vampires usually have the hair color they have when they are turned but around 15% experience graying or whitening of their hair within a few days of turning. Due to a semi-common genetic string in humans.

Vampires don't tan. They burn. No matter what their skin color is. Most are the palest/pasty tone of their natural skin color merely due to anemia and lack of blood circulation.

They don't blush or show physical signs of fever.

Vampires don't sweat or flush when exerting or exercising. They don't have to regulate their body temperatures.

They get dry skin pretty often and it's important to combat it with baths and soaks and lotions/oils whenever possible.

They are usually a lukewarm body temperature. As low as 15°C|59°F to as much as 21°C|69.8°F.

Every vampire has a certain amount of charming allure to them. In whatever form or fashion suits them the best, it's a natural attractant to their human counterparts. A glint to their eyes, a certain smile, the pitch or timbre of their voice. Endearing, seductive, mysterious, whichever shines through in their personality. They are magnetic, attractive to the human eye, no matter what they tend to look like.

They can see themselves in aluminum coated mirrors. Just not silver.

Mental Effects

There is a staggering 95% probability that 'created' vampires will have amnesia unless turned by a pureblood/noble/king/queen/high ranking blood vampire. They remember nothing of their human lives and this is extremely common. It's actually very rare to remember anything prior to your awakening. (That's why there are usually strict laws about siring without consent and proof of consent.)

It is very easy for vampires to be blinded by fits of rage when starving for blood. They can fly into blind anger and attack people they normally wouldn't or even foes they have no chance of winning against. Depending on their remaining strength when this tipping point of starvation happens; it can be extremely dangerous to be around.

Most turned vampires suffer a psychotic break in their early turning years. (Between 6mo and up to 25 years of awakening age. I.e: from the date of being bitten.) The brain is the last thing to be altered in the physical process and because of this, it's believed that their mental state has to crumble to be built better. It's unknown as to exactly why this happens but it's almost guaranteed. It's the vampire equivalent of 'adolescence'.

Over 75% of vampires experience periodic depression and random bouts of sadness. Another 39% live with bouts of mild to moderate psychosis. (This has been suspected to happen because of the physical stasis and improper circulation of chemicals/hormones/exct. Many believe it's because of the guilt of their King, Caine.)

Mental illnesses that aren't born from physical imbalances are in cases of amnesia, cured. Those that are chemically related are usually worsened by the stagnant physical changes of vampirism. It's rare that those with amnesia remember their traumas or emotional upsets after turning.

The "amnesia" of turning is the death of a human psyche. With the staggering rate of permanent amnesia, it is hard to figure out exactly how it happens but it's widely known.

Society

Humans are not fully aware of vampires. This still rings true with the fear of world war and or wiping out the human race given their species.

There is a high society "government" type of monarchy. Each clan or type of vampires has a leader "elder". This is usually the oldest vampire to date of that specific type. Sometimes it's a group or a family of elders. In most modern day they have adapted to a more "presidential" route and have to establish themselves as leader types to be considered for any kind of law making or enforcement. (I.e: Noble bloodline, diligent efforts of servitude such as public service, military or other.)

There is a strict law against turning humans. Vampires are required to have clearly given consent and the process is to be looked over by an elder or enforcer. They must show strenuous documentation of that persons preservation in the name of probable amnesia. They must have a comprehensive processing of that persons interests, personality traits, societal standing, proof of occupational termination, familial status and situational agreement. (Basically they don't want humans forgetting their lives entirely and they want to make sure that they are able to move somewhere or hide from their families until they're well trained enough to be around them again. It's a very long to legally accomplish it.

Every city handles turning differently. Some require the sire to pay the death penalty and others are strictly against killing the one person responsible of their turned kindred.

Vampires are in every day jobs, doing anything and everything that humans do. From trash collecting, to law and doctors. Fame, fortune, poor, criminal; they all live as many walks of life as humans do.

Anti-vampire establishments are alive and well. Most are run by other vampires. Some humans share their beliefs but most typically it's a resounding amount of vampire extremists. This is legal due to the fact that they try to adhere and coexist for their sanctions ordinance. Helping enforce justice for their regions and implore an opposing force for rampaging vampires or other law breaking kindred.

Most human killings are covered up, tampered with or has someone on the inside working on doing both. It's a constant job but a needed one to keep their existence safe from being proven.

There is a massive shortage on vampire doctors serving other vampires or studying from what little information there is on vampirism. The ratio looking like 1 to 300. 1 doctor for every 300 vampires.

The most vampire dominated and lucrative occupations are generally law, publishing and sex working. There are 3 vampires with these jobs to every human worker.

Here is an additional post about how vampire blood would effect humans.

So that was everything I could think of for the time being. I may continue to edit and update this as I have time or I think of something that I haven't touched base on yet. But this is just the general lore I work with when I do write about vampires or when I think about them in general. Feel free to skip certain parts or like.. adapt it however you'd like. I made this to more so inspire people not to show a list of HOW things should go. Take of it what you like and ignore what you don't! Add more if you think of something!

Some of it gets a bit random but it's still things that I've either incorporated in some unpublished fics or talked about with some friends or just fantasized about in general. There's bits and pieces in all media for vampires that I really enjoy and I think every new style spins something different and makes for wonderful content!

#whump prompt #vampires #vampire prompt #whump list #character development #character reference #character sheet #vampire reference #character guide #vampire #vampire list #tw blood #tw violence #tw vampires #vlor

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saint-eridell · 5 years ago

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7:41 AM | Deku/F!reader fluffsmut

By demand of @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten, here’s a oneshot I wrote months ago while on an AU spree. Unbeta’d, I just wanted to put something up for people here to read. c:

8.3k, no major content warnings (aside from the possibility of dental work once your teeth start falling out from the fluff). All characters are in their early twenties.

It’s an exceedingly rare occasion when you and Izuku have the same day off. It’s such an uncommon thing that you can’t remember the last time it happened. When you peek over at the alarm clock next to your bed, you immediately smile - the green-faced display says it’s 7:41, a new record for Longest Morning Cuddle. You resolve yourself to keep the streak going as long as possible as you tuck an elbow under your pillow and consider dozing off again.

Something moves in the corner of your vision - an arm, your still mostly asleep brain registers - and drapes itself over your waist. A strong hand flattens itself over your midsection as an equally solid body tucks itself against your back. Izuku groans quietly, clearly still sound asleep. You chuckle quietly and curl back into him. “Good morning,” you whisper to test the waters.

You feel a set of lips curl into a smile against the back of your neck. “Morning,” he murmurs back, rough and gravelly with fatigue. Was he even awake yet? You’d seen him essentially sleepwalk to the coffee maker in the kitchen plenty of times; talking in his sleep is more than plausible. He settles again with a sigh that brushes over your neck and the back of your ear, and you can’t help but quietly laugh to yourself. Yep. Definitely still asleep, then.

Not that it matters in the slightest. The sun has only barely begun to light up the blinds that cover the bedroom windows. If he wants to sleep in, you’ll be the last one to stop him. Izuku never took time for himself anymore; between everything that Deku required of him and the constant training it took to keep up with the top spot, there wasn’t much left for the man behind the suit. Izuku’s the one in your bed, not the superhero he is during the day, and that means he doesn’t owe anyone shit for once. The fact that you have even a tiny bit to do with this makes you more than a little happy.

The hand not pushed under your pillow traces idle lines up and down his forearm, careful to not linger on any rough spots or seams. You’ve yet to work up the nerve to ask about the marks that cover his body, despite things being consistent between you for several months. It just doesn’t feel right to ask about. When Izuku wants to talk about it, he’ll say so… right?

Your nails circle the top of his wrist, then trail over the back of his hand. He picks his hand up and slides your fingertips between his knuckles before you can drift back up his arm, your fingers interlocked when he tucks them under your chin. You smile again, halfway obscured by your pillow, your conundrum momentarily forgotten. “Sneaky,” you murmur.

You feel him chuckle against the back of your neck, the soft breath that he huffs out enough to have the hair on the base of your scalp standing on end. “Observant,” he replies quietly, his voice rough from a night of sleeping like a boulder. “You turned your alarms off.”

“So did you,” you point out.

Izuku shrugs. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” He’s beginning to sound a little more lucid, but his arm is still a heavy weight over your side and his frame sags into you like a weighted blanket. It’s entirely too early for him to be doubting himself, and you’re far too comfortable to even flirt with the idea of him running off.

You roll your eyes. “From getting cold,” you jab back. “You’re not going anywhere, so don’t get any funny ideas.”

His smile widens against your neck. “Funny ideas?” he asks back, his sleepy but earnest tone juxtaposed against the teeth you can feel brushing against your hairline. Even while mostly asleep, Izuku can still play the Boy Scout card like an absolute bastard. “I dunno what you mean.” You glance back toward him out of the corner of your eye, and even if he’s out of direct sight for you he’s close enough to see you looking because he immediately noses behind your ear. “What, don’t trust me?” he pouts.

You tilt your head and give him more room to nuzzle against your neck. “With my life,” you reply honestly. “But you’re a shitty liar when you’re fully cognizant and trying your hardest.”

Izuku laughs, a low sound that rumbles through you from behind and lingers under your skin as he pulls you closer. “I’m as innocent as a church mouse,” he murmurs back, mirth dripping through the mock innocence. He lets go of your hand, his index finger tracing down the hollow of your throat. “What would make you think otherwise?”

You have a hunch. You curve your back into his chest, and are rewarded with a half-hard but definitely interested shaft pressed to your backside. He lets out a quiet noise somewhere between a squeak and a groan and reciprocates the movement. “Nn- now that is entirely on you.”

You smile into your pillow. “No, that was you.” You grind against him again, slotting him between your cheeks for more contact. “This is me.” His hand immediately closes around your hip and pulls you in closer, his own hips returning the motion with enthusiasm. “Still feeling innocent?”

His lips brush over the side of your neck, not enough to make direct contact but enough to have you shivering on the spot. The huff he lets out ghosts over your loose tee shirt collar. “Why, you wanna corrupt me?” he asked back. The hand on your hip lets go, returning to palm the round curve of your ass. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to a low rumble that sinks directly into your bones and renders them down to gelatin in mere seconds. “Because I could be convinced to lay still with the right offer.”

Bastard. That purr. Memories of the things he’s poured into your ears using that voice have gotten you through many a multi-day mission. He knows what it does to you, just like he’s perfectly aware that his shy act is precisely that - a pretense, an amusing yet convenient wall to keep all but the most intimately familiar of people out. And to top it off with a shiny bow, Izuku can weaponize it at the drop of a hat. He’s a clever, quick-witted bastard and the realization that he’s really the one lying behind you, baiting his obscenity with honey and only letting you get a taste, has a happy bubble of warmth blooming in your chest.

The absolute bastard.

He catches you off guard by pressing a kiss just behind your ear. He places another just below it and continues downward as you squirm against the hand gripped to your ass. “Thought you were gonna show off,” you point out, very aware of how warm the skin under your shirt collar is getting as he approaches your shoulder with the edges of his teeth.

He tilts his head far enough to catch your eye. He’s sitting up on an elbow that’s planted behind your head, dark teal eyes fixated on you with only traces of the fatigue that had dragged him down earlier. “Thought you were gonna convince me to,” he purrs back, a sharp edge peering through his smile.

That’s enough of a hint for you. You turn onto your back and grab him by the chin, his smile only widening as you pull him down and seal your mouths together with a hungry noise. He shifts to kneel between your spread knees without argument, draping them around his hips.The kiss gets progressively needier as you both shake what remains of your sleepiness, tongues more grappling than dancing by the time you separate for a desperately needed breath.

It takes you an extra second. The window behind your headboard has lit up enough to allow soft golden light to filter through, the rays illuminating only the longest curls that stick out of his head. His cheeks are flushed a bright pink under a spray of freckles that stand out in sharp relief, as is his heavily shifting chest as he stares down at you with wet, parted lips. The scars that cover every part of him you can see stand out like his freckles, stripes of jagged, smooth pink against weathered tan that both entice and entrance you as you look them over. It’s a fact that you’ve obviously realized already, but… Izuku really is gorgeous. Like, the kind of gorgeous that has you swallowing down butterflies the second they walk in the room.

He blinks and reaches a hand to push a stray lock of your hair behind your ear, snapping you from your reverie with a sharp inhale. “You okay?” he asks, devoid of anything but genuine concern and a softness that makes your heart ache in your chest.

You nod and dart your tongue over your lips. “Yeah,” you confirm, winded. It would be a little awkward to explain that you’d been momentarily dumbstruck and reduced to a puddle because your bedroom has God-tier selfie lighting and your boyfriend looks like an angel when he’s not spazzing out. You pull him down again, this time with a hand spread over his jaw as you dive back into trying to remove any trace of his own taste from his mouth. He tugs the hem of your shirt upward and you break away to remove the offending garment, tossing it somewhere off the bed before Izuku begins kissing his way down your bare chest.

Your head tilts back and you let your eyes close. “Show me what you know,” you breathe. “And we’ll go from there.” You feel him grin against your sternum, where he nips a small mark into your skin before doing the same on the underside of a breast. You jump at the second nip; it didn’t hurt, but it was a sharp sensation you hadn’t been prepared for. You open your eyes and begin to say something, but your complaint dies in your throat as Izuku pulls a nipple between his teeth and rolls it against his tongue. Your eyes shut again and a quiet whimper escapes you. He matches his tongue with a hand on the opposite breast, swapping off without warning and quick enough to leave you no room to react. You can’t bring yourself to look down again, but you know he’s watching: you can feel his eyes boring into you, searching for every little twitch and whimper and cataloging it away like ticker tape. He gently bites the bud between his teeth and you finally have to relent, peering down through heavy lashes as his hand trails toward your shorts.

“I think I know what I’m doing here,” he says. He pokes a finger under the waistband and pops it against your stomach, his smile widening despite how fucking earnest he still sounds. “You’ll tell me if I can do something better, right?”

UGH. Absolute fucking bastard. “You’re pushing it,” you warn, though it’s heatless and you’re smiling around the retort. He seems to know he’s toeing the line and leans in to softly bite at your throat, which you happily accept with a quiet, high pitched yelp. You slip a hand through the curls on top of his head, and he arches his head into your palm with an appreciative groan against your collarbone. His hair is a melting point for him; one good scratching session and he’s passed out in your lap every single time. For how dense the curls are, they’re incredibly soft and slip effortlessly around your fingers like strips of dark green silk as you drag your nails across the crown of his head.

Izuku melts underneath your soft grip. For a moment he seems to forget where he’s going and any sense of what he’s doing, only aware of the nails running through his hair. Just as Izuku’s shoulders begin to slump, your fingers slowly tighten until you have a decent handful of curls wrapped around them when they begin to tug. Izuku keens into it with another groan, this one lower and guttural around his slackened jaw. “Don’t go to sleep on me,” you murmur down to him.

He grins against your sternum with half-open eyes. “Couldn’t if I wanted to,” he promises. You give the top of his head a gentle push, and he quickly gets with the program and shifts his way downward. He kisses your abdomen, then just above your navel, then just below it as he grabs the waistband of your shorts and guides them down over the swell of your hips. You let go of his hair and lift your ass to let him pull them all the way off before he throws them somewhere out of sight.

You eye his basketball shorts with disdain, lingering on the heavy tent standing up in the front. “You’re wearing too much,” you pout.

Izuku glances down to his lower half. “Later,” he replies. Without bothering to strip them off, he shoots you a grin and lowers himself with a startling quickness. You yelp, both in surprise at the sudden movement and protest at being blown off, but immediately shove the noise back into your own mouth as you slap a hand over it. He lays his chest flat to the bed in one quick shift and pins you with a wide, intense stare as he drags his tongue in a single flat stripe up the length of your slit. They part against the flat surface of his tongue and he wastes no time pressing inside you, his terrifyingly strong hands wrapped around the bend of your hips to keep you glued to his face.

A strangled moan creaks out as you writhe on the spot. For how often Izuku chokes on his own tongue in day to day life, he’s an undeniable master when he puts it to work. He’s long figured out which angles and spots made you lose your marbles, and he cycles between all of them as easy as turning a page. Your hands once again grab into his soft curls as your thighs slacken and fall away from his ears. He latches around your clit when he feels you relax, laving his tongue over it and pulling another sharp cry out of you as your legs tighten over his ears again.

He keeps you hovering there for what feels like hours. He doesn’t bother moving either of his hands, seemingly too content to press finger-shaped bruises into the valleys of your hips as you slowly fall apart in his arms. You glance downward and feel the same brick from before smash into your chest: he looks wild with tousled green curls sticking out in every direction, his wide eyes locked onto you with laser-sharp focus over the curve of your mound with the barest hint of an obscured smile just beneath. He knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, and the devilish curl of his tongue through the wetness that has collected at your opening screams it.

“Am I doing alright?” he asks when he surfaces for air, his wet cheek pressed to your inner thigh. His breath tickles your overstimulated folds and you jump on the spot. You nod, unable to formulate a verbal response. He grins against your leg, his lips shining in the faint morning light. With the shadows pulled into sharp relief, his darkened eyes look almost bottomless as they follow your every movement. He watches you, hungry and devious in equal parts, before briefly biting into your thigh and returning to your slit.

Your back arches off the bed as you suck in a sharp breath. He lets go with one hand and traces a fingertip through your soaked folds, prepping it briefly before sliding it into you all the way to the top knuckle. You keen hard with your lower lip between your teeth. His hands are covered in calluses, the shift of just one finger inside you enough to make your brain short circuit. Despite their roughness, he curves them at the exact angle to light you up from the inside out and continues laving over your clit to keep you off center.

It works. By the time he slides a second finger inside, you’re openly moaning toward the ceiling. You glance down again, and for the first time he isn’t looking up at you. His eyes are shut and pinched with focus, his forehead free of any of the usual tension he carried there. He’s as lost as you, drowning in the same obscene noises that echo off the walls as he ruts down into the comforter through the fabric of his shorts. In an instant the intimacy of the moment punches you in the gut, ripping a loud moan out of you as your fingers grip tighter into his hair.

“M’go-” No good. Words aren’t happening. You make do with pulling him into you by the scalp, something he seems to be completely fine with as he relaxes his neck and picks up the pace with his fingers. Your breathy noises become full on wails as he pushes you closer to the edge and, with one particularly skillful twist of his wrist, shoves you over. Your thighs clamp around his head as you wail his name up toward the ceiling, your back arched high as every muscle in your body contracts at the same time. He keeps up the pace until you finally collapse like a broken marionette, falling to pieces around him as you struggle to regain your breath.

He leans his head against your thigh and hugs it to his cheek with his clean hand, his own breathing harsh and ragged. He’s flushed from the hairline down, a sharp contrast to the damp green curls that stick to his forehead. He’s obviously worked up and hasn’t stopped grinding himself down into the mattress (he might not even realize he’s doing it, with how hazy his eyes are), but he’s watching you with a wet grin as he corrects his own breathing. “You okay?” he asks again.

You roll your eyes toward the headboard behind you. “I’m pretty sure I just lost feeling in my feet for a second,” you respond between exhales. It’s hard to hold your head up, let alone form cohesive words, when your entire body feels like it’s been melted to a sticky puddle.

His eyes flicker wider, his body suddenly very still. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

You let a cackle roll out of you unabated. “Are you joking?” you ask back. “Relax, Izuku. That’s a good thing.” Your head luls back as your neck begins to protest how heavy your head is. The pillow catches it and you spend a moment just staring at the ceiling, letting the last of the aftershocks roll through you as Izuku kisses at your inner thigh.

His cheek shifts along your thigh as you regain a chunk of your composure. He’s staring up at you, his cheeks still flushed a bright pink and his lips parted. “I know how to do more,” he murmurs into the pause. A hand slips off your hip and down to his shorts, which he finally peel off and kick away without any regard for where they landed. He sits up and guides your legs back over his hips, hovering over you with his bare dick resting in the cleft of your ass. “If you want to see.”

You pick your hips up in response, giving him something to grind against as you roll into his lap. His jaw slackens in response as he takes a handful of ass on each side and squeezes, lifting you into the motion of grinding against him. His arms flex, the sharp lines of muscle he’d built up over many years standing out in bold, dark lines as he effortlessly holds your weight with just his grip. You let him take hold of your lower half and relax into the pillows under your head and shoulders, your stomach muscles pulled taut against the arch of your back. If he’s going to show off, then you can dish it right back.

He swallows hard, his eyes widening. A devilish spark dances across them as he stretches a hand down between you and presses the pad of his thumb to your still sensitive nub. You squeal in response and thrash in his grip, but he holds you steady and guides you through it as he takes his time preparing himself. When you twist and catch the head of his length for a brief swipe across your soaked entrance, you buck again and only fail in pushing him into you because he grips your hips tighter and forces you to stay in one place.

“Easy,” he soothes in a low tone. “We’ll get there. Don’t wanna hurt you.” Fuck that, if you get what you want it’s going to hurt in every good way possible, and the sooner you get started the better. You twist in his hands again, but he’s far too strong and holds you in place with obvious ease. He seems to read the tension building on your features and swipes himself through your folds just as much as he absolutely has to before pushing you down half of his length.

The sting of him pressing your walls outward is intense, almost blinding. You let out loud cries in unison, his jaw nearly falling off his face with visible effort to maintain his composure. “So tight,” he manages to growl out from behind his teeth after his jaw snaps shut. “Don’t move, please, not yet.” You obey his plea and go still in his hands, watching intently as his eyes slide shut for just a moment. He pulls himself almost all the way out of you with a slow inhale, exhaling as he thrusts in again and ending it with a sharp little noise from the bottom of his chest when your hips seat together.

Izuku isn’t an absolute monster behind the zipper, but he’s got more than enough and he absolutely knows what he’s doing with it… despite his typical oblivious act. As soon as you’re both adjusted he begins thrusting deep, using his wide planted knees as a sturdy base to bounce you off his lap with hard pops of skin. It’s rougher than it probably should be, but the burn of it is so incredible you can’t bring yourself to tell him to slow down. He watches from above, ragged breaths puffing out of him every time you thrust back against him. He hits a spot that makes your lungs freeze and he thrusts there again hard and deep, rolling against it with a drawn out groan that seems to come directly from his core. You reciprocate the with a desperate one of your own, leveraging your toes against the bed to push down against him as your eyes roll toward the back of your head.

“Beautiful,” he gasps out, his grip nearly unbearable across your ass until he lets go and you finally get some relief. “So fucking beautiful.” You moan in gratitude and let your hips relax into his palms as he guides them down so your spine is flat to the sheets again. He leans in to plant his forearms flat to the bed over your shoulders and kisses you deep. You wrap your legs around his slim waist, your arms snaking around his neck so you can reach his hair once again. He rumbles into the kiss as you find a couple handfuls of curly green locks at the back of his head and give them an experimental squeeze, his hips snapping into you in response.

Tugging his hair like a set of reins kicks him into a higher gear. As he drills you into the mattress, all hesitation abandoned, he gasps and groans into the crook of your neck without a single attempt to quiet them. A litany of praise and vulgarity mixes in with the desperate breaths, mirrored by your own calls to deities and encouragement when he finds an angle that has your legs clamping around him hard enough to hurt. “Fuckin- unh, so good,” he chokes out, his lips a mere inch from your ear. “Mine. All mine. Nn- fuck, lift up like that oh my God yes…”

He can’t seem to stop his mouth, and every word out of it is praise for you as he hovers in your face, unavoidable and stripped down to his rawest thoughts as you hold him close with both hands. “So gorgeous. So sweet. Wanna taste you every day forever.” It’s so sincere, so unfiltered and so goddamn him it makes your heart ache like it’s trying to burst in your chest as he floods you with a wave of vulnerability you’re not sure you even deserve.

You feel a coil begin to tighten behind your navel as he presses hard kisses to the front of your throat, his pace needy and focused as his words begin to slur together and mutate into simple noises from the back of his throat. “Almost there,” he warns, his voice high and tight against your skin. You nod your acknowledgment and pull him by the hair until your faces are level again, when you crush your lips together and immediately seek out his tongue. The kiss itself is more an open mouth display of tongues and obscene noises than anything intimate, both of you momentarily chasing your own release until they sync up and, with one last hard tug to his scalp, you wail his name toward the ceiling again and let your orgasm completely wreck you.

Izuku follows immediately afterward, his teeth sunk into the hill of muscle where your neck meets your shoulder, muffling the shaky moan that tore through him. He seats himself deep and rides out his own release with hard rolls of his hips, your insides lighting up hot with the load he streaks your inner walls with. You hadn’t even been aware that it was possible to go that deep, but there’s no denying it when you can literally feel where he is.

The silence that lapses is punctuated only by ragged breaths and the smack of lips pulling off each other as you both struggle to piece your brains back together. Unable to sit still you let go of his hair and skate your nails down his back, earning you a quiet groan of approval and a scar-riddled back arching up into your fingertips. “Holy shit,” he breathes to break the silence, looking down at you with a lopsided grin. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You giggle and hurriedly exhale. “Morning,” you reply airily. You reach a hand up to brush away a particularly long curl that’s stuck to his forehead. He watches your hand but doesn’t move away from it, and when the stray lock is pushed away he gently takes your hand and guides it to his lips. He opens his mouth to say something but pauses, seemingly reconsidering it and choosing to kiss your knuckles instead.

You frown at him. “What?” you ask. “You can’t make a face like that and then just leave it.”

Izuku opens his mouth again, appearing like he might argue, before he closes it again. You arch an eyebrow up at him. “Sorry, sorry,” he says defenselessly with a shake of his head. “It’s hard to think.”

You give him a soft smile. “Relax. You’re okay.” You guide your tangled hands toward your face and brush your lips over his knuckles like he did to yours. “Now, what were you gonna say?”

The moment of focus seems to be enough to force a hard reset of Izuku’s brain. He blinks hard and shakes his head with a chuckle. “Sorry,” he repeats, holding his hands up again when you shoot him a dubious look. “I was gonna say that-” He pauses again and scratches idly at the back of his head. His gaze averts to the few inches of bedsheet that sit between them and it clicks - he’s getting bashful about something. Your dubious look shifts into a cheshire grin as you sit up to look him in the eye on his level. “I was gonna say- um…”

You nod to encourage him, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs around another hard swallow. “Go on,” you goad, sitting forward a little to distract him with your bare chest. It works; his gaze drifts downward and lingers for a few seconds before he snaps his focus back up to your face, his cheeks once again flushed a pale pink.

“Well…” He rubs the back of his neck and squirms on the spot. He peers around the room like he expects someone to be eavesdropping behind the dresser or something before leaning in, a hand cupped around one side of his mouth. You roll your eyes but play along and lean in closer so he can whisper in your ear:

“You’ve got a nice ass.”

Your elation flips to irritation like a lightswitch, and just as quickly you’re letting out a loud, raucous laugh. You grab a pillow from behind you and whip it in a crescent to peg him across the face with it. He takes the shot with a muffled grunt and bats the pillow down to his lap, a wide grin slapped across his face. “What? It’s true!”

“That’s not what you were gonna say and you know it,” you grouse back through a mock look of anger before poking your tongue out at him. He returns the gesture and the two of you fall into a moment of spastic laughter before coming back to reality with a chaste but tender kiss. You can forgive the leading on; he’d already communicated what remained unsaid in the bruises you can feel forming across your skin, on the teeth marks stinging at your shoulder, on the soft lips and sharp teeth you can still feel pulling at your bottom lip. You break it off and take his hand, scooting toward the edge of the bed and dragging a willing Izuku with you. “Shower, then coffee. You’re stuck with me today.”

Izuku presses the back of his free hand to his forehead as he follows you toward the bathroom door. “Oh no, whatever will I do?” he titters.

You shrug as you push the door open. “Get your dick sucked if you’re good.” You let go of his hand and enter the bathroom, a wide-eyed Izuku hot on your heels.

---

@the-angriestpineapple @deadassqueeraf @practisewhatyoupeach @cherrycolabomb

#midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya izuku x female reader #bnha smut #bnha lemon #bnha fluff #my fics

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jjkpls · 5 years ago

Text

crayons ‘hana’ (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, light angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 4.5k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

> Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> next

**words in italics are spoken in Korean

It's a grey day.

The Sun is acting up. As if It had been vexed deeply and now, no matter how loud the kids are calling after It, It just won't budge. Hidden behind the thick clouds, not hinting a tiny ray through the heavy shower, It won't show the tip of Its nose today, you have no doubt about that.

It takes some time to persuade the kids of that fact though.

The better half of recess is spent arguing, they just won't admit that for today, the break will be taken in class. It renders most of them gloomy, unable to accept the harsh reality, even if they've lived before -back in the beginning, when you were still too lenient, letting yourself drag into endless quarrel leading to stupid and quite irresponsible compromises- the traumatizing experience of standing in the middle of a storm. You still remember the awful concert of cries and the race to pick every kid somehow induced in a panic paralysis, one under each arm, to bring them to safety in urgency -thank god, Jeon Jungkook had been there, with his stature, able to stack up five of them at the same time, incredibly useful, pretty much life-saving. What you remember even better is the severe scolding you received from the principal, who thought -as you should have- that no matter how bad the children insisted, they shouldn't be playing outside in the rain.

You knew that. They just wouldn't believe you and you thought that, maybe, they just needed practical proof. No harm was supposed to be engendered. And quite frankly, none occurred. Children sometimes just enjoy being dramatic and it was the perfect, quintessential occasion to do so, especially if the principle is in earshot -which she was.

In any case, you learned your lesson. However, they did not.

Charlotte, standing on her pretty polished pearl white shoes -that you know, for a fact, that you'll get in trouble if her mother comes to pick her up to find them ruined by the terrible weather-, chin up high, hands tucked to her side, won't stop arguing with you as the main spokesgirl for the class. Apparently, it's “unfair”.

And it is unfair. Weather is not meant to be fair and you have not a single take on it. Try to explain that to a five-year-old.

“Ok, everyone, listen up!” Everyone's little heads swing forward like those car bobbleheads, wide eyes ogling you with burning impatience and clear, obnoxious delusion. They're all waiting, expecting you to open the door and let them free into the wild. “Let's make a deal, alright? Who wants to make a deal?” And everyone, even if they, for the most part, have no clue what's going on, wants to -except for Charlotte who's eyeing you with a suspicious glare and for Jimmy who's hiding in the corner, a sad scowl on his face. “You know that I don't have any power over the rain. But I do have powers over how long recess will last.” You act smug as you say that, their little impressed faces adding to the effect. It becomes painful to conceal the giggles blooming in your chest. “Since you already wasted half of your time, I have a proposition for you. You'll stay twice as long on break, meaning until it's 3:45,” You explain, pointing on the big clock hovering your desk where the long hand will be standing when the break ends. “if you can stay calm in class, ok?”

The announcement sends them in a fury, the simple idea of having a longer break overwhelming them with hysterical joy. So much for staying calm and collected.

Fortunately enough, I've been gifted with overall sweet children. It doesn't require more than a collecting "shh" and a reminder of the term of the bargain for them to quietly divert into groups, colonizing different lots of the classroom. Some ask for books, for paints or crayons, for the plushies and the toys they brought along to school -even though they're not allowed to- and a tranquil atmosphere rises and sets itself upon the room.

It's very nice, even for you. Sitting at your desk, watching over them with a distracted eye, you wonder if you'd be allowed to spend the rest of the day like so. They're talking, laughing and creating, sharing, being kind to each other and this whole ambience, slower than usual, calmer, more peaceful seem greatly beneficial for them. They don't feel any kind of pressure from having to learn, having to follow a predesigned, normative rhythm. It's pleasant and healthier than usual. Even if you try your best, constantly, to render every single day as filled with positivity through the required productivity as you can, you can't help sometimes stress and tension from blooming. It suffices one Kevin to come to class, sleepy and upset from a bad night, triggering a Charlotte who ends up scowling and nagging at everyone all day, and then everyone is in a terrible mood. Exercises are a pain to go through. Keeping their attention on you a quasi impossible challenge to overcome. Bringing their spirits up an unreachable, delusional aspiration.

But here and now, spending their time and energy on what they want with their chosen friends, in the comfortable warmth of the safe classroom, with the rain gently drumming on the windows, you can sense peace and joy and it fills your heart with content to the brim, or, almost to the brim.

Your heart could be spilling out with joy if it wasn't for this one, tiny pout adorning one tiny chubby face. Jimmy hasn't budged much from earlier. He had to leave his own desk to relocate at the very end of the room because a few girls decided to set up their library on the adjacent table.

His posture is the same though. Sitting quietly, his back pressed into the corner, hands tucked together against his belly, his big dark eyes are observing his classmates attentively. You read fear but also curiosity that's eaten up by something else, maybe sadness. It's a heartbreaking sight you're unfortunately too used to witness.

Jimmy arrived two months after everyone else. You don't know much about him. Because you haven't had the occasion to meet his parents yet, but mostly because he hasn't spoken a word since his arrival. His pouty mouth, shaped like an adorable button, hasn't opened once. Not even that one time you tried to have him participate and had him tearing up and crying, overwhelmed as he felt under the attention. He just sat silently, eyes drawn downwards, munching on the inside of his cheek, while tears ran down his round cheeks while all the other kids watched, as bewildered as you.

You almost quit your job that day. Certain you were not cut for it, somehow, finding out only now, at 26 years old, that you were a horrible, cruel person and your vocation and higher call were just all a blatant lie.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that today, once again, he’s hiding in his corner. You've tried a few things before. You didn’t just watch, waiting on time to operate and break his thick shell on its own. You've consulted the principal, colleagues, the internet. You've looked for clues, for tricks and after having tried quite a few, with little to no success at all -you've made him look up to your eyes, a thing he had been incapable of before-, you've decided to lay off a bit of that zeal.

You were getting too invested, even as this child’s teacher and you knew it wasn’t a good idea to pursue. As for him, you didn’t want to harm him in any way. No matter the benevolence and kindness and softness you put in every single one of your interaction, you thought, he seems so wounded already, you could break him, without meaning to, by simply trying too hard to smother his hostile edges.

You calmed down.

It tastes like defeat, coating a heavy layer in your throat, it never ceases to remind itself to you each time your eyes fall upon the sad pout and curious eyes.

Today is no different.

Everything would be perfect if only, for once, he could mingle with his peers and if you could, for the first time, see the shades of his smile. If he even knows how to smile.

Rising from your chair, you pick up a few pencils from your personal collection -the precious ones, unbitten at the top, unbroken at the tip, tall and seemingly unused. You don’t ever lend those to the kids as you know they’re not mature enough, and they won’t be for a long time to come, to care for your stuff the way those crayons need to be cared for-, a few white sheets and a sharpener and quietly make your way to him. He catches you and your intention from afar, his gaze fixed on you as you get closer.

He doesn’t utter a word, nor adumbrate a movement as you crouch next to him, soft smile, soft gestures. It’s a bit hurtful to think about it this way but it’s like approaching a wild tiny, tiny helpless creature -you're terrified to see it flee away.

“Hey Jimmy,” You say kindly, ignoring pointedly Charlotte who’s watching you (you can see her from the corner of your eyes) so that she knows to not interrupt or try to interfere in any way. “Would you like to draw a little?” You lay the material in front of him. His whole attention is offered to you and while you're glad you’ve reached that point where he can actually look at you, you can not help but wish he’d look away as his heavy stare suddenly makes you feel anxious. “Those are my personal crayons. I’m sure I can trust you to take care of them well, right?” He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile. You're not sure if he’ll even pick one of them up. You know he won't in front of you anyway and not wanting him to feel cornered and pressured, after another sugary sweet smile, you wave him goodbye and let him be.

The afternoon goes on, calmer than usual. It's as if they were brought to a state of peace so deep, they're now willing to accept any unfairness the world has in store for them. When the school bell rings, the children quickly run to the racks, grabbing their coats and little bags. A few of them start piling up at your feet, whining for the teddies and toys and lip balms they brought to school this morning and that you had to hold hostage as they are not supposed to bring them to school.

“Could we have another recess like today, miss? Tomorrow?” You see the shimmery eyes, the pressing pouts and impatient wiggling of the butts, waiting as patiently as they can for an answer. You're glad they had a good time today, still, a part of you can't help but regret it all. That part, conscious from the start, of how it'll all come back to bite you in the arse. No matter how cute they are, those little monsters always end up munching your arm up to the shoulder if you only do as much as tend an open hand their way.

“We'll see.” You say, waving them off. You don't mean to be so misleading but there's no way you're sending those kids home crying hysterically because they haven't heard the answer they were looking for.

Quickly they're all out of the class, seen outside to their carers by Adrianne, the lovely woman who helps out you, along with all the other teachers, with the kids every day.

There's only you and a little mess that you're able to tidy out quickly. In the corner, lay the little pile of papers and the crayons that had been obviously unused. Your heart squeezes briefly uncomfortably but you were not expecting any different from him. Since he arrived, two months ago, Jimmy has only drawn or traced letters or painted or built anything when the rest of his classmates were doing it too. You assume it's because he feels like he can't refuse to do something everyone else is doing. When it's just about him, when it doesn't concern directly the course, when it's just for pure personal entertainment, he simply would not do it.

You notice something. If he didn't draw anything on the sheets, he touched the crayons. They're piled very neatly, all tips turned the same way, one next to the other on top of the papers. What a sweetheart.

What a lovely, lovely kid.

It sends a rush of hope and determination back into your heart. You're not utterly desperate. It might take time. Maybe you won't be able to make significant progress until the very end of the year, when you'll have to say goodbye to him once he changes classes, but you don't despair to reach him, eventually.

And maybe that's all the universe needed -the conviction that you're not holding into this kid in pure vain- to offer you a generous little push. The magical manifestation comes in the form of Jimmy himself, escorted by Adrianne whose hand hovers few centimetres atop of his dark mop of hair, standing in the doorway, eyes drawn to the ground as if he's in trouble.

“Jimmy's father is running late and I-” She winces a little, grimace accentuating the lines carved on her face around her easy smile.

“You want to ask me something, don't you?” You tease knowingly. She looks embarrassed until she catches your wink, understanding she's probably fine to ask you anything.

“It's Felicia's birthday and I promised I'll be home early...”

You have to contain yourself, to not sound as ecstatic as you feel, to not drop to the ground, hands held high in gratitude towards the sky, settling for a simple: “Okay, I'll stay with him.”

“Are you sure?” She asks because she's nice and considerate but she's already turned her body towards the hallway. It doesn't take much more convincing to have her disappear.

It's only Jimmy and you now.

You're giddy but anxious. He doesn't even raise his head once she's gone. He just stands there, little raspberries tinting his cheeks and you're filled with a fondness tightly intertwined with sadness because he shouldn't look this guilty when he's done absolutely nothing wrong.

“Come have a seat.” His black eyes raise high enough for a split second, just to see where your hand is patting before quietly, he makes his way to the chair adjacent to yours. You've laid the papers and the crayons you'd picked up from the ground, an idea had come to you. There's no chance you'll have him draw something for you but you could draw for him.

You don't know if it'll have the same effect as it does on the other children. It's this special, unique teacher power that turns every single one of your shitty doodles, gifted to one of them, into a priceless, beautiful gift. It's the funniest thing and one of your favourites. The feeling is like the one you get when they fight and have to make serious arguments and deals to decide who will be the lucky one to hold the teacher's hand today.

Surely it's ridiculous but it does flat your ego grandiosely.

You're not expecting this kind of reaction from Jimmy, you'd just like to create some sort of contact, an interaction. Staring down at the white sheet, you're left speechless, nervous. It's been a while since you've sat in front of one of those, with no clear indication of what you were supposed to lay on it. Quite frankly, your crayons you only use to grade. The feeling is terrifying and you realise, gulping, that you didn't miss it. Maybe that feeling is the reason why he didn't pick up a pencil to draw himself. Was he filled with the same irrational paralysis that comes with the fear of the unknown?

“I'm not really good at drawing, to be honest with you... Do you like cats, Jimmy?” His big eyes watch you carefully. No answer. He simply munches on his lips, waiting for you to fill in the silence. “You probably do. Or, I hope you do because cats are what I draw best. Let's see.” You mumble, picking up a blue pencil to start -another consequence of the unusual anxiety you're feeling, suddenly picturing cats being blue.

It takes him a hot minute to open up the slightest. Actually, it takes about half an hour. Half an hour of you talking on your own, making conversation for the both of you; of you struggling to draw the cat you were certain you knew how to draw; of stopping every now and then to go over the basic body shape of a cat. It starts in the form of him snorting discreetly -you almost miss it- when you almost curse, fishing your cellphone out of your back pocket to look for the ugliest but easiest drawing of a cat you can find online for reference, tired of erasing and redoing the same damn curve of the cat's neck and messing up each time. It continues with him accepting to chose the next colour for what you keep calling “our cat”. He picks a deep purple for the back of the kitty, a bright yellow for the paws and apple green for the eyes. It's kind of funny looking but in a way you've done it together and your heart is filled to the brim with happiness. When it's done, sort of, you're ready to grab a new paper, hoping that maybe, on this one, he'll feel comfortable enough to grab a pencil himself and leave an actual mark on his own but the universe taps gently but firmly on the tip of your fingers, reminding you to be thankful for what happened today but not to be too greedy.

It's the tall and dishevelled man, stumbling loudly through the door that interrupts and determine the end of today's progress. Jimmy raises on his seat on reflex, running into the man's -you assume to be his father- legs. The man seems a bit uneasy, with his trench coat poorly buttoned, his dark hair messy with a thick strand sticking up to the roof, forehead crossed with worrisome lines. He reaches for the little boy, carrying him up to his chest, smacking a big kiss on his forehead; Jimmy's short arms are reaching far, far away, wrapping as much as he can around his father's neck and the previous wrinkles simply fade away.

“I'm so terribly sorry!” He apologizes, voice remarkably low, sounding lovely somehow even through the tension straining it. “I had this meeting that just lasted forever, I'm so, so sorry. It won't happen again.”

“No it's totally fine, don't worry about it!” You might be screaming a little bit because the big, impressively built man is now bowing with Jimmy draped around him like a koala and you feel so embarrassed because 1) no one has ever bowed to you, 2) you sincerely didn't mind staying a little bit later (especially given it happens more often than not) and 3) you were glad, you feel fortunate for the chance you just had to spend more time with Jimmy and see a spark of something you've never seen before. The reason you made a good improvement, you believe, is because the circumstances were favourable. Having a class filled with twenty-five other rambunctious kids that require great attention, at all time, doesn't, ever, allow you to bond with the boy. “Please don't, it's fine.” You insist, forcing him with wide gestures to stand up straight again. “Jimmy is one of the sweetest kids of my class, honestly, it was no bother.”

The dark eyes, perfect imitations of the ones Jimmy carries, display a lovely glint at my comment. He attempts to look at his son who’s snuggling in the crook of his neck, smiling softly.

“Is that right, Jiminie? My good boy.”

Jiminie. Without knowing what he says, the sonority of his words sounds so gentle and lovely, you can tell why the boy turns all sheepish.

There's a loud kiss pressed to his cheek and you can hear a high giggle, shy but sweet, as Jimmy squirms a bit in his dad's arms, pressing a hand to his ear. The scene is so, so adorable, you would cry if only you were not too worried to give off a terrible portray of an unbalanced and ugly-crier of a teacher to this father.

Father that you’re meeting for the first time.

And this fact, lost in the middle of a storm of agitated thoughts, manages to find his way to the surface after a little while of just awkwardly standing there, not really knowing what to say.

“Mr Kim, actually, I'm glad you're here. I meant to- meet and maybe have a little conversation with you, I don't know if Adrianne told you-”

“Yes, yes, she did. Of course. I apologize, I was supposed to get back to her with a date but work has been pretty- hectic. I've just changed job and-” You nod, genuinely understanding. If you don't know much about this man, nor this family in general, you can tell from the layers of fatigue that even the tender smiles he generously grants his son can't diminish, that he's not having the best of times. “It's not that- I don't want you to believe that I'm not invested in my son's education, it's really not the case-”

“Oh no, I don't believe that!” Quite frankly, you'd say that to any parents that come to you with these kinds of doubts, it's probably the worst thing you can do to a parent to criticize their parenting, their love, especially when you know from experience than most, even the ones that mess up and scar, don't commonly mean to. Parents are just adults and adults are just humans. Trying to figure shit out and actually not knowing jack shit about much. As a teacher, of children that young too, you owe to help them turn their progeny into the best versions they can be, as a team.

But this dad, standing there, distress and something akin sadness shading so much of his face, there's so little room for softness, a hand tenderly massaging the back of his boy's hair, you have no doubt, whatsoever, that it's not the case. That he tries and probably struggles, with whatever their circumstances are, but means the best. “I really don't. It's just I'd really like- I mean, I need, to have a little meeting with you. I receive every parent at the beginning of each year, it's important for me to understand better the child...” You would point out that in Jimmy's case, it's absolutely necessary given his behaviour but you don't want to say it in front of him. You've been reassured before by the principle that you weren't to worry too much. Jimmy was not, in any case, in any kind of danger at home, she had made sure of that after you first came to her with your concerns.

It's supposed to be a case of extreme timidity. It's confusing. Still, you were ready to accept this as the plain simple explanation if only you could talk to his father, have him confirm it and validate with your own personal impression. “I understand that you're working and don't have much time to yourself and that it's a bit- I mean, even as adults, no one likes to have to attend a teacher's meeting,” Only the corner of his lips twitch a little, yet you gladly accept it as a win. “Would it be possible for you to make just a little slot in your schedule for me? I won't take too long, twenty minutes at most? Whenever you can! Before class if you want or after, in the evening, sometimes I'm still here until 7. Or at lunch! Absolutely whenever is good for you.”

“That's very kind.” Is all he says.

You don't know what to say to that. You're not sure he is right. You are especially invested in your work and your pupils. You've been told before that, maybe, you should lay off a bit -you're told each time you cry at the end of a school year, thinking about all the faces you adore but won't be seeing every day anymore. But most teachers are, you want to believe. Min Yoongi, from first grade, wouldn't be as generous with his time, that's for sure. He'd probably come up with a date that'd fit his agenda and if possible inconvenience the most the parents' schedule and demand that they do make the time and be present, guilty-trip them if they seem reluctant. But that's just him, being a lazy cynical asshole. You want to believe he's an exception and any other teacher, in your shoes, would act the same way.

That being said, the way he's saying it, wide eyes sort of laced with a certain confusion, serves to thicken the compliment.

“Whenever is fine.” You repeat, lacking a direct response to his words. There's a tiny curious eye, picking from the collar of the trench coat, observing you attentively. You smile to Jimmy, picking up the drawing of the cat you've drawn earlier and handing it to him. “I'll let you off now, Jimmy is probably starving.”

After a few seconds of just staring at it, Jimmy sneaks a hand out to accept the drawing, face instantly burying further in the fabric of his dad's clothes, all shy and embarrassed.

“Thank you. Thank you very much for today and for any day really. I promise I'll make sure to meet you very soon.”

“Sure, perfect. Jimmy, see you tomorrow?”

“You say goodbye, Jiminie?”

He mutters something you don't quite catch, enshrouded as he is in the fabric adorning his dad, but his father and you decide that it's the answer you were waiting for. A wave and a stumble down the hall later -one that nearly gives you a heart attack as the prospect of the man actually eating shit with tiny Jimmy still in his arms hit you-, they're gone, out of the school and on to their way home you assume.

You're entirely alone now. Giddy as a school girl overly excited about something mundane that doesn't require this type of enthusiasm. You're not precisely sure why. It's a storm. Again. An overwhelming storm of emotions. In the mix of it all, you can decipher the loud, brilliant thoughts regarding the tiny shy little boy, and a future brighter than the one you used to picture for him. One where he's not scared of everyone, where you can hear his voice and see him giggle without his dad for him to hide behind. And something else.

You're not sure.

You don't suck at your job, you decide, as you think back about the adorable chubby finger pointing shyly at the crayons he wanted you to use.

A/N : as always, a lot of love send your way, thanks so much for reading, i hope you enjoy it :)

#btswriterscollective #thekimlinenet #bts fluff #bts drabble #bts fanfic #namjoon fluff #namjoon drabble #namjoon fanfic #my writing

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Good Omens - Addiction (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is addicted to affection. Addicted to touch. But being an addict, he can't seem to manage to find a healthy relationship, nor make any relationship last. After his latest break up, he decides to forgo the emotion and go straight for physical satisfaction.

... He just wants to find someone who needs his body. He's not particularly picky as to who - or what - that entails. (5792 words)

Notes: A major re-working of another piece I wrote. If you guys like this one, I will complete the scene that should come after it ;) Let me know. Vampire Crowley. Warnings for mention of blood and blood sucking. Sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale walks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, eyeballing the outfits he’d laid out earlier, scathingly critical of every item he chose even though, had you asked him two hours ago, he would have claimed each as tied for favorite. He’s 90% dressed already - cream colored trousers and a matching long-sleeved button down, a pale blue waistcoat (one he’s been told matches his eyes perfectly), tartan socks, and his best cocoa brown Derbys. All he needs now is a bowtie.

Does he need a bowtie? He doesn’t know exactly what the protocol is regarding neckwear where he’s going. He definitely prefers to wear a bowtie. Would not wearing one send some sort of message? Aziraphale assumes forgoing a bowtie might make him appear more casual. At ease. But in the context of the place he’s headed, might it also mean that he’s easy?

He sighs. He’s thinking too hard about this. This place he’s going - he’s paying to be there! What the Hell does the possible hidden innuendo of wearing or not wearing a bowtie matter under those circumstances? He hasn’t left the house without a bowtie on in over four decades!

He’s wearing the bowtie.

His gaze slides over his bed, the ties in the running lined up side by side on his comforter. He reaches for one, fingers hovering just above before he changes his mind and goes for the one beside it, picking it up between pinched fingers and holding it to his neck. He turns to his full length mirror and takes a peek.

“This one?” he asks no one, appraising the plain, gray fabric. “No. No, that won’t do.” He tosses it back on the bed and grabs another one - a tartan tie that matches his socks.

Heaven’s Dress Tartan. His family’s tartan. It’s pretty much the tie he wears for every occasion.

Naively, it makes him feel protected.

“This one?” he muses, already nodding his head. “Yes, this one.” Aziraphale slips the narrow strip of fabric about his neck and ties it. He looks himself over in the mirror, chest puffed with pride, but it doesn’t last long.

What is he doing?

He’s too old for this.

Maybe he should pack it in, wrap up his libido and call it quits. He’s had a good run, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need the physical. No more hugs, no more kisses, no more sex - that wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop from his smart outfit to his feet.

Except it would.

It would for Aziraphale.

He can’t give up touch. He’s never done well without some speck of it in his life.

Deep down inside, he knows he can’t survive without it.

It’s not as simple as feeling lonely or unfulfilled. His need for affection goes beyond that. And it’s stronger - so much stronger - than him.

Being an addict is no small burden. Aziraphale knows that firsthand. He’s seen what addiction can do to people. He’s seen how it can devastate families.

He sat around for years and watched, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and child, turning him from parental figure into perfect stranger well before Aziraphale’s formative years, then into an enemy when Aziraphale decided against going into medicine, law, or business (the big three that would ensure the family fortune would multiply and thrive long after his father was gone) and instead majored in linguistics and literature.

His father’s addiction led to his mother’s. She’d hit the bottle to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she’d loved since secondary school, drift away, drinking herself stupid until she couldn’t remember what day it was, where she lived … or that she had a son.

But addiction isn’t only cause and effect. It can be hereditary. It spread through the Fell family like wildfire, jumping from generation to generation. It started with Aziraphale’s great-great-great-great-grandfather on his father’s side and trickled down. Since Aziraphale is the last living Fell, his family’s vices have caught up to him, pooled around his ankles with nowhere else to flow to.

Threatening to drag him under.

Aziraphale has an addiction, too. Anyone who talks to him for about five minutes would say that his drug of choice is books, and indeed there are a good many reasons to believe that. Aziraphale loves books. He’s amassed such a collection that he even became an antique book dealer, but mostly as an excuse to find a place big enough to house his vast collection.

No, Aziraphale gets addicted to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. And he can’t live without it. He’ll take it from anyone willing to give even a smidgen of it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully blossom with people who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Not that these relationships would have gone anywhere if given the chance. That’s part of the problem. Aziraphale tries so hard to find the tenderness stolen from him at too early an age, he doesn’t necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, spots where rain won’t ever find them, away from the sun’s nurturing rays.

Tonight, walking alone through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he’s suffering the aftershocks of one such break-up. But this time, Aziraphale was prepared … somewhat. Which is to say he saw the signs. He knew the end was coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. But instead of doing the adult thing and cutting ties painlessly, he let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could. And afterwards, when he’d brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex’s apartment – toothbrush, shaving cream, CDs, a few shirts, underwear, the possessions that he’d used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

He arrives at the obscure establishment before ten o’clock, having fooled himself that he’s ready to move on even before his ex’s side of the bed is cold. He’s doing right by himself. No more leaping into empty relationships just to have his mind messed with and his heart broken.

He’s skipping straight to the physical.

This is the way to go.

But there is also the chance that he’s being phenomenally stupid.

Aziraphale has paid money for questionable things before, things that he’s looked back on and regretted, shoving them as far behind him as he could so as not to think about them ever again.

But paying to feed his addiction - he’s never done that.

The place he’s gone to, with its ornate wooden door set into the face of an everyday brick wall, looks like a day spa if anything – a rather foreboding day spa. In a way, Aziraphale had expected it to look that way. That or a bar. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? A bordello, perhaps? He’d heard about one that operates out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Let it never be said that Aziraphale didn’t do his research.

From what he’d heard, this place isn’t only the most exclusive of its kind in London, it’s the most discreet.

Silent as the grave, he’d been told.

There is no buzzer, no knocker, not even a door knob. No indication at all that anyone is allowed in but Aziraphale knows better. He sends a text to a number he paid a hefty sum for, along with a selfie that takes longer than he’d care to admit to take, but that’s not entirely his fault. There are strict requirements for this photograph - angle, background, head tilt, etc. The phone number is one-time use. After he hits send, he won’t be able to follow up with another message, so his picture needs to be up to spec.

Each selfie he takes, he despises immediately. The first one … well, the first one always bites, doesn’t it? In the second one, his face is too fat. Chubby chipmunk cheeks and puckered lips? He looks like a frickin’ cherub! The third one … ugh! Where was he even looking? The fourth one - definite serial killer with that awkward, thin-lipped grin.

He can’t keep doing this. He has to pick one! He’s running out of time! Ten o’clock sharp the message had said! If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to be even a minute late!

He decides that his next picture will be his absolute last. Whatever comes out of this shot, he can’t take another one. He holds his phone up at the pre-determined angle, holds his breath, plasters on his most sincere smile … and prays to God.

Just then, the unthinkable happens.

He fumbles his phone.

He’d been holding so hard to it and his smile that his fingers had begun to sweat. He loses traction, the traitorous thing sliding out of his grasp. The shutter clicks, the flash fires, and his phone makes a lyrical trill of affirmation.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops like a lead balloon straight to his feet.

That noise - that skipping of high-pitched notes that he chose at random because they reminded him of Rites of Spring - indicates that the picture sent without Aziraphale having a chance to double check it first.

“Oh … Hell!” he curses. He should have taken the damned thing at home! The glow from his reading lantern would have given his skin a soft, golden cast; made him look younger; mysterious; but he forgot that a picture would be required. In every photo he’s taken in this doorway, illuminated only by a chemical bulb above his head, he looks anemic, harsh shadows thrown by the overly bright flash elongating his nose, hollowing his cheeks, sinking his eyes into their sockets. But this one, snapped off while his phone was negotiating gravity, is likely to be the worst one yet! Instead of a solid face, he’ll look like a blur.

A middle-aged blur with absolutely no relationship prospects. Not even a cat.

Aziraphale scrolls frantically through his gallery to try and find the picture, see what disaster he’s unleashed, but he can’t locate it.

“Where are you, you little …?” he mumbles, heart thrumming so hard it’s beginning to make him nauseous. The picture isn’t in his saved file. Not on his SD card. It’s not in his sent messages. So where the frick is it!? Aziraphale has to see it, has to know what he’s done, has to know if he’s failed. Has to know if it’s worth waiting out here, or if he should turn tail and head for his bookshop. Somewhere in between bribing his phone and threatening to smash the screen to bits, the door pops open with a click.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, his head shooting up like a prairie dog’s on its guard.

The door.

The door is open.

He mustn’t have sent a horrifying photograph after all!

But it may not stay open for long so he’d better move his arse!

He pushes the door further and steps inside. It closes behind him the moment he’s through. He turns quickly to see who shut it since he didn’t notice a doorman when he entered.

But there’s no one.

He’s in the foyer of this large, imposing place completely alone.

As far as he can tell.

He has the distinct feeling he’s being watched.

Of course he’s being watched! he scolds himself. They probably have security cameras everywhere in a place like this! There’s nothing sinister about that! Why, he went to a thrift store not too long ago that had a security camera installed over every aisle, and the most notable item they had for sale was a velvet painting of Margaret Thatcher! Pull yourself together, Aziraphale, for Heaven’s sake!

Now that he’s inside, the place reminds him more of a bank than a spa: long stretches of empty hallway decorated in shows of old school wealth - leather chairs, ornate mirrors, glossy wood drawing tables, a long Persian runner leading him to his destination with chandeliers marking the path every ten feet or so. There’s been more money invested in this one hall than Aziraphale’s father could afford to put into their entire house, even with his lofty inheritance.

He can’t help thinking it would make the old man pea green with envy if he were alive to see it.

Little does Aziraphale know that there are two other hallways ahead of him just like this one.

Aziraphale walks through a total of three locked doors to get to what could be deemed ‘the main lobby’. He’s not escorted, but he does need to be buzzed through, the same melancholy voice asking him to repeat his name through an intercom at every checkpoint. Aziraphale marvels at the embassy-level security but he can’t help but wonder: is this a common practice at these places? No one mentioned anything about this.

What sort of trouble are they trying to prevent?

Aziraphale imagines most people might turn around at this point, go back the way they came and forget all about this place, but not him. As he approaches the final door there is no going back for him now. Not when he’s so close to what he wants.

He goes through the procedure one last time – name and then buzz. But this door is heavier, takes a bit more strength to push open. Black lighting overhead engulfs the room, creates a void that makes everything within indefinable. A few feet in, a wraparound counter fluoresces purple. Aziraphale sees only a single occupant in this room - a man sitting behind the counter who looks, from the outset, like a regular human being.

Of course, Aziraphale has never met a vampire before. He has no idea what one should look like.

He walks up to the counter, the door behind him swinging close and shutting with the same poignant click as the rest. But once this door seals, it takes the light with it, plunging Aziraphale momentarily into near complete black.

The man doesn’t look up at Aziraphale’s arrival. Aziraphale clears his throat to get his attention.

“E-excuse me?” he says nervously, his stomach flipping somersaults from his pelvis up to his neck. His voice sounds thin and disappointing to his own ears. Then again, he barely speaks to anyone from day to day. Maybe it sounds exactly the way it should.

The man sitting behind the counter – dark-skinned but with an ashy paler - blatantly ignores Aziraphale, who’d be standing practically on top of him if not for the counter between them. He flips exaggeratedly through the pages of his magazine (Aziraphale can’t tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale repeats, louder but still weak.

The man sniffs the air. He shifts only his eyes to address Aziraphale, looks him over, then returns to his magazine. “Wot do you want?”

“I … uh … I have an appointment. F-for a session.” Session. Is that the right word for it? No one Aziraphale talked to about this gave him the in on the lingo. “With a man by the name of Crowley.”

The disinterested man flips another page. “An appointment, huh?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it’s surprisingly deserted. Aziraphale can’t see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, aside from the glowing furniture, it’s so dark in there – a darkness his eyes refuse to get accustomed to – someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I’m … uh … sort of new at this.” His statement is met with a silence as thick as a brick wall. He chuckles, anxiety starting to get the better of him.

He feels vaguely like he might be in danger.

If he backed out now, walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

Then Aziraphale realizes fuck! He’d probably need to be buzzed out the same way he was buzzed in. And the man behind the counter might have to be the one to do it. He has the same dry, unenthusiastic tone in his voice as the one that greeted Aziraphale at every door.

The man glances Aziraphale’s way, then blows out a breath, obviously annoyed he’s still there. “I’ll tell him you’re here Mr. …”

“Fell. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man repeats but doesn’t reach for a phone or make a move to inform anyone that Aziraphale has arrived. He gives the air another disdainful sniff and scrunches his nose, raising his magazine to cover it. “Did you have sushi for lunch, Mr. Fell?”

“Uh …” Aziraphale clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like to a creature with super-sensitive olfactory organs. He did have sushi, but that was days ago. There’s no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listermint he uses daily.

“Was it refrigerated properly? Or do you buy your food from the day-old section of your local market?”

Aziraphale’s hackles rise. He disregards the feeling that he’s in danger in defense of his favorite restaurant. “I really don’t think that Hot Stone would stoop to selling day-old sushi!”

“Did you even remember where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scolds without listening to him. “I mean, have some respect, for Satan’s sake!”

“That’s enough, Ligur.” A new voice, amused but stern, says from the shadows. “If you don’t stop badgering the customers, we won’t have any, and then how will you afford your flat? Hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Ligur replies, barely bringing himself to care.

Inconceivably quick, their new guest goes from standing in the light to standing before Aziraphale. Ligur snickers at the move, like he’s seen it too many times before, but Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any mind. Ligur might not be impressed, but Aziraphale can’t. stop. staring.

Aziraphale has never seen such a man.

He’s never imagined a man like him could exist. He’s sure he could spend his entire life trying to think him up and still never come up with him. He captivates Aziraphale in a matter of seconds, mystifies him without lifting a finger. He’s tall, slim, and fair. He reminds Aziraphale of a prince from an old world fairy tale. In fact, Aziraphale knows just the book he’d find it in. He intends on searching for it the moment he returns to his shop (he thinks hopefully). The man’s eyes, even in the absence of light, are piercing, simmering in their depths with a light all their own.

The man doesn’t walk up to Aziraphale. He stalks. And the way he carries himself leads Aziraphale to believe he can take anything he wants with a snap of his fingers. At the moment, he’s stolen Aziraphale’s voice, his breath, practically every thought in his head.

Aziraphale’s entire focus becomes this man.

The man moves a step forward. Aziraphale takes a subconscious step back.

“I believe that you are my ten o’clock,” the man says.

Aziraphale nods, not sure if he’s expected to speak ... or if he’s allowed. “Are … are you … Mr. Crowley?”

“In the flesh. And you must be Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tongue curls around his words, the hint of an accent making an appearance. Several accents, actually. At his root, the man sounds English, but not born. But his accent is acquired, not practiced, bred from immersion. There are other touches here and there - a dash of Birmingham, a little cockney perhaps, an Irish brogue, peppered upon a foundation that sounds firmly Scottish. Lilts and rolls add flavor to Aziraphale’s name so that he feels he’s hearing it spoken out loud for the first time. Even lost in that dialect soup, Aziraphale doesn’t think it’ll ever sound more perfect than it does rolling off Crowley’s tongue. It tickles his eardrums, silently begs Crowley to say it again.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. “Aziraphale Fell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It will be soon.” Crowley winks. “Follow me, Mr. Fell.” He smiles, teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights, but those teeth … that smile … make him look predatory, and Aziraphale considers again if coming here was the smartest idea, especially since he did so impulsively, took no precautions. He was so distracted by his break-up, so wrapped up in shoulds and shouldn’ts, what people would think of him if they ever found out, that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

What if he simply disappears?

No one in his life would dream of looking for him here, and he left absolutely no clues to point them in this direction.

Regardless of the warning bells tolling in his head, new ones firing off with each pound of his heart, Aziraphale follows Crowley down several vacant hallways. The place was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illuminations doing nothing more than throwing shadows on the walls – shadows deep enough to disappear in. Crowley walks swiftly. Aziraphale almost loses him twice, but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with doors. Aziraphale hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart speeds in his chest.

It slams to a stop when he hears a man scream – strained and blood curdling.

Aziraphale can’t tell if the man is screaming in pleasure or in pain.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Um … is he going to be alri---?”

“Right this way, Mr. Fell,” Crowley interrupts, opening the last door on the left. “This is my private office. No one will dare disturb us in here.” Aziraphale hesitates but decides to go inside, not because he feels any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn’t, he might run the other way. Crowley waits patiently till Aziraphale steps in, then shuts, and locks, the door. “Now … what can I help you with today?”

Aziraphale paces the room, examining its violet walls with their black-and-white photographs mounted in minimalist glass frames. It isn’t much brighter in here than in the lobby, but it’s more inviting - the sort of space created specifically for people to spend time in together, get to know one another. A round, wooden table in the center of the room holds a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. Candles cover every level surface - some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, and scent the air with the sweet fragrance of vanilla. Their dancing flames reflect off the glass, the constant flickering making the room appear to sway. It’s disorienting. It gets Aziraphale’s adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, which Aziraphale assumes is the desired effect.

He’d heard that a speeding human heart can be a powerful aphrodisiac for a vampire.

They apparently get off on it.

Against a far wall sits a plush, red sofa, and against another, a four-poster bed.

Aziraphale bypasses the bed (it isn’t his gut decision, just the safest seeming one) and heads for the sofa. “I … I have a problem. An addiction.”

“Go on.” Crowley strolls over to join him, each step he takes deliberate, noiseless, as if his feet don’t make contact with the ground at all, gliding on the air right above. Aziraphale watches Crowley settle onto the far end of the sofa, sitting catty-corner to keep his amber eyes on him. That predatory expression he wears moves from his smile to his eyes, which track Aziraphale’s movements with unnerving precision. “Well, I … I’m addicted to affection, a-and everything that comes with it - touching, holding, kissing, sex, from anyone who wants me, really. And I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha.” Crowley crosses his legs. He draws it out, diverting Aziraphale’s attention purposefully to them. “So tell me why you think I can help you.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Crowley moves, the fluidity of limbs that would look spindly on a human but not on him. Not in the slightest. “Because even though I need companionship, nobody seems to need me. But from the things I hear, you gentlemen … do.”

“We’re not desperate, Mr. Fell,” Crowley groans, rolling his head back on his neck, his eyes following along.

“Oh, no! No, no, no! That’s not what I …!”

“We service a distinguished clientele. We have certain expectations.”

“I understand that.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a thorough once over with eyes that burn through him, every move Aziraphale makes telling Crowley more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Fell?” Something about the way Crowley repeatedly calls Aziraphale ‘Mr. Fell’ shoots right to his stomach and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel compliant, confused ...

“I’m an antique book dealer,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley chuckles. “Ah. So you hawk old, worn-out romance novels to elderly women wanting a tingle in their lady gardens?”

“Uh … no,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle himself because, he has to admit, he’s gotten one or two of those in his lifetime. “Mostly literature, first editions, rare texts, misprinted Bibles, that sort of thing.”

“And you make a living from that?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, a tad uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Not that I need to. I live mainly off the interest of a generous inheritance. I get to do whatever I want mostly.”

“I see.” Crowley’s tone shifts, as if Aziraphale passed some sort of test. “And where do you currently live?” With a flick of Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s hand crawls up his own shirt, reaching for his bowtie. He grabs a tail and pulls it, unties it, then goes after the top button. He toys with it, undoes it, feeling constricted, uncomfortable while it’s fastened.

“I live over my store front in Soho.”

Crowley slides an inch closer. “With a roommate or …?”

“A-alone.” Aziraphale moves on to the second button. “I live … I live alone.”

“Impressive. And your blood type is AB negative?”

“As far as I know.”

“Interesting.” Crowley moves another inch closer. “Alright. Let’s give you a shot.”

“A-and how do you do that … exactly?”

“Give me your arm so I can take a taste. Then I’ll know if we can use you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, long fingers with black painted nails motioning for Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale doesn’t take it. He has a second of doubt, of Are you nuts!? that stays him. But it’s been so long since Aziraphale has felt truly wanted. And this man … or this creature … wants what he has to offer. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes. It’s cut and dry. No muss, no fuss, no emotions involved. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came for.

“If you’re nervous, I could always …” Crowley makes a gesture toward Aziraphale’s neck and smiles an alluring, toothy grin – charismatic, hard to resist. But Aziraphale might not be ready for what Crowley’s proposing. It seems a little too intimate.

“O-oh no.” Aziraphale rolls up his sleeve. “It’s not that. I was just … uh … thinking.”

“Oh.” That single syllable sounds tragically disappointed. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, of course. But just so you know, it’s always an option.”

Aziraphale gets a sudden image in his head of Crowley lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his fingers undoing the rest of his buttons and reaching beneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly down his skin. He envisions Crowley removing his clothes one piece at a time, marking his flesh with kisses, with bites, taking small sips as he paves a trail to his trousers. Sharp fangs slice through the threads that keep the button sewn on and he pulls down the zip with his teeth. There’s a mouth on Aziraphale’s cock, sucking, hands massaging his chest, the gentle brush of silky hair against his thighs, the occasional sting of a cut opening, a tongue collecting, and Aziraphale writhing with the sweet agony of it. He doesn’t picture himself cumming quickly, but sees himself sliding along the beveled edge, getting to that point, hanging from the crest of it, just to be sent back to the beginning, to start the process over again.

It feels planted, a suggestion. Aziraphale isn’t sure how. He’s not savvy to the abilities of vampires beside the blood sucking thing. It’s not real. Aziraphale knows he’s still dressed, can feel the fabric of his shirt sleeve balled in his fist, but he starts to sweat at the thought of it. His cock aches because of it. That’s what he wants – the give and the take.

It changes his mind, stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, gaze fixed to Crowley’s seductive eyes, “that does sound like it could be … nice.”

Crowley grins. It’s almost too easy. “Oh, it will be,” he purrs. “I promise.”

Aziraphale scoots closer until they’re sitting beside one another, knees touching. Crowley wastes no time kissing Aziraphale’s neck, cool lips pressing against hot, sensitive skin. Aziraphale moans. God, it’s been so long. And whatever Crowley is doing with his tongue, circling the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing builds.

As Aziraphale’s heart beats faster and faster, until individual thumps are no longer distinguishable from the whole.

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, fangs lengthening as he searches for a place to sink in and drink. He finds the perfect spot and bites. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide.

“Oh … God.” He becomes rigid as the sensation of smooth and sharp assails his skin, but he succumbs to the sublime numbness and melts into Crowley’s arms. “Oh … oh God …”

Crowley retracts his fangs, licking them clean. “This isn’t really the place to be praying,” he says, inhaling Aziraphale’s scent – fresh, rich, healthy, untainted blood. The blood all vampires crave - not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind a night club or filled with preservatives like the bagged gunge they have the option to buy down at NHS Blood and Transport. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Aziraphale is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He’ll make Crowley rich … if he can bear to share him.

Crowley might just decide to keep Aziraphale to himself.

It’s not just Aziraphale’s blood that tempts him. There’s something else, something sizzling beneath his skin that Crowley suspects Aziraphale doesn’t even know about himself. But it sends sparks through Crowley’s skin with every touch, a white light that nearly burns too hot to hold but fuck it all! The second Crowley moves his hand away and it’s gone, it makes Crowley want him more.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, following Crowley’s mouth, whining like a kicked puppy when it seems he won’t be returning to the task of biting his neck. But it’s not that. Crowley has every intention of taking his time with Aziraphale. Savoring him. He wants to hear Aziraphale beg for it, beg for Crowley’s teeth buried deep into his neck, beg for the euphoria that comes with being fed upon.

“Do you like that, angel?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s skin. He punctuates his question with a nip around Aziraphale’s jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Crowley’s knee and squeezing. “Yes, please.”

Crowley hums, lips pressed to Aziraphale’s neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. He licks over the pinprick marks, exploring with his tongue for a spot to take another bite. “You know, I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“You … you do?” Aziraphale rises from the sofa in a trance, following Crowley when he moves their soiree to the bed, preparing to make Aziraphale his own private nightcap.

“Oh yes.” Crowley lays Aziraphale out on the mattress and crawls over him, like in the vision. His fingertips creep up Aziraphale’s neck, up his cheeks, the pads coming to rest against his temples. A blue spark, an arc of static electricity, and Aziraphale’s brain fills with images that cloud his vision over so that Crowley’s eyes disappear, replaced by what promises to be a long night in this room, and all the methods of pleasure Crowley plans on using to distract him while he feeds. Skin against skin, Crowley’s hands covering his as Crowley enters him, his body possessing his. Aziraphale can already feel how hard Crowley would claim him, how sore he would be after, and Aziraphale wants it. Wants it more than life itself.

And he’s willing to pay with every drop to have it.

The vision rolls on. With every fantasized thrust of Crowley’s hips, it monopolizes all five of Aziraphale’s senses - his own moans in his ears with Crowley’s voice dripping honey underneath, the pungent smell of sweat and sex around them, the coppery taste of Crowley’s mouth, the slide of a flesh against his so smooth it feels like marble, and Crowley’s eyes - those snake-like eyes with pupils razor blade thin - watching unblinkingly as Aziraphale comes apart beneath him.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body on the bed with Crowley’s fingertips rubbing circles against his skin, Aziraphale watches this fantasy in awe - open-mouthed and without an inch of fear. He shudders when he sees himself coming, the memory of similar sensations igniting every nerve in his body, turning fantasy into reality. Crowley absorbs every tremor, the way Aziraphale thrums beneath him, his hips bucking up in search of friction. Crowley smiles, reaches between them to start unbuttoning his own uncomfortable trousers.

And let the feasting begin.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, nose nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck, following the pounding rhythm of his heart for a place to tuck in. “I could become very addicted to you, Aziraphale Fell. Very addicted.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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basket-of-cats-and-witches · 4 years ago

Text

A Distant Dream

Introducing Vesruun! My half-eladrin half-human cleric, my oblivious too-trusting goodest boi. So to speak.

Content Warnings for this include: Death, Violence (but not graphically spoken of), and Disease (specifically: Consumption.) Also Poverty. I’m covering all the sad stuff today, folks.

It had all been like a pleasant dream. The son of an escort, living in the Beggar’s Nest, being courted by a handsome sailor? He had been so cautious, at first. Life in the Nest had taught him to be wary of beautiful faces and pretty words, life with his mother had taught him that sometimes an elegant mask hid an angry fist. And yet… And yet Carys had been so kind. A sailor that while beautiful, stuttered the moment he met Ves’s eyes. Who had held out a slightly wilted flower with a shaking hand, as if Vesruun was out of his league. A tall, strong, man who shook like a leaf when he was nervous and blushed deeper than the shade of the reddest rose. Who wouldn’t fall in love? Their courtship had been heady and sweet, fingers tangled as Ves whispered his goodbyes, lips meeting oh-so-gently before Carys would leave for yet another voyage, sometimes for months at a time. It made their reunion all the better.

Their wedding was small. Only Vesruun’s mother, and Carys’s fellow sailors. His ship captain wedded them. Priests were too expensive, and Ves’s mother had already helped them pay for simple wedding rings. Neither one of them would have had it any other way. And as Ves’s mother had placed a wreath of forget-me-nots and baby’s breath upon his pale curls, flowers carefully picked from a meadow outside of Neverwinter, the pride and joy in her suspiciously watery eyes made his own tear up all the more. “My son,” she had whispered. “I’m so glad you get to have the dream I never could. I’m so happy for you. Corellon’s blessing to you both.” She had kissed his eyelids, one after the other, in the way of her people. A blessing from the Feywild itself. Then, Carys had swept him off his feet and carried him off to their home. It was the last moment of bliss Vesruun remembered. Like a beautiful sunset, that dream had vanished below the horizon. And with it, brought the night. And the nightmare. The coughing had started while they slept. They had only been married six months, and Carys had just returned home from a four-month-long journey. It seemed like nothing, something Carys assured him was “just a cold” he had picked up during a brief docking at a foreign port. Then the chest pains started. Finally, the blood. Vesruun watched in horror as his husband lost the color in his skin, seemingly beginning to waste away before his eyes. He kept losing weight, and spent most of his time consumed by fever. They couldn’t afford a healer. Still, Vesruun tried. After the twelfth time of being tossed out of a clinic on his backside, a man had approached him. “Fever, eh? Coughing, blood? I know a cure. But it’ll cost you.” Vesruun agreed, without hesitation. Anything, to keep Carys alive. The work had been simple, at first. Listen in on a few conversations, report back. Then, escalating. Vesruun had been caught a few times, and that’s when his ‘employers’ learned of his strength, his resilience. He was put to becoming a bullyboy, going to people’s homes and threatening them to pay their part for protection. It made him sick to think about, his stomach twisting up in knots. But every time he went home to Carys, to watch one of his employers’ healers by his husband’s side, his resolve firmed. He told no one. In Carys’ rare moments of lucidity, he was told that the healer was there as a favor to a friend. A month later, Vesruun took down someone who had nearly succeeded in killing his boss. He was gifted with a pair of gold-washed knuckles, and given the nickname “The Golden Fist.” Time passed, and Vesruun rose up the ranks. Carys never seemed to get better, but he never got worse. The work became easier to bear, even as Vesruun felt something inside him begin to break. Late that spring, his mother was attacked by a spiteful client, in a rage that she would dare offer her services to anyone else. The acid that had been thrown at her marred her face and permanently destroyed her voice. It was this that brought Carys home, after a month of being away in Baldur’s Gate. He had served as his boss’s personal bodyguard in a meeting, and the news had brought him running home. The money he had made was barely enough to get her submitted to a women’s clinic, where he was not allowed entry. So instead, he went home. And the sight there was one no mortal should ever have to see. The healer assigned to his beloved was passed out drunk in a chair as he had entered the doorway, heading up the rickety flight of stairs. Something smelled rotten. A horrendous smell, like the healer had left meat out in the sun for days on end. And as he reached the top, he understood why. Carys was no longer. And as Vesruun had long-since gotten used to seeing corpses in all sorts of states, he knew that his beloved had been gone for quite some time. Time was unknown to him, after that. A blur of rage, strange flickering memories of faces twisted in horror, in terror. The screams echoed in his ears. The Golden Fist was now soaked in red. At some point, he remembered being arrested, but it hardly mattered. The work was done. There had been no cure. And his employers had paid the final price for their deception. His jailors spoke of there being a choice- death or repentance under the service of a god. He ignored them, his life was at an end. And then, the priest. A man not in robes, per se, but in monk’s clothing, his hands bandaged, his skin heavily scarred, had crouched before the broken Ves, only the cell bars separating them. Vesruun had not been able to see his face from his crouched position, only the man’s holy symbol. Two white hands, bound with a red cord. Vesruun was not an educated person, he couldn’t read, could barely write. He didn’t know many gods outside of Corellon and Selune, the deities his mother prayed to. He had certainly not known this one. “Are you Vesruun?” The man had said, his voice whisper-quiet. There had been no response. “Vesruun Kaz?” Still, nothing. The man had sighed. “Vesruun, I am a priest of Ilmater. I am here to give you your final rites before your execution. Are there any last requests?” Ves had laughed hollowly, then, surprising the priest. “Whatever pit they threw my husband into, throw me in beside him and light it on fire.” “I’m afraid that can’t be done,” the man said. “As you see, your husband has been laid to rest in a proper graveyard, with a headstone to mark his name.” Startled, Vesruun had looked up. His pale eyes, nearly colorless, met the man’s own. “A headstone? In a graveyard?” He exclaimed. “Where- who- No one I know has the money for that!” The priest shook his head. “No need. All souls deserve to have a final resting place. He has been taken care of.” “But…” There was a note of disbelief. “Priests require a fee, and then there is the death tax…” The priest shook his head. “People who ask for money from the impoverished, the faultless, those who were born into such situations, who were thrown into a position without power against their will...they are despicable.” He sounded disgusted, almost enraged. “You cannot help it when the odds are stacked against you, no? Your husband will be at rest in a proper grave. With all the rites he is afforded.” Hearing the truth that rang in the priest’s words, Vesruun had felt something in his heart lighten, a broken heart with the possibility to mend. “Can I…” he swallowed shakily. “Would someone as horrible as me be able to do what you do?” The priest’s expression warmed, as he looked over the prisoner. He took note of the hopeful expression echoing out of hollow eyes, like someone who had found a lifeline after years of being adrift at sea. He glanced over. “Jailor! Release this man into my custody. I have found an acolyte of Ilmater, and by law, he is mine to claim.” The priest looked back at Vesruun. “I am Galter, child. I welcome you into Ilmater’s merciful arms.” As they walked up the stairs, out of the cell, Vesruun wondered if he was finally leaving the nightmare. He walked into the early morning light, the priest by his side. Into the dawn. And his pale hair glowed like a brilliant halo.

#Vesruun Kaz #baldurs gate iii #my writing #yes Neverwinter is still around in this thought process

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daughterofluthien · 5 years ago

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Fictober - Day 6 / Whumptober - Day 6

Prompt number: 6. “that was impressive” Fandom: Teen Wolf Rating: T Characters/Relationships: Alan Deaton and Scott McCall Word Count: 2865 Warnings/Tags: canon-typical violence, possession A/N: Deaton POV of the end of 3x19 “Letharia Vulpina,” with added episode tag

The plane landed after nightfall, and he knew he was running out of time.

It was ironic, really. The majority of the trip -- including entering a Yakuza base of operations under false pretenses -- had gone nearly as smoothly as he could’ve hoped. He had even managed to carry the sample vial of lichen through customs in his medical bag with very little fuss.

The first sign of trouble was on the connecting flight out of Sacramento. According to the scheduled arrival time, they were only a half an hour away from their destination when the pilot announced over the intercom that an unexpected thunderstorm had formed, and they would be experiencing some turbulence.

This turned out to be an understatement.

When they did finally reach their destination, the pilot informed the passengers that they had not been cleared to land. This was due to the amount of lightning activity in the vicinity of the airport, and Deaton felt a sense of growing dread. The forces of nature often reacted in sympathy to intense foci of supernatural activity, and such events had been known to cause storms in the past. And when the supernatural activity in question was a pitched battle between ancient spirits known to harness electricity--

If the storm dissipated long enough for the plane to land, that might mean it was already too late.

Eventually, there was a sufficient break in the lightning strikes, and the plane landed without any serious incident. All departures had been delayed, however, as weather reports forecasted that the storm would only get worse before it got better.

The storm was already severe, and Deaton drove back to Beacon Hills faster than was strictly safe in these conditions.

If they followed the previously established pattern, then the Oni would’ve manifested as soon as the sun fully set, which meant they were already active. Of course, they weren’t technically a danger to anyone except the Nogitsune and its host, but if someone tried to interfere with their task, he knew they would show no mercy.

He also knew that Scott would almost certainly interfere.

Even through the storm, he could hear the sound of a fight behind the clinic, so he parked in front, mentally running through the steps necessary to prepare an injectable suspension from the lichen.

Intramuscular injection would be preferable, to get the solution inserted as close to the nervous system as possible, he decided. Keep the spirit from puppeteering its host by manipulating the electrical impulses controlling the musculature and brain. An aqueous vehicle would be best. Include a small amount of ethyl alcohol to break down the lichen, hopefully releasing the toxin into the body at a faster rate--

He entered the clinic and was immediately greeted by the sound of someone in pain.

His blood ran cold. Apparently, his fears on the plane had not been unfounded after all.

It was only the sounds of pain and not the sounds of fighting, which indicated that the Oni hadn’t yet materialized inside the clinic. That meant that, with a little luck, they still had time. He gripped his medical bag tighter and hurried towards the back room, closing the gate behind him as he did so. From what Scott had told him, the Oni were eventually able to break a mountain ash barrier, but it took energy and time.

Tonight, time would be invaluable.

He turned around to see Scott, rain-soaked and in visible pain, fully impaled with what looked to be an ancient Japanese sword, though it was too dark to make out any further details. Kira was attempting to pull it out, but in what he assumed was fear of hurting Scott further, she did not use the amount of strength required to cleanly remove it. Scott’s didn’t scream, but his face contorted in pain.

The sword remained firmly lodged in place.

Deaton was about to rush forward and assist, when Stiles -- or rather, the Nogitsune -- grabbed Kira by the wrist and threw her into the table with the sort of strength only possessed by supernatural beings. She slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Dread settling deep in his gut, Deaton stepped back into the shadow of the doorway. Short of breaking the mountain ash barrier and letting the Oni in, the small sample of lichen that he carried in his kit and had traveled over 5,000 miles to find was the only possible hope of subduing the spirit that was inhabiting the teenager.

And it wasn’t ready.

Between the items in his kit and the supplies in his office -- mostly consisting of overflow from the fully stocked exam room, but sufficient for his purposes -- he should be able to synthesize the mixture quickly. But it would still take time.

According to all the information that he could find, Nogitsune gained power and strength by leeching off of pain, fear, and other negative emotions. With the Oni bearing down on its location, Deaton knew the Nogitsune would be desperate for the power to match them.

It wouldn’t kill Scott until it had devoured every last bit of fear and pain available for the taking. If he worked quickly, he would have time to prepare the solution.

It was a cold comfort.

When the Nogitsune’s back was turned, he slipped into his office. He caught a glimpse of Scott’s face as he passed and saw the dread that he was feeling mirrored in Scott’s eyes. Deaton thought grimly that if the spirit was in fact looking to maximize horror and fear, terrorizing the young man while wearing the face of his best friend was certainly an effective method of doing it.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, according to the legends, the creature had existed for centuries. Perhaps even a millenia. It was only logical that, in all that time, it had learned to hone its craft.

Once inside his office, Deaton opened his kit on the desk and set to work as quickly as possible. He didn’t close the door, as everything counted on him remaining unnoticed. He didn’t dare do anything that would alert the Nogitsune to his presence before the solution was prepared.

The open door also meant that he could clearly hear the proceedings in the back room.

He emptied the sample jar of lichen into a mortar and pestle, and began to grind it into a fine powder. Or rather, paste, as the lichen was still fresh and held a fair amount of liquid.

In the other room, the ancient chaos spirit spoke to Scott with a mockery of a best friend’s concern. “You okay?”

“Please don’t. Stop.” Scott’s reply was more accurately breathed rather than spoken, and Deaton’s heart broke. He had, of course, seen the young man terrified on numerous previous occasions -- but this was the first time he had ever heard him beg.

He tipped the contents of the mortar back into the sample vial, and scraped out every last bit of lichen that he could. He recognized the inherent danger in using all of the material that he had, but this sort of thing had not yet been quantified by science. If he skimped during the first preparation and it wasn’t enough, he likely wouldn’t survive long enough to try again.

In the other room, Scott screamed.

Deaton’s hand tightened around the vial. He didn’t increase the speed at which he was making the solution, because the risk that he would make a noise that could be heard by the Nogitsune was too great. Because any error or misstep could get all three of the teenagers trapped in the adjacent room killed.

He measured out the proper amount of distilled water in a graduated cylinder. Added it to the vial. Measured a smaller amount of ethyl alcohol.

The Nogitsune’s quiet, measured voice overlapped with the sounds of pain that started and stopped in short bursts. “Does it hurt? Hey, look at me.”

Deaton wanted to tune it out, but he was well aware that would be foolish. For one, it was important to know your enemy. Any details that the being let slip in a moment where it thought it had total control could be important. And second, as a medical practitioner, he had a duty to pay as close attention to any signs of Scott’s physical state as possible, in case the situation became so dire that he needed to intervene immediately.

He wasn’t sure what he would do if that moment came before the solution was prepared.

He added the ethyl alcohol, capped the vial, and shook it vigorously. The ground lichen swirled through the liquid, tinting it a light and cloudy green.

Outside, the spirit continued it’s monologue. “A Nogitsune feeds off chaos, strife, and pain. This morning, you took it from Isaac, then you took it from Coach. And then from a dying deputy.”

Deaton closed his eyes. Selfishly, he found himself wishing that he had never taught Scott about that side of his abilities. Though, he supposed that the teenager inherently cared so much and so deeply for others, that he would have discovered it on his own, even without Deaton’s interference.

Scott McCall was only seventeen years old, and he had every right to be as selfish and self-centered as boys his age often were. Yet without fail, he always considered the well being of others above his own.

It was part of the reason that he rose to the status of True Alpha less than a year after being bitten.

It also made Deaton worry deeply about him, as Scott refused to worry about himself.

He selected a needle -- large gauge, so there would be little chance of the particulate in the solution clogging at the entry point. Screwed it onto the tip of the syringe.

The Nogitsune’s voice deepened, finally revealing itself as the demon it truly was. “Now, give it to me.”

There were no longer sounds from Scott.

Deaton knew that if a werewolf took too much pain, their system could eventually be overwhelmed, sending them into shock and damaging them beyond the healing capabilities of the body. This could eventually lead to death.

He did not know what would happen to the body if that pain was violently consumed by an ancient spirit of chaos. He imagined that it couldn’t be good.

He was running out of time.

Deaton loaded the syringe.

“You really have to learn, Scott. You really have to learn not to trust a fox.”

He depressed the plunger slightly. Primed the needle.

“Y’know why? ‘Cause they’re tricksters.”

He tapped the syringe, dispersing any air bubbles.

“They’ll fool you.”

Done.

“They’ll fool everyone.”

Deaton walked into the exam room and -- in one clean, practiced motion -- injected the contents of the syringe into Stiles’ neck.

The Nogitsune’s control of its host was instantly severed, and Stiles crumpled to the ground.

Thankfully, Stiles didn’t immediately seize or have a visibly severe reaction. He was immobile on the ground, which was mildly concerning, as the fully human Stiles should not have been harmed by the lichen, but the others needed more immediate medical attention. Kira was still unconscious on the ground, and Scott--

Scott was braced against the exam table. Panting. Face pale. Fully impaled by what Deaton could see now was a wakizashi. He hadn’t spoken since Deaton had entered the room.

Deaton wasn’t sure if, in his current state, he was even capable of it.

Scott’s eyes were wide and panicked, as if he didn’t fully believe that Deaton was really there. Deaton met them with a grave look, because this wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Not for the first time, he wished that supernatural creatures didn’t metabolize anesthetic so quickly.

He braced a hand lightly on the teenager’s torso, careful to not place it too close to the wound, and with the other hand pulled the sword out as quickly and cleanly as he could manage.

He was glad the sword was straight, rather than curved. He’d rather not cause any additional damage during the removal.

Scott still groaned loudly as the blade was yanked free. Deaton let the offending object clatter to the ground.

Unsurprisingly, the first thing Scott did was to ask after Stiles.

Deaton wished that he had better news to give him -- while the fox inside of Scott’s best friend was currently incapacitated, he had no idea how to remove it or kill it. “Not yet.” He fixed the body on the floor with a look.

Scott appeared to have only started to process that information, when they were interrupted by a groan, and he looked over, startled. “Oh god, Kira!”

Nearly hidden behind the exam table, Kira had begun to stir. Scott started to bend down to check on her, but Deaton could see that he was in obvious pain, exhaling through gritted teeth.

He placed a hand gently against Scott’s chest, halting the movement. “I wouldn’t do that just yet, if I were you. Those muscles are still healing, and we wouldn’t want to tear anything further.” He followed Scott’s gaze to the girl on the floor. “I’ve got her, don’t worry.”

After a brief moment, Scott nodded, and Deaton bent down to help. He checked her head for any bleeding or contusions, but she seemed fine. When Kira assured him that the only thing she felt was a little lightheaded, he helped her to a chair.

If she had been fully human, he would’ve been worried about a concussion, but he suspected that the fox spirit inside her would prevent that sort of thing from happening. While he didn’t know if she had learned to consciously master her healing abilities yet, those sorts of things tended to happen a lot more automatically when the individual was incapacited.

Kira’s gaze landed on the bloody sword on the ground, before glancing up and over at Scott. “So now what?”

Scott, for his part, was standing stock still, with his hand over the wound in his abdomen. He was staring at Stiles.

Kira persisted. “Scott?”

He shook his head. “I don’t-- I don’t know.”

Deaton gathered a few medical supplies, then returned to Scott, carefully lifting up his shirt to clean the wound and tape a bandage in place. He noted with satisfaction that the torn edges of the puncture had already begun to show signs of healing. While he didn’t look up from his work, he interjected anyways. “Now, the three of you need to get back to your homes and rest. You’ve had a very long night.”

He glanced up at Scott, who could still barely move following his injury, but he only furrowed his brow in confusion. “All three of us? Even Stiles?”

Deaton nodded. “The poison I injected in his system should give Stiles control of his body back, at least for a couple days.”

A little bit of hope returned to Scott’s eyes. “Long enough to buy us some time to fix this. To save him.”

“But what about the Oni?” This was from Kira, and she still sounded terrified.

Deaton glanced over at her. “Well, they haven’t gotten in here yet. And if I’m right, the wolf lichen has surprised the spirit deeply enough that the Oni will no longer immediately register him as supernatural.” He looked back at Scott, because he knew the young Alpha had the same fears. “He’ll be safe.”

Scott released a breath, and at least a small amount of tension visibly left his body. “Thank you.”

Deaton smiled. “Anytime.”

In the end, after a matching bandage was placed over the exit wound on Scott’s back, it was decided that they would call Sheriff Stilinski to come pick up Stiles, as the older man was likely worried sick. Once Scott was healed enough to move, he and Kira would take the jeep to go back to their own homes.

While Scott called the Sheriff, and Kira texted her parents to let them know she was okay, Deaton knelt down to check on Stiles, who still had not fully stirred. However, despite the trauma of an entity invading his body and mind, the boy’s pulse was strong, and his pupils were evenly dilated. That was not a guarantee of anything, of course, but all they could do now was wait and see when he woke up.

As he worked, Deaton spoke quietly to the spirit locked inside the teenager’s mind. “You know, I know you can hear me,” he said conversationally, “And I suppose you thought that was impressive, getting them all to jump to your every whim like that. The chaos and fear left in your wake. But you chose the wrong host.”

He glanced over at Scott, who was still on the phone, tired but determined. “You chose his best friend. And he’s not going to stop until he figures out a way to remove you, permanently. And as for me, well, I’m generally not one to advocate for killing. I prefer to heal.”

Deaton thought about Scott’s screams of pain. The Nogitsune taunting him with the face and voice of his best friend.

“For you, though? I’m willing to make an exception.”

#fictober20 #whumptober2020 #no.6 #stop please #teen wolf #fic #possession tw #violence tw #alan deaton #scott mccall #whoops this one actually took 3 days whatcha gonna do #also i fell asleep right before posting this last night 😂#my fic

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vateacancameos · 4 years ago

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How To Move to Night Vale: Step 1, Arrive in Town; Step 2, Automatically Become a Resident

Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale Characters: You, Minor Cecil Palmer, Other characters Words: 1476

Summary: How does Night Vale get new residents? Given the high death count, either all the citizens have a TON of kids, or Night Vale simply ... acquires new people. I imagine the town is sentient enough to pull in people it likes. Here's a story of how that might happen.

***

You don’t intend to move to Night Vale. It just sort of … happens? You have a good job and a good home, and you are perfectly satisfied—no, not satisfied … content—with your life. But Night Vale happens, and you just go with it, like you always do. Your friends have always told you its your best trait.

You’re traveling to visit your sister, and on the drive across the desert that takes you to her, you stop overnight at a motel on the edge of the town you hit around supper time. You think it’s a little odd that you have to sign the register in blood—you have a perfectly nice working pen in your bag—but hey, if they want to conserve ink, who are you to tell them otherwise? You’re just passing through.

The next morning, after one of the best sleeps you’d had in years—you aren’t sure if it was the mournful moaning three doors down or the sickly sweet aroma bubbling out of the misting machine by the bed, but whatever it is worked like a charm—you find an orange envelope slipped under your door. In semaphore drawings, it tells you that you have been assigned as the new English teacher. Your semaphore knowledge is weak, so you’re not sure if the previous teacher quit or was swallowed by a black hole, but it doesn’t really matter.

read the rest under the cut

You shrug. You majored in psychology and have been working in the field as such for the last five years, but you did have a lot of writing to do in school, so you think you can handle this. English is mostly about reading books and talking about them, right? You can manage that. You like to read. You call your sister to let her know you won’t be visiting this week after all, but your phone starts smoking and sparking as soon as she answers. You’ll have to remember to hunt down a computer and try emailing her later.

You arrive at Night Vale High School and are directed to the vice principal’s office. She’s very excited you showed up already in uniform. You look down at your grey t-shirt, jean capris, and orange Chuck Taylors and ask about the color of the shoes. Everyone else’s seem to be a rust color. She waves you off and says that will be taken care of at the morning sacrificial ceremony. You nod. It’s always nice to not have to change your look just to go to work.

You are given attendance sheets, scrolls, and a watercolor set and directed to your room. When you arrive, the class is already full. It’s always nice to come into a new job where everything is already in place. You take attendance, which takes a good forty minutes, since everyone must perform their own interpretive dance routine to announce their presence, then you open up the scroll to see what the students are working on.

The scroll is filled with numbers and letters. Algebra? Geometry? You barely past stats in college and have tried to forget as much math as possible. You ask one of the students. They look at you funny and say “It’s English! What kind of English teacher are you?”

Now, you’ve been pretty roll-with-the-punches so far, because it’s in your nature to be so, but this is definitely not English. A tiny elfin-looking creature at the back of the room stands up and sighs. “Come on, Mike, give the new teacher a break. The administration only switched English and algebra a week ago. Maybe she wasn’t around to hear that announcement.” It’s nice being in a place that gets your gender right on the first try.

Your shoulders drop in relief. You say that you only arrived in Night Vale the night before and had indeed missed the announcement that English and algebra had been switched. You make a mental note to talk to the vice principal, but figure you can handle one day of teaching. Maybe it’ll turn out that you’re really good at it. You won’t know until you try.

Unfortunately, you’re pants at algebra, both in learning and teaching it. The morning drags on forever, but lunchtime eventually comes. The sentient patch of blue fog that teaches theater (“I’m Misty. Yeah, my parents have terrible taste in names, laugh it up.”) invites you to eat lunch with her. You’d rather eat alone, but you’re polite and accept. Perhaps you can learn more about the school and town.

You’re warned not to ever go to the library (“Not that an English teacher ever needs to go to the library”) but told that the Moonlite All-Nite Diner has the best invisible pie in town. Misty gives you a spare coupon for a free slice of pizza from Big Rico’s. When you say you’re gluten intolerant, Misty laughs and says, “Aren’t we all?” She’s cute when she laughs. You wonder if she’d go get a slice with you some evening.

The afternoon goes faster after you decide to forgo teaching algebra and just talk about your favorite movies instead. You applaud the school system on molding such polite, intelligent children. They all do exactly as asked, and the one time a student speaks out of turn, he looks completely terrified, which concerns you just a bit, but you let it go. It’s your first day after all. They’ll get used to you.

You try to talk the vice principal into switching you to … would it be called algebra? ... class, or really anything else but math, but she shrugs and said it’s already been carved into the bloodstones. When you say you’re terrible at math, she asks if you can count to eight. When you affirm, she says you’ll be fine. You sigh and nod.

You ask her where the closest real estate office is, so you can look into getting an apartment—the motel is great and all, but the orange buzzing lights are really annoying after a while. The vice principal’s eyes go wide and her face pales to an olive green, she stutters a bit before the administrative assistant pokes his head through the door and reminds her that you can just take the old English teacher’s home, since they no longer need it, being an Erika now. The vice principal looks relieved.

You raise your eyebrows but follow their directions to your new home—a cute tri-level with a yellow door, the bloodstone circle that you’d learned earlier that day was required in all Night Vale homes, a cheerful kitchen, six bedrooms, and no bathroom.

A smooth voice whispers that the last occupant converted the bathrooms to bedrooms, since they had no use for them, and gives you the number of a reliable plumber. You wonder if your neighbors are nice enough to let you use theirs until you can get one installed. One waved to you as you arrived earlier. He had a very furry face, but there seemed to be a smile hidden under the hair.

Your neighbors are indeed very nice. They are a fairly young couple with two children. The man who waved at you says you’re welcome to use their bathroom whenever. The other man, the one who answered the door, gives you a key to their home, plus the appropriate runes to keep the door from eating you. You make a note to bake them a pie in thanks. You talk about the weather, as good neighbors do, along with the chances of Night Vale’s football team this year (a topic kindly suggested by the woman in a balaclava and cape hiding in the verge) before heading back to your new home to unpack your one bag. You’ll have to go shopping soon. Your Chucks won’t last long if they get covered in blood every day, and you’re about out of deodorant.

That night, you lay in your bed, listening to the screeching of the setting sun—it seems a bit late, almost eleven, but time has never meant that much to you anyway—and think about your first day as a Night Vale citizen. This place is like no other place you’ve ever lived. It’s strange, you won’t deny it, but you like it. It’s comfortable. Even while your brain is telling you it’s wrong in so many ways, your body is saying it’s perfectly natural.

Your mind finally calms when your radio turns itself on for the government-mandated community radio show, and you consider your future. The radio host gushes about the town’s resident scientist, and you smile sleepily when you hear that they just got married. You make a note to sit with Misty at lunch tomorrow. You really should ask her out.

You look forward to tomorrow for the first time in years. You think you’re finally home.

#wtnv #welcome to night vale #fanfic #ficlet #meagan writes #you

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jokertrap-ran · 4 years ago

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(未定事件簿) EVENT!「午夜华章」 [Tears of Themis] EVENT: Symphony of the Night Translations (Chapter 1-01: Prologue)

*Tears of Themis Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *The tracking tag for ALL Event Stories will go under: #Tears of an Event *(y/n) is your name when in direct referral; otherwise referred to as MC. *Presenting: 10 pages of prologue content (cracks fingers)

Location: Detective Agency

The winter sun shone into Xia Yan’s office, but I couldn’t feel even the slightest bit of warmth from it.

Now, Xia Yan was beside me with a frown on his face as we both stared intently at what he was holding in his hand…

???: Listen well, Great Detective and partner… This will be your last chance.

A voice that had been processed by a voice-changer came from the strange box that he held within his palm, holding absolutely no trace of emotion at all.

???: If you cannot help me complete this commission of mine by finding the missing hacker within the specified time limit…

???: I will immediately launch an attack on the Big Data Lab, which will paralyze Stellis City’s entire network.

The voice cut off here, ending spontaneously, leaving me facing Xia Yan, who had a look of utter seriousness on his face.

Xia Yan had received a commission last evening. The Client came oddly in the form of a box, and the details of the commission were all also transmitted to him through the very same box itself. Knowing how I loved puzzles, Xia Yan had invited me to investigate it together with him. But who knew that this commission also came with a threat.

The Big Data Lab would come under fire if we failed to complete the commission… The Client had repeatedly emphasized on that point without providing us with any other explanation.

Xia Yan: Since you’ve already come to us with a commission, then how about you tell us about everything clearly? Who exactly is this hacker you’re searching for…?

Bzzt, bzzt―—

The phone that I had left on the table buzzed to life. Seeing the Caller ID flashing upon the screen, Xia Yan stopped questioning the box.

MC: Lu Jinghe? Didn’t he say that he had a whole day of meetings with the Board of Directors? Why is he suddenly calling now…?

Xia Yan: ...I have a bad feeling about this. In any case, let’s answer his call first.

I nodded and answered the call.

Lu Jinghe: (Y/n), I heard yesterday that you were going to the Detective Agency to play. Are you still there now?

MC: I am. Did something happen?

Lu Jinghe: Could you pass the phone to Xia Yan?

He wants to talk to Xia Yan? I paused for a moment, looking towards the guy in question.

Xia Yan nodded, signaling for me to put the call on speaker.

Xia Yan: Lu Jinghe, has there been any problems with the Big Data Lab recently?

Lu Jinghe: What a direct question. Looks like you do know something about this after all.

Lu Jinghe: The Big Data Lab has been harassed by hackers a couple of times recently. The engineers there have just warded off another attack just now.

Xia Yan: Why are you looking for me? Is it because you feel like I’ve done something similar, and thus, being the first one on your list of suspected people?

Lu Jinghe: ...If you absolutely have to put it that way, well, you’re not exactly wrong either.

Lu Jinghe: But, what I’m more worried about is the fact that this isn’t an attack by just a single person, but rather, an organized large-scale attack.

Lu Jinghe: If this is the case, then we can only rely on the personnel currently stationed there. But I’m afraid it’ll be hard to ward them off with just that amount of manpower.

Lu Jinghe: So, I was thinking of asking you for some recommendations of experts in this field. Even better if they’re open to external contracts.

Xia Yan: So that’s how it really is after all… If I’m not guessing wrongly, I think that this has something to do with the current commission I’m undertaking.

Xia Yan: This matter involves the entire Stellis City Network, and it’s not something that any one of us can handle on our own.

Xia Yan: Can we call a full NXX Member Meeting at once? I’ll explain everything then.

Lu Jinghe: Yes. You and (Y/n) head to the Base first, I’ll notify the other two.

Ending the call, Xia Yan’s gaze fell to the box by his hand once more, his expression solemn.

MC: Xia Yan, does this mean that something serious has happened for you to be calling everyone together to investigate this?

Xia Yan: Yes. Even though everything still looks peaceful now, I have a hunch that…

Xia Yan: This commission that was headed by a threat must be much more complicated than we think it is.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

One hour later, at NXX’s Base.

Location: NXX Base’s Meeting Room

Mo Yi: So? The Client oddly came to you in the form of a box that cannot be pried open and even threatened the one who’s taking on the job for them, all just to find a single missing person?

Xia Yan: The Client has repeatedly emphasized on the fact that this matter cannot be let known to the public. I suspect the missing hacker must have come upon something dangerous.

Lu Jinghe: No matter how dangerous it might be, they should have been prepared for some leaks to happen when requesting for outside help. Using the Big Data Lab as a threat is just too unreasonable…

Zuo Ran: How serious were the attacks on the Big Data Lab so far?

Lu Jinghe: Even I can’t explain this properly, myself. But I’ve found a helper who’s very good at this aspect of things, so it’ll be more reliable to let him do all the explaining.

Saying so, he booted up NXX Base’s computer.

After inputting in a series of commands, he turned on the projection device, and a figure slowly formed before us.

MC: Huh? Aren’t you…

Chu Dai: Hello, I am Chu Dai, the Big Data Lab’s exclusive AI. I'm pleased to be of service to you.

I was stunned for a while at seeing the AI boy who I only saw on my phone, the one who loved leaving interesting evaluations on encyclopedia entries, appearing before my very eyes.

MC: You’re Chu Dai?

Chu Dai: I am! I can always talk to you like this if you prefer this form of mine more~

Lu Jinghe: Chu Dai, report on the current status of the hacker attacks on the Big Data Lab.

Chu Dai’s expression turned sullen upon the mention of the “hacker attacks”.

Chu Dai: Yes, leave it to me to explain that.

Chu Dai: Ever since last month, the Big Data Lab has been facing small-scale attacks every few days. Fortunately, they all seemed to be just testing the waters, so no real harm was done.

Chu Dai: The hackers launched yet another attack this morning. And the engineers think that they may be just buying time to analyze the Firewalls.

Chu Dai: Chu Dai has been pushing back the hacker's parsing progress, but Chu Dai thinks that they've already completed it.

Chu Dai: If there's another attack, the Firewall will have a higher than 90% chance of being broken through…

Xia Yan: This Client who's looking for a missing hacker's actually also a highly skilled hacker themselves.

Xia Yan: Based on my understanding of the warning that the Client had sent, I suspect that what the Big Data Lab has been subjected to are just pre-emptive attacks.

Lu Jinghe: You mean, he deliberately pushed the cracking process to a critical point, only to force you to complete the Commission?

Xia Yan: I'm afraid so. These attacks are simply to prove that he has the capabilities to take down the Big Data Lab.

Xia Yan: In my opinion, I think that the best way to resolve this incident would be to track down the Client before they can launch a next attack.

Mo Yi: Which mean, you intend on accepting this commission?

Zuo Ran: Buying time by accepting the commission, and then conducting reverse-tracking to locate the signal from where it was originally sent from would also be a plausible method.

Lu Jinghe: What's your stand on this, (Y/n)?

Everyone turned to look at me at his question.

⊳ Choice: Accept commission

MC: I think it'll be better if we accept this commission too.

MC: I think it's better for us to play along with the other side's tune first, until we get a full grasp of the situation. This way, we might also be able to find more clues along with our investigations.

Mo Yi: Nothing ventured, nothing gained… that's a very interesting way of thinking.

Mo Yi: I'll be very happy to accompany you, if that is your decision.

Xia Yan: Yup, I'm of the same mind too. You can rest assured on the problem of safety if we're going to be working together.

⊳ Choice: Refuse commission

MC: Logically speaking, I think that we should accept it… but personally, I still think that we should look into it a little more.

MC: We’re unable to identify the true motives of the person we’re up against at this current moment in time. And if finding the missing person’s just a guise...

Zuo Ran: So, you’re worried about what the other party’s motives are. Truth to be told, I’ve also thought about that.

Zuo Ran: But this is also the only option we have that allows us to obtain more clues. Rest assured; I’ll be accompanying you.

Lu Jinghe: And you have me too! Leave your safety to me; still worried about it, Big Sister?

Chu Dai: Yep, yep! Chu Dai will also follow the hacker's signal to its source and provide all of you with support!

Xia Yan showed everyone the box that the Client had sent by placing it atop the table.

Xia Yan: This is what the Client sent. I tried to pry it open yesterday but found that it's a complicated piece of electronic equipment that cannot be disassembled at will.

Lu Jinghe: ...It's not a bomb or anything along those lines, right?

Chu Dai: No, but it should be a device that requires special commands to open. Can you connect it to the computer? Let me try opening it.

Xia Yan connected the box to the computer with a USB cable. The projection of Chu Dai temporarily disappeared to focus on analyzing the box. We waited for about ten minutes before the box on the table snapped open with a click, opening from the gap in its center.

Lu Jinghe: Whoa! It's open?

His voice had only just faded before Chu Dai's own rang from the computer's speakers.

Chu Dai: This box is called the "Vespers' Box" —— And this is the data that the creator has placed within it.

Chu Dai: Oh yes, by the way, there's a special program installed into the "Vespers' Box" which records the first person who boots it up.

Chu Dai: But Chu Dai is definite that it won't pose any threat to anyone! So, please feel free to investigate it to your heart's content!

Everyone exchanged looks with each other, leaving Xia Yan to pick up the box. After confirming that there were really no problems with the box, he handed it to me.

Xia Yan: I see that you've been so curious about this box for a long time now, so how about you lead everyone on the investigation of this thing?

MC: Me? Are you sure about that?

I looked around, only to meet everyone's trusting eyes.

MC: Alright then… Let me check this out!

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅

MC: I just have to open the box from here, right?

Xia Yan: Yup, just flip both sides open.

Zuo Ran: Be careful while opening it since there's a delicate device inside.

MC: I won't handle it roughly… you really should have a little more faith in me, Lawyer Zuo.

Zuo Ran: ……

Zuo Ran: What I meant was...be careful not to scratch your hands from the small, intricate parts of the device.

MC: S-Sure…

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅

MC: Nine screens? Is it used to display different parts of the commission?

Mo Yi: Perhaps it has something to do with it's name of the "Vespers' Box"...? Unless, maybe it's really a commission from an undead?

Lu Jinghe: Well… don't you think this is shaped a little similar to cosmetic products and the like that girls use…?

MC: Cosmetic products for girls…? You don't look the type to be that knowledgeable about it.

Lu Jinghe: Hehe— Of course I'll pay attention to something that might be a potential present for you one day!

Chu Dai: Everyone, I've already activated the program within the "Vespers' Box". You can activate the screen to light it up by tapping on it again so please try it out!

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅

MC: Whoa… how beautiful!

Mo Yi: ...It can be regarded as an Art Masterpiece.

Chu Dai: The contents being shown on the screen are the instructions for your investigations. I'm still analyzing it so please wait for a moment.

Zuo Ran: Only one screen has been lit while the others are locked and marked by a serial number… Are these all steps dictated by the Client themselves?

MC: Looks like we can only play along with them until we manage to find them…

Lu Jinghe: Let's first discuss the countermeasures we're going to be taking while waiting for Chu Dai to decrypt it.

Xia Yan: Yup. We have to listen to what everyone thinks of this before deciding whether or not to participate in this Case.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅

We temporarily put the "Vespers' Box" aside since Chu Dai was still parsing the encrypted content on the screen.

Lu Jinghe: Let me share my opinion first. I cannot ignore it now, since this matter concerns the Big Data Lab.

Xia Yan: This person approached me by name and even threatened the Network Security of Stellis City, so I can't stand by and do nothing about it either.

Lu Jinghe: ...So you're saying that you want to settle this together too, don't you?

Xia Yan: This was originally a matter that the Client entrusted to me alone.

MC: ……

Don't we all investigate cases together all the time anyway? Why do the two of you have to be so…

MC: Then...how about we all solve it together?

Xia Yan: You want to participate too? But I'm afraid it'll affect your job…

Zuo Ran: Priorities are priorities. This issue of the "Vespers' Box" involves the Information Security of Stellis City as a whole, and thus, cannot be ignored.

Zuo Ran: (Y/n), I can give you a vacation to let you focus on this matter at hand. I will lend my aid as well.

MC: What…? Are you sure?

MC: Thank you, Lawyer Zuo!

Lu Jinghe: I knew that things would eventually turn out like this…

Mo Yi: We're all members of the same team, so it's not good to be leaving teammates behind and act on your own accord, correct?

MC: Are you joining us too Dr. Mo?

Mo Yi: Of course. I'll naturally accompany you to face this challenge that you've undertaken.

Lu Jinghe: Acting cool even in a time like this…?

Zuo Ran: How much longer till Chu Dai decrypts the tasks?

Chu Dai: Mission completed! Everyone, you can now check the tasks on the screen of the "Vespers' Box"!

Chu Dai made a re-appearance before us again as a projection after completing the decryption process.

Chu Dai: The Client has made nine task groups and will probably be giving us clues and hints on where to investigate after completing them.

Chu Dai: Actively complete the tasks set out by the Client, and you should be able to see what his true motives are soon enough!

Lu Jinghe: Complete tasks to get hints…? Does he think of this as a game?

Xia Yan: A hacker's code is unique, each to its own, like a fingerprint. It'll come a long way in helping us identify the Client if we can crack his method of compiling source codes.

Xia Yan: I'll be cooped up here most of the time from now on, using what resources we have at hand to crack the codes. I hope Chu Dai can assist me with that.

Xia Yan: This way, I can also provide remote support if the Big Data Lab faces threat again.

Lu Jinghe: No problem. I've already notified the Big Data Lab to leave enough Memory Space for Chu Dai to work with for this Case.

Chu Dai: Yup! Chu Dai's daily serviceable functions won't be affected at all, so feel free to use me to assist you in your investigations!

I felt a surge of relief upon seeing them settle the arrangements without a hitch.

MC: Please don't hesitate to tell me if there's anything I can help with! I'm still on vacation, so I my time's more flexible now.

All eyes on the floor turned to me right after the words left my mouth, making me feel oddly embarrassed out of nowhere.

MC: Don't...Don't look at me like that. I might not know much about hackers, but I'm still able to run around doing errands and investigations for clues…

Xia Yan: Actually, there's this one other important thing that only you can do. Sorry, I kept forgetting to tell you about it.

Under my curious gaze, Xia Yan took a deep breath before speaking slowly.

Xia Yan: I hope you'll take custody of the "Vespers' Box" and lead this investigation.

MC: !!!

Xia Yan: I know that this is a little risky. It was I, who received the commission, and I shouldn't have involved others who didn't have anything to do with it…

Xia Yan: But I have to stay at the Base most of the time to analyze the codes, so I had to find someone who would be able to take on the task and carry out the investigations out in the field much more conveniently.

Zuo Ran: This is too dangerous. We do not know of the reason behind the hacker's disappearance and have no way of identifying who we're up against.

Mo Yi: But her safety will be guaranteed so long as there's always someone by her side, yes?

Mo Yi smiled at me.

Mo Yi: My recent schedule is somewhat free, so I can accompany you if that's any reassurance.

MC: Huh? But wouldn't I be troubling you way too much…?

Lu Jinghe: Trouble or no trouble, I wouldn't trust someone who only wakes at 9AM to protect you.

Xia Yan: Same.

Zuo Ran: Mo Yi, I hope you'd consider the feasibility of your suggestion before putting it forth.

Mo Yi: ......

Zuo Ran: All four of us have a fixed range of activities we are involved in; be it work or investigation...

Zuo Ran: So how about we take turns to accompany her based on whose workplace is the closest when the tasks get triggered?

Zuo Ran: The "Vespers' Box" will be stored in NXX's Base after completing the daily tasks every day. This way, there'll be no need to be afraid of being tracked.

Lu Jinghe: Yes, that's certainly a good idea.

Xia Yan: I won't be careless when it comes to the problem of her safety. I'll also track and monitor her location in real time when she's out through the GPS signal beamed from her mobile.

Mo Yi: Alright. This is certainly the most efficient method we've come up with.

Chu Dai: So... have all of you decided the course of action you’ll be taking?

Chu Dai, who had been watching us all this time, seemed to have finally found an opportunity to interrupt us.

Chu Dai: Oh! Looks like you've all talked it out! (Y/n) has a very good work record! I'm sure she'll have absolutely no problem at all leading the investigation!

MC: Haha, thank you for the compliments, Chu Dai!

Chu Dai: Then next, I will be explaining the functions of the "Vespers' Box" that I've analyzed.

Chu Dai: All members of NXX, please listen carefully, for you'll be using these eventually in consequent investigations!

Everyone nodded, gathering where I was to listen to his explanation.

A heavy sense of responsibility weighed on my heart as I held the "Vespers' Box" in my hands.

MC: (Please rest assured, all of you who have placed your deep trust in me…)

MC: (I'll definitely complete this commission and find out the true colors of this mysterious Client of ours!)

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Next Part: (NXX Group Chat: Big Data Lab)

#Tears of Themis #Translations #Otome #Mihoyo #未定事件簿 #陆景和 #Lu Jinghe #左然 #Zuo Ran #夏彦 #Xia Yan #莫弈 #Mo Yi #午夜华章 #Symphony of the Night #Tears of an Event

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adverb-slut · 5 years ago

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Breakpoint (Fanfiction) Part 1/6 | Belphegor

Heyo, it’s me again! This is an older fanfic for Obey Me! that I haven’t updated in a hot minute, but I’m planning on working on it soon-ish. Anyway, this isn’t fluffy or cute or anything, it’s really mostly lore stuff!

Anywho, it’s a six-part story (only parts one through three are written so far) and focuses on each of the brothers (Satan being the exception since he was never an angel) breaking point in when they decided to rebel against their Father when they were angels up in the Celestial Realm.

You can read all the chapters that are up (one, two, and three) here on AO3, but I shall post them on Tumblr one by one in the coming days.

Also, I know I still have more requests to do, and I am working on them, I promise!

Title:

Breakpoint

Summary:

These are the tales of when Belphegor, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Leviathan, Mammon, and Lucifer each decided to actively rebel against their Father and together incite the Great Celestial War.

Genre:

Backstory/Lore

Rating:

Word Count:

3126

Additional Note:

The chapters are ordered “age-wise,” in the sense that Belphegor is first and Lucifer is last. However, the actual content of the stories do not go chronologically, save for Lucifer’s chapter, which brings all the previous chapters together. As I stated before, the first chapter is Belphie’s!

“Belphie, stop squirming,” Beelzebub muttered. “You’re not very heavy, but if you keep moving around, I’m gonna lose my grip and drop you.” He readjusted his hands under his twin’s arms as he flapped his wings in descent.

Belphegor fidgeted a bit more at the movement, earning a hmph from his brother. He knew better than to look down, especially as an angel without wings and so unused to flying, but some kind of inane reflex prompted him to anyway.

He gulped as he tilted his head downward. The ground didn’t seem to be coming up awfully fast—Beel was a deliberate flyer—but that didn’t stop a tingle from snaking its way up his spine. He clutched the scroll in his hand tightly, not daring to imagine what would happen should he drop it and it go whizzing down all the way to the verdant plains below.

“I always forget how far the cloud cover of the Celestial Realm is from Earth’s surface,” Belphegor commented. “I can’t believe you make this flight every day, Beel.”

“It’s my job, Belphie,” Beel responded cheerfully. “Someone has to guard Eden, you know?” After a pause, he scanned their surroundings below, and decided, “Alright, I’m going to drop you off here. I’ll walk the rest of the way—Eden’s only a half a mile north, but I’m pretty sure there’s a town nearby here for you to explore.”

As Belphegor’s feet touched Earth’s surface and he wriggled free from his brother’s grasp, he marveled at the solidness of the ground, despite having made this excursion several times before. In the Celestial Realm, everything under their feet would be on a layer of cloud, and it was strange for him to feel the sturdiness of soil against the soles of his sandals.

He turned to his twin. “Thanks, Beel.”

“I would say, ‘anytime,’ but Belphie, you can’t keep doing this,” Beel warned, wringing the hem of his tunic anxiously. “You know you always get in trouble whenever you come down here.”

Belphegor sighed. Getting in trouble was quite an understatement. As the Angel of the Sabbath, he was meant to spend his time in the Celestial Realm, managing reports on which humans below kept the covenant of the Sabbath and which did not, and calculating percentages of whether or not their Sabbath-related actions warranted them a spot in heaven. As far as his Father was concerned, this was not a job that required him to go down to Earth, and every time that he did, he had quite the plethora of punishments to endure—most in the form of excruciatingly long lectures on disobedience.

But that didn’t stop him from making the odd trips down to Earth. It wasn’t necessarily the planet itself that fascinated him, but the creatures that inhabited it: in his opinion, there was no other being that his Father had created so engrossing than the strange little mortals that looked surprisingly like their angelic counterparts above. These creatures—these humans —he could never find a way to truly describe them.

Humans, with their mortal life spans, each living only a fraction of what he had lived, who had seen only an iota of what he had seen. Humans, who lived each day like it was their last and loved so fiercely that altruism seemed to be embedded into their very beings. Humans, who were just another one of his Father’s innumerable possessions, expendable and easy to dispose of.

He couldn’t help but allow himself to visit them now and again, and due to the fact that his Father had decided in the Beginning that wings were given to angels based on their job and how often they needed to travel down to Earth, he had to rely on his twin, Beelzebub, to fly him down on his way to Earth for his daily morning shift as a Guardian of Eden.

However, this always brought the discussion of when Beel was supposed to return after his stint at Eden to recollect his brother, so together they could fly back home.

“I’ll come back at sunset—that’s okay, right, Belphie?” Beel asked. It had been the same schedule the pair had been using every time they visited Earth.

“Uh,” Belphegor began, turning his eyes downward, as he unfurled the scroll that he had been holding. “About that ...”

Beel’s eyes widened as he saw the contents of the scroll. “Isn't that … isn’t that the official schedule for Messenger Angels on when they’re supposed to deliver messages to humans?” He gulped. “Why do you have that?”

“Relax, I asked Gabriel for a copy, and he said I could have it,” Belphegor reassured. He pointed to the hundreds of boxes inked on the papyrus, each box containing writing that depicted a single message, to whom it was for, and where a Messenger Angel could find the recipient. “Some of these have dates for when they have to be delivered by,” he explained, tracing his finger along one of the boxes, which was stamped with an angel’s personal seal and acted as their signature. “The ones sealed with purple wax means that someone has already been assigned to deliver the message because it was so urgent.” He moved to the next box, which was stamped with red wax. “This one means that it can be delivered at any time, but someone already is en route to do it.” He then pointed to a box that had no stamps near it whatsoever. “And these? They’re nonurgent and no one’s signed up to dispatch them. Those are gonna be mine.”

Beelzebub gulped. “What do you mean, yours?”

He rolled the scroll back up and took a deep breath, not daring to look his brother in the eye. He hadn’t told Beelzebub of his plan, yet, and he dreaded to hear his twin’s opinion of it.

Beel was a fastidious worker, who was proud of his role as one of the Guardians of Eden, but he was even more proud of his younger brother’s monumental task of being the angel who was in control of the entire Sabbath. Belphegor’s titular role of Angel of the Sabbath was one that afforded him quite a bit of fame and power up in the Celestial Realm. There wasn’t an angel who didn’t know his name, and he was always getting stopped by those who wanted his advice on various subjects, most of which Belphegor knew nothing about.

But that didn’t stop him from envying the role of angels who were granted wings and were permitted to visit Earth as often as they needed—Guardian Angels and Messenger Angels (as well as some of the all-powerful Archangels); even though their faceless roles didn’t offer as much prestige as his did, they were gifted the privilege of actually interacting with humans.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Belphegor admitted. “Coming down here, spending a few hours until the sun goes down, just watching them, you know, Beel? I want to talk to them, learn about them, heck, I want to learn from them—”

“No, stop,” Beel interrupted. His eyebrows were upturned in worry as he lifted his brother’s chin so he could look him in the eyes. “Belphie, don’t tell me that you want to stay here forever—” He paused and glanced at the scroll that Belphegor had been holding. His eyes widened as he made the connection. “—posing as a Messenger Angel.”

“Not forever, Beel,” Belphegor reassured. “Just … a few weeks. Let’s say three, okay?”

Beelzebub massaged his forehead. “Three weeks? That’s three weeks where you won’t be able to do your duties as the Angel of the Sabbath. You can’t—no—no—Father would be incensed.” He reached over to his brother and grabbed his arms. “That’s it, I’m taking you back to the Celestial Realm right now.”

He shook off his brother’s hands. “No, Beel. I’m doing this. I’ve already made up my mind.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Just … promise me you’ll support me in this?”

Beelzebub smiled. “Okay!” He grabbed Belphegor’s shoulders and flapped his wings as if he hadn't said a word.

“What—Beel put me down!” He squirmed and kicked his legs. “I’m serious!” He opened his eyes and looked down as they flew higher and higher, farther and farther above the Earth’s surface. Taking a deep breath, he stopped wriggling and held still. “Beel … please. Just three weeks. I promise I’ll have my curiosity sated by then—I’ll never come back to Earth after that. I’ll never leave the Celestial Realm, I’ll—I’ll stay up and run the numbers of Sabbath-day-keepers, I—I won’t even think of humans—I swear!” He sighed. “... I won’t ... even think of humans.”

Their ascent stopped. He couldn’t see his twin’s facial expression from where he hung, but he could hear the weariness in his voice. “Who’s going to take over the role of the Angel of the Sabbath when you’re gone?”

Belphegor’s heart lifted. “Azazel and Telantes. They work under me, you remember?”

He could feel the body-shaking groan that left Beelzebub. “Fine.” He flapped his wings as they descended. “Three weeks. I’ll come find you at sunset at the end of them. Do you know where you’ll be then?”

“I’m not really sure,” Belphegor admitted. As his feet came to rest on Earth’s surface, he looked at his brother. “But you’ll come find me, right?”

Beelzebub beamed. “Of course, I will, Belphie."

Beel didn’t find him, and three weeks turned into three moons, which turned into three years.

Belphegor had run out of messages to deliver after the first week and had spent most of his time wandering from city to city, country to country, living in camps that welcomed him as a messenger of the gods.

That was the case, at least, until about a moon ago; he had taken copious amounts of some kind of liquid that a village had offered him as an act of hospitality called wine. He didn’t know what had transpired after he had consumed the fourth wineskin, but he had woken up in a deserted land, with nothing but enormous snowdrifts as far as the eye could see.

Belphegor had seen the storehouses laden with snow in the Celestial Realm but never had he ever imagined it to be so blisteringly cold. The Earth was still new, and humans had yet to populate the area where he was in. Ill-equipped for such weather, Belphegor had no choice but to trek through the snow, shivering from the cold with his teeth chattering and his lips an unbecoming shade of blue.

Being an immortal angel with no fear of hypothermia or frostbite, the only way he could find respite from the frigid air that surrounded him was to sleep.

And sleep he did.

For days, in fact, until all Belphegor knew was sleep. There was something cozy about the pitch darkness that enveloped him when his eyes were closed; it was a surefire welcome as opposed to the freezing wind and subzero temperatures that greeted him when he was conscious. Sleep was a comfort, wrapping him in momentary joy instead of the crushing sense of abandonment that bodied him if he dared to open his eyes.

That was, until, he felt something other than the howling wind waking him up.

“Belphegor, Angel of the Sabbath,” someone said, shaking his practically frozen body, which was nestled deep in a snowdrift.

“Beel?” Belphegor asked groggily, noticing that the silhouette glowed and had wings like an angel.

The silhouette offered him a hand to help him get up, which he hesitated before taking. “No, my name is Jabril. I am a Messenger Angel.”

Belphegor rubbed his face with frost-covered hands and widened his eyes to take a better look at the figure, who he realized wore the standard white robes and blue sash of a Messenger Angel. He looked at their surroundings. “Why are you here? There’s no one to deliver a message to around for miles.”

Jabril shook his head. “No, Belphegor. I’m here to deliver a message to you.” He produced a scroll hidden within his sash and unfurled it.

Belphegor choked as he noticed that it looked exactly like the scroll he had shown his twin years ago.

Jabril pointed to a message box, which was stamped in purple with his seal. “Belphegor, Angel of the Sabbath, has been summoned to the Almighty’s Throne Room,” he read. Underneath it was written today’s date and the exact coordinates to Belphegor’s location.

He gulped. His Father never invited His sons to his Throne Room unless it was for punishment. And it wasn’t the typical “lecture” punishment—no, no. These types of punishments were much more severe. There was a real chance that Belphegor could have his title ripped away from him or Hell, his very existence erased. “He waited three years to summon me. Why?”

“You know better than to question, Father,” Jabril reminded him as he latched onto Belphegor’s shoulders and began to flap his wings. “But you know how He is. Making you wait this long to wonder when He was going to find you might just be part of your punishment.”

Belphegor stomach clenched as the two continued to fly higher and higher into the Celestial Realm. “I hope that really is the case.”

The first thing he noticed when he entered the Throne Room was not the pearlescent marble floors, the walls encrusted in brilliant diamond, or the immense moonstone chandeliers that hung from golden chains off the ceiling.

It wasn’t the seraphim that loitered around His throne, their haunting praises rumbling in their throats.

It wasn’t even the blinding light, the glory of his Father, that shone from the throne itself.

The first thing he noticed was the music.

Soothing notes—a melodic piece—a cry of melancholy and reassurance, resounded from the masterful fingers of Lucifer as he guided his harp into realms of music so beautiful that Belphegor, who knew better than to linger in the Throne Room entryway, had to stop and listen.

From the left side of his Father’s throne, Lucifer’s music was a constant: he produced a sound so beautiful that the Almighty could rarely go without it. His fascination with Lucifer’s music had grown to a point where the two were nigh inseparable.

The Archangel of Music’s eyes were closed and his face held an expression that was so serene that Belphegor had to wonder if Lucifer even realized who his audience was; he looked as if his only purpose was to coax the notes out of the instrument, regardless of who might be listening.

Belphegor stood entranced, his eyelids feeling heavy with the comforting tones before he was pulled out of his reverie with the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“My son.” His Father’s voice, like peals of thunder, reverberated through the expansive throne room. “You may approach.”

He walked forward, his shoulders straight, and tried to keep his gaze ahead, but every time his peripheral vision grazed the bright glory of his Father, his eyes watered and he was forced to look down. When he was several feet away from the throne, he fell prostrate on the ground.

“Father,” he greeted, his forehead resting on the tile.

“Arise, Belphegor, Angel of the Sabbath,” his Father said. “Although, perhaps it is wise to address you also by your self-given role of Messenger Angel, as well.”

He peeled himself off the ground. Knowing better than to stare at the luminous figure of God, he stood and averted his eyes toward the almost equally brilliant Lucifer, who played on as if there was no one else in the room. “That’d be alright.”

“Do you know why you stand before Me today?”

He took a deep breath, drawing a miasma of calmness from the harp and the low chanting of the seraphim. “I do.”

A moment later, his Father boomed, “Do you know why, my son, I created the Sabbath?”

“I do.”

“You are the expert angel, in this case, then; explain it to Me.”

“You created it, Father, to represent the day of rest You took after spending six days creating the universe, back in the Beginning.”

His Father’s glow diminished for a moment, and Belphegor cringed. For every time his Father’s light faltered, it would return a moment later tenfold brighter, signifying his rage.

There it was: the glorious light roared back with a fierceness that indeed rivaled what it had been before. “And yet, this duty of protecting such a hallowed tradition is something you are willing to shirk, only to take upon the duties of a Messenger Angel —a duty that is not even yours?”

“Yes,” Belphegor gulped.

Strangely enough, the inferno that was his Father receded slightly and didn’t get brighter. It seemed almost as if the Almighty was actually calming down. His voice, now, sounded like a stream of water, without an ounce of malice. “You did well in your duties as a Messenger Angel, Belphegor; I commend you for that. But, I cannot overlook your slothfulness into the work that I assigned to you. I gave you the title of Angel of the Sabbath for a reason, and I expect you to go back and continue to fulfill it. The dismissal of your actual work comes off as laziness, and I cannot tolerate My day of holy rest being made into a day of indolence on your part.”

“But, Father, I—” Belphegor knew better than to argue with God, but he had spoken without thinking.

The brightness of his Father’s glory flared irritatedly at his act of insolence, and He spoke over Belphegor as if he hadn’t said a word. “My son, I will withdraw my original punishment from you, provided you understand the error of your ways. Answer Me, Belphegor, do you regret what you did?”

For a moment, Belphegor was silent, as he thought back to the moons that he had spent on Earth. There were no words to describe just how much he had enjoyed his stay there, despite the overwhelming agony of going without Beel. Every day was a new adventure as he trotted from village to village, delivering messages that his Father had decided was necessary for certain humans to hear from his underlings. Sure, not having the actual wings of a Messenger Angel made the role significantly harder, but he was so fully dedicated to this job that it made little difference to him. Even the miserable moon he had spent in frigid hell, no matter how torturous, was worth listening to the fascinating stories that he had heard from the humans and the experiences he had gleaned.

So that is why, Belphegor blinked through the tears that came with looking straight at his Father’s glowing presence, and declared, “No.”

#obey me #obey me swd #obey me shall we date #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me shall swd belphegor #obey me swd belphie #obey me fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #adverbslut_writes #obey me lore

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theonceoverthinker · 5 years ago

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Comfortable (Fair Game)

Summary: Things worked out in Atlas and Mantle, better than anyone could have reasonably expected them to. Who’d have thought? Now, the extended group sets out after saving one day to save the next one and the one after that. And with a moment’s peace in between those days, Qrow and Clover finally let themselves get comfortable.

AO3 Fanfiction.net

A/N: So like the summary warns (While a background element of the fic itself), this fic is almost certainly an AU for the 0% likelihood that everything is going to work out perfectly in the Atlas/Mantle arc -- the communication tower will be back up, everyone will be warned about Salem and then protected, and then everyone will then go to inform the rest of the world.

Tagging @merilinlokk and @lady-branwen!

Seriously, this thing is so sappy. I can't believe it. I am grossed out by this abomination of cuteness!

Enjoy.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Atlas has a gorgeous line of aircrafts. Aircrafts are behemoths of steel most every other place in Remnant, but in Atlas, where they are an indispensable part of life, something about them is simply different from those in the regions below. Perhaps it’s a reflection of Atlas’ gilded lives -- or at least formerly gilded lives.

Things are changing. So many things have changed already. Atlas and Mantle exist under new leadership, and now are readying themselves to aid in the fight against Salem. The communication’s tower is up and running. There’s a new Winter Maiden.

And now, just as life changes, their extended group must change as well. There are other regions to visit, to warn about Salem, and to assist in facing off against the Grimm that will haunt them in the wake of that knowledge. Much assistance will be required -- enough to warrant the strongest assets of the Atlesian military to join the extended fight beyond Atlas’ borders.

Despite their higher spirits, everyone’s a little mixed at the idea of leaving Atlas. For the Ace Ops, Atlas is not just a workplace...it’s home. For the kids, it was somewhere stable. Clover can only imagine how much they’ve missed having someplace like that to stay. From what Qrow tells him, constant travel has been something of a norm for them since they faced the Fall of Beacon.

But at least this time, their accommodations are more comfortable. The plane they’re taking is about as nice as Atlesian arcrafts come. It’s no four-star hotel, but it’s close.

Clover’s happy to see that the kids seem content with the accommodations as they board it.

He’s also happy to see his team content with the accommodations as they board it.

But mostly, so strongly to him that it’s almost embarrassing, he’s happy to see Qrow content with the accommodations as he boards it.

Clover makes sure he’s right by Qrow’s side to get his reaction up close, and Qrow’s smile -- as always -- does not disappoint. It’s as warm as a fireplace after a snowstorm and more beautiful than a hyacinth in bloom.

And fortunately for Clover, he’s been seeing it more and more frequently over the past few months they’ve spent together.

Clover’s always known he’s been blessed with a personality that could win just about anyone over, but experiencing Qrow warming up to him, opening up to him, enjoying his presence and their partnership...it’s been something so different than he ever expected.

He’s unashamed to admit that he loves it with all that he is.

They board the plane together, and Clover gestures to Qrow two unoccupied seats towards the center of the plane.

There’s been no secret made about the length of this flight. The trip from here to Vacuo is sixteen hours.

That’s sixteen hours they’ll be side-by-side, and while this plane is luxurious, that luxury comes at the cost of seats. There’s just barely enough for all of them, and the plane’s available seats are filling up fast.

Committing to a spot now means committing to spending a whole day by the side of whoever one ended up next to.

Clover knows Qrow knows this.

And he still chose to sit next to Clover without an ounce of hesitation.

A smile crosses Clover’s face, and he’s undeniably thrilled.

However, there’s more to it than that, and funnily enough, that more would seem like less to the naked eye -- comfort.

Comfort, yes. That just about describes everything about them, and it might just be the part of this thing they have that Clover loves more than anything else.

While the armrest between them offers a generous amount of space, his and Qrow’s shoulders touch as they get settled into their seats. Still, neither of them blush, nor look away. No, the touch is casual -- it’s comfortable.

‘Comfortable’ -- oh, how Clover’s grown to love that word.

As the plane takes off, Clover relaxes at the thought of the next sixteen comfortable hours they’ll share together.

()()()()()()()()()()

In the unlikely event Qrow was ever forced to spend the rest of his days aboard an airplane -- not exactly his ideal retirement plan, mind you, but at least it doesn’t involve being digested by a Grimm -- he can think of a lot worse people to choose to sit next to for all of those remaining years than Clover Ebi.

So when the prospect of a mere sixteen hour flight by his side approaches them, Qrow has no qualms accepting the invitation.

As a matter of fact, a qualm is just about the last thing Qrow Branwen has with anything having to do with Clover Ebi.

Clover is comfortable -- yes, ‘comfortable’ is the best word to describe him. For as serious as he is when it comes to his job, he is also as carefree as Harbinger is sharp. A lesser mind would attribute that quality to his semblance and the cockiness that it may cause, but Qrow takes pride in being the exact opposite of a lesser mind. He knows that carefreeness Clover has is more than just the result of luck -- it’s who Clover is -- plain and simple. Qrow sees it in Clover’s eyes, his brow, and his smile, a smile that isn’t innocent, but informed, yet still optimistic, and that makes its successes that much more interesting to witness.

Qrow spends a lot of time looking at that smile, and even more time thinking about it.

And now, he has that smile all to himself for sixteen hours.

Not to mention, if there’s one thing Atlas can be counted on, it’s that it has amazing planes. Their seats feel like they’re made of the very clouds they’re flying through, the craft is fully stocked with seemingly every snack under the sun as well as a nice variety of sodas, and they have screens to project their scrolls onto for a handsfree experience.

So not only will he have access to Clover’s smile, he and Clover will also be given plenty of good reasons TO smile.

It’s going to be a great flight.

()()()()()()()()()()

Clover swears that at some point, the plane flew up beyond the limits of the very sky itself and is now gliding straight across heaven.

Sure, that theory is rather hyperbolic, but with how nice of a time he’s having, he wouldn’t be surprised if it proved to be the case.

Rays of light amber shine inside the plane. Qrow, while not directly in its way, is bathed in it all the same.

The sun makes everything about him pop -- as if he didn’t already do that well enough on his own. His smile is so much brighter, the speckles in his eyes are clearer, and his teeth almost sparkle in the light. Even the crumbs from the pretzels he ate earlier are illuminated, and Clover -- ever the neat freak his team well knows him to be -- finds too endearing for words.

The setting sun gives Clover little time to take it in, so he does fully under the guise of simple conversation.

He can be quite the clever devil when he wants to be.

That would probably be a bad thing if he didn’t care for the topic, but he does. Clover considers himself a caring guy, but Qrow manages to make even the most seemingly boring, annoying, or weird topics come alive. While Clover’s not at all into video games, if Qrow’s talking about them, suddenly, he doesn’t mind thinking about them for a half hour or so.

The past few hours have passed in a relaxed state of bliss. Conversations tend to flow between them as naturally as a river, and the long flight together hasn’t changed that. There’s plenty of moments of silence too, or just moments that pass where they do things on their own, but it never feels out of place. It’s just them...being who they are.

Clover likes who they are.

It’s not long before the sun completely sets. The dark sky is contrasted by the warm lights from within the plane, and it feels as if they’re safely put in a nice, cozy cabin on a harsh winter’s night.

However, before long, that changes too.

Their arrival in Vacuo will be early. Everyone aboard the craft knows that, and as yawns start to surface after their early wake up to prepare for their initial departure, it starts to sink in that calling it a night sooner rather than later is in all of their best interests.

Clover can already see people settling in for some sleep. He gets a peek at his teammates, and he can just barely hold back a chuckle.

Harriet’s lounging in her seat with her left arm spread out over the armrest and her eyes shut, with Vine holed up in the corner beside the window and his seatmate, halfway to slumber town himself. Marrow meanwhile has contorted himself so that his tail is curving over his body while Elm pushes his back against her own as to sleep more cozily.

Of all the descriptors Clover as ever used or considered using in regards to his team, the term ‘adorable’ has never once come to mind. However, those brief glances at his fellow fighters changes that perspective in an instant.

He has a sneaking suspicion that a certain group of kids from Beacon have a hand to play in the change.

Honestly, the Ace Ops as a whole have become so much closer over the weeks that unorthodox group has been in their presence.

Those kids...and Qrow...who knew they would be what the world needed the most right about now?

And more importantly, who knows what they’ll do next? Clover believes that whatever it is will be something good, and he’s happy to be along for the ride.

Well, whatever the case, he does agree nonetheless that it’s just about time to turn it in for the night.

()()()()()()()()()()

Sixteen hours never seemed too big of a number for Qrow, and passing that time with Clover has made it seem even more paltry than that.

Things are always easy like that for Qrow and Clover -- at least when they’re together, that is. Clover has this aura about him -- not a luck-based aura, but...a different kind of aura, separate from the pressures of semblances and more of a resemblance of his core personality. That aura makes the air feel just a bit sweeter and the urge to keep his guard up seem so much more distant than it should be.

Being around Clover...it makes Qrow just feel safe.

He knows it’s unwise. After all, they have a relic in their possession. It’s just a matter of time until a flying Grimm attacks them, or Hazel will show up on a hot air balloon or something or both at the same time, ready, willing, and able to blow them out of the sky.

Well, at least Tyrian’s not among their enemies’ numbers anymore.

Still, despite the danger that lurks behind each and every one of Remnant’s four corners, Clover’s sheer presence somehow wills his relaxation into existence. It’s nice having someone around like that, and it’s even nicer that that person is Clover.

Qrow’s never been much of a talker -- in truth, he’s not even that much of a talker with Clover -- but Clover and he are able to ebb and flow through the balance of conversation and alone time with such ease. There always seems to be something new for the two of them to discuss, and at the same time, they can exchange a comfortable silence with not a single bit of awkwardness, and no time has made that more apparent than today.

Most of the conversation’s been surrounding Vacuo. Qrow wants Clover to know what he’s in for once they hit the harsh sands below it. Clover seems so assured that he can handle the rough climate, but he’s never been there before. Nonetheless, Clover’s confidence -- as it is often one to do -- leaves Qrow believing he can weather whatever Vacuo has in store for him.

...That said, is it bad that Qrow also wants to see the look on Clover’s face when he realizes they need to regularly traverse the desert on foot?

Probably, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a hilarious mental image to have dance around in his head.

Still, even if he has a hard time at first, Qrow knows Clover will get it in no time.

And he looks forward to that smile of triumph when even the cruelest of wastelands falls prey to Clover Ebi’s relentless optimism.

The shattered moon is the only light the outside world provides them that remains in the wake of the deceased day. And just like that very outside world, it’s not long after the sun abandons it that the occupants of their aircraft abandon their overhead lights.

It makes sense. After all, they’re supposed to be landing early tomorrow, and they left Atlas Academy pretty early this morning just to make their flight. Everyone could use a little shut eye.

Some arrive sooner to that proverbial party than others.

Qrow hears Ruby and Nora snoring from both the front and back of the aircraft, respectively.

He’s traveled with them for months, but it never ceases to amaze him just how loudly those two brats in particular seem to -- not even just sleep, but just do...everything.

Other snores -- less loud than his niece and her friend’s -- speckle the night with bits of sound, as the plane lets itself darken.

He and Clover lock eyes just before turning to see their comrades as they fall to the lull of sleep.

Diagonal from their seats, they spot something that almost makes Qrow’s heart skip a beat.

‘Cute’ really isn’t Qrow’s scene. He may hang around with people considered to be cute by both others and admittedly himself, but Qrow doesn’t go looking for cute things, nor pay them any more attention than anything else that only mildly interests him with few exceptions.

But seeing Yang and Blake, cuddling up against each other with a shared blanket that continues melding forms that are already bound by touched foreheads, yeah, that’s cute.

Nah, not cute. Downright ‘precious’ would be the better way to describe the sight before him.

Clover seems to think so too. He can feel the tension in Clover’s forearm release from up against him, but also not pull back.

Qrow can’t even blame him. He’s halfway tempted to take a picture and send it to Ruby because he knows she’d kill him if she found out he held something like this back from her.

But he doesn’t. This is Yang and Blake’s moment, not theirs, even if it is cute.

They’re good kids. They deserve some happiness like that.

He and Clover take a final look at the lovebirds before turning back to each other, softly smiling.

Clover hums his agreement to their silent conversation in a relaxed, yet still jovial tone.

Then...Clover does something unexpected. He leans down briefly, rifling around the bottom of his seat. Moments later, he surfaces, but with a dark blue plush, cylindrical bundle in his hands. The name of the aircraft is embroidered onto the cloth exterior.

Well, it wouldn’t be an airplane ride without a complimentary blanket, now would it?

Clover pops open a button and holds the blanket between them, his offer obvious despite that offer being given no voice.

There’s a hidden implication to the gesture, especially given what they just saw between his niece and Blake.

A sudden case of convenient amnesia overtakes Qrow -- or rather, Qrow takes on -- regarding the fact that he has also been provided with his own blanket, one that rests right beside where Clover found his, and that he’d be able to access just as easily as Clover was.

Oops. How silly of him.

Qrow, with a shrug and a chuckle nods his acceptance.

Without a word needing to be exchanged between them, Clover and Qrow spread the blanket over themselves and get comfortable.

Clover positively radiates warmth. It would make for a sweltering scenario if the shared body heat was balmy rather than cozy.

Qrow and Clover are sharing a blanket.

No, Qrow is not completely beside himself with a delight he never thought it was possible for him to house.

...That’s the veneer he aims to put on, at least.

In truth though, for as happy as he is with the arrangement, it’s not enough to hitch his breath, nor make his heartbeat race. Things may have been like that at some point between them, but right now, Qrow can’t remember -- he doesn’t want to.

What they have now, it’s comfortable -- literally, at this second, just as much as it is figuratively -- and Qrow wouldn’t trade it for the world.

As the final minutes of their day slink by, they watch something on each of their TV’s. Still, Qrow isn’t paying attention to anything except how nice this all feels and just how alluring the prospect of a nap is right now. He suspects Clover feels the same. Their eyelids begin to grow heavy, and that weight only gets increases more and more by the second. Hardly ten minutes pass after the blanket is spread before Clover and Qrow quietly fall asleep.

()()()()()()()()()()

Yang’s uncle, whether he’ll ever admit it or not -- something Yang thinks is about as likely as Salem deciding to sprout confetti all across Remnant instead of Grimm -- is too cute for words.

She’s seen plenty of instances of his cuteness throughout her childhood -- mostly through funny faces and even funnier stories made to entertain while simultaneously distracting her and Ruby. In her adolescence, instances were less prevalent, coming out only through the occasional glimpse of awkwardness, goofiness, or unashamed bouts of affection.

But any absence of signs that she’s ever experienced in her life of her uncle Qrow’s cuteness are more than made up for by the sheer sight of Qrow cuddling underneath a blanket with Clover Ebi.

It’s an adorable sight to wake up to -- not quite as adorable as the sleeping Blake that first greets Yang’s eyes when she wakes from their nap, but still more than enough to make her smile nonetheless.

Yang doesn’t stay awake for long. At times like this, Blake’s presence soothes her like nothing else, and the pull of sleep is a mighty one to ward off under such circumstances. However, upon prying her eyes away from Blake to stretch, she gets to see a bit of her uncle’s snuggly nap, and it does a good job holding its own in the battle of cuteness.

All is calm, but all the same, while the nightmares that Yang knows make her uncle Qrow reel in his sleep are clearly not present, Qrow’s head ends up shifting all the same, eventually leaning onto Clover’s shoulder where it at last is calmed. And Clover’s head, taken off its balance, gently sandwiches Qrow’s head into the crook of his neck. Yang sees Qrow’s left arm slip towards the bottom of the small of Clover’s back, and Clover’s hand is visible through the indent it makes, falling to Qrow’s right thigh, practically on his waist. Both sport easy smiles.

Despite the fact that there are so many fights left unresolved and so many monsters that will likely soon come for all of them, Cover and Qrow both look as though they’ve never been as safe as they are whilst held in each other’s arms.

And in the entire time Yang’s known both of them, they’ve never looked this comfortable before.

Well, perhaps she’s wrong about that. Everything about them is comfortable from the outside looking in, and has been since the day they were first partnered up. It’s something that goes beyond their complementary semblances, too. Actually, yeah -- if Yang were to put it into words, she’d say that they just fit so...comfortably together. There’s no better way to describe them than that, but all the same, it’s the right word for them.

Yang’s not a betting girl, but she’ll say that if Qrow or Clover were each allowed to pick a single moment could be made to last forever, there’s a good chance at least one of them would pick this one.

She’s happy for them. Clover’s a good guy -- cool-headed, but cocky, spunky, but earnest, and strong willed, but not incapable of change to help the world improve. Yang likes him and as a plus, he and Qrow fight well together.

They’re good men. They deserve some happiness like that.

And speaking of some due happiness, a slight stir from Blake settles Yang back into their prior pose, and moments later, she falls asleep again.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Clover’s woken up in aircrafts before.

If he had to call one thing about them his favorite, it would be the pale sunset that shine through the windows. Just like the sunset from the previous day, it creates a gorgeous glow over the plane’s occupants that makes for a wonderful way to start the day.

And with both that sunset and Qrow Branwen by his side, Clover wouldn’t be surprised if this turned out to be the best day ever.

As if he and Qrow didn’t match each other perfectly enough already, they wake up at practically the same time, too. Less than a minute after Clover eyes open, Qrow’s eyes meet his gaze. It’s so serene -- Clover feels as though he could meet it forever.

In a move that honestly surprises Clover, Qrow doesn’t do anything to move away from him. They’re so close -- there’s no way that hasn’t resonated with Qrow the same way it has for Clover.

As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even rush to create the small excuse for distance they had prior to their rest either. The touch lingers in the warmth of the blanket and their shared body heat.

No one else is awake yet. Neither he nor Qrow are looking around, but he gets the sense that they can both just feel it.

A certain moment from the night before rings a bell, of two people nestled under a blanket together, holding each other tightly.

It’s just them -- resting together, resting comfortably.

Clover’s pretty sure there’s not one tangible thing in all of Remnant or beyond that he wants more.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Qrow hasn’t slept as well as he has over the past few hours in a long, long time. His usual bout of nightmares let him be, and because of that, not once did his consciousness stir out of its state of slumber all evening.

It’s a good feeling -- it’s a really good feeling.

He has to strain himself to will the strength needed to open his eyes into existence -- a Herculean task that he feels should grant him a round of applause for its completion.

And when he does, he’s rewarded for his efforts by one hell of a sight.

Clover’s eyes have always stuck out to Qrow as bold -- then again, so do his own -- but two inches at most from his face, despite their singular color, they’re as vibrant as a rainbow.

Neither of them speak, as if their proximity to each other leaves them speechless.

But no -- this isn’t them being speechless. Qrow knows what that’s like, but he can tell that if he ever gains a desire to end this, he could whenever he wants to.

And he doesn’t.

Instead, tender smiles are exchanged, acting in place of any verbal language as a wish for a good morning.

Verbal or not, the wish feels well granted right about now.

They’re both so close together right now, with much of their bodies already pressed against the other about as snugly as the situation can allow.

With that thought, another slams into him, one that should leave him agape and shocked, but doesn’t.

So Qrow let’s the thought exist, entertaining it like silly putty in his hands.

If they were so inclined to kiss, such a thing would be almost too easy to pass up right now.

And neither of them are running away. They’ve both fought their demons -- emotional and literal -- and won.

Some easiness is definitely called for.

So Qrow leans in, and Clover follows him as if their minds and thoughts were one.

It’s little more than a shift for them as their lips touch for the first time.

The kiss between them feels...weightless. Yeah, that’s how Qrow would best put it. With that weightlessness comes a sense of finally and fully letting go. It’s a letting go of his inhibitions, a letting go of his guard, and a letting go of anything that he hasn’t already readily offered Clover.

There’s not much of the latter...but that’s what makes the kiss as good as it is.

Qrow’s hand moves from the small of Clover’s back up to the space between his shoulders. Clover’s moves from Qrow’s thigh around the corner of his form, fully ensnaring his waist.

It’s a quiet kiss, at least to the outside world. But between them, a fondness in the form of a question that had been upfront about its presence, but never ultimately asked is at last not only asked, but answered. That answer turns out to be better than Qrow could’ve ever imagined.

They breathe each other in more and more for every moment the kiss goes on, and that leaves them both with a lot of the other’s scents dancing through their noses.

The kiss comes to an end as a flight attendant passes by, offering them coffee. Even as they softly break apart though to tell them their drink preferences, one of each of their hands find their way to the other’s.

Another kiss is not exchanged that morning, but those hands stay casually bound until the plane lands in a small mushroom cloud of sand.

Vacuo is for certain going to be a challenge for the group, one that will not be gentle with its trials and tribulations as the weather, Grimm, and Salem’s goons alike put their patience, strength, and sanity through the absolute tightest wringer.

However, Qrow’s not worried, or at least not as worried as he would be alone. As long as Clover stands beside him, no matter the pain that may follow, a part of him will always be allowed to be comfortable.

#fair game #rwby #clover ebi #qrow branwen #qrover #lucky charms #luck birds #my fanfiction

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newstfionline · 4 years ago

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Tuesday, December 22, 2020

Canada’s Ontario to go on province-wide shutdown Dec. 26 (AP) Ontario on Monday announced a province-wide shutdown because of a second wave of COVID-19 in Canada’s most populous province. The lockdown will be put in place for southern Ontario from Dec. 26 until Jan. 23, but will lift for northern Ontario on Jan. 9. Ontario has had seven straight days of more than 2,000 cases a day. Modeling shows that could more than double in January. Health officials earlier said a four- to six-week hard lockdown could significantly stop the spread of COVID-19. Toronto, Canada’s largest city, had already closed restaurants for indoor dining but schools remained open. All high schools in Ontario will now be closed for in-person learning until Jan. 25. Elementary schools will be closed until Jan. 11.

Congress Strikes Long-Sought Stimulus Deal to Provide $900 Billion in Aid (NYT) Congressional leaders on Sunday reached a hard-fought agreement on a $900 billion stimulus package that would send immediate aid to Americans and businesses to help them cope with the economic devastation of the pandemic and fund the distribution of vaccines. The deal would deliver the first significant infusion of federal dollars into the economy since April, as negotiators broke through months of partisan gridlock that had scuttled earlier talks, leaving millions of Americans and businesses without federal help as the pandemic raged. While the plan is roughly half the size of the $2.2 trillion stimulus law enacted in March, it is one of the largest relief packages in modern history. The agreement was expected to provide $600 stimulus payments to millions of American adults earning up to $75,000.

Trump’s legacy: He changed the presidency, but will it last? (AP) The most improbable of presidents, Donald Trump reshaped the office and shattered its centuries-old norms and traditions while dominating the national discourse like no one before. He smashed conceptions about how presidents behave and communicate, offering unvarnished thoughts and policy declarations alike, pulling back the curtain for the American people while enthralling supporters and unnerving foes—and sometimes allies—both at home and abroad. While the nation would be hard-pressed to elect another figure as disruptive as Trump, it remains to be seen how much of his imprint on the office itself, occupied by only 44 other men, will be indelible. Already it shadows the work of his successor, President-elect Joe Biden, who framed his candidacy as a repudiation of Trump, offering himself as an antidote to the chaos and dissent of the past four years while vowing to restore dignity to the Oval Office. “For all four years, this is someone who at every opportunity tried to stretch presidential power beyond the limits of the law,” said presidential historian Michael Beschloss. “He altered the presidency in many ways, but many of them can be changed back almost overnight by a president who wants to make the point that there is a change.”

Mexican president expects no conflicts with Biden administration (Reuters) Mexican President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador said on Monday his weekend call with U.S. President-elect Joe Biden was “very friendly” and that he expect relations to be positive with the new Democratic administration taking office in January.

World closes borders to Britain as new coronavirus strain breeds panic (Reuters) A slew of countries closed their borders to Britain on Monday over fears of a highly infectious new coronavirus strain, heightening global panic, causing travel chaos and raising the prospect of UK food shortages days before the Brexit cliff edge. India, Poland, Spain, Switzerland, Russia, Jordan and Hong Kong suspended travel for Britons after Prime Minister Boris Johnson warned that a mutated variant of the virus, up to 70% more transmissible, had been identified in the country. Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Oman closed their borders completely. Several other nations have suspended travel from Britain including France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Austria, Ireland, Belgium, Israel and Canada. France shut its border to arrivals of people and trucks from Britain, closing off one of the most important trade arteries with mainland Europe. As families and truck drivers tried to navigate the travel bans to get back home in time for Christmas, British supermarket chain Sainsbury’s said shortages would start to appear within days if transport ties were not quickly restored.

Britons scramble for residency in Spain and Portugal ahead of Brexit (Reuters) In October, Michelle Jones and her husband Gary boarded a ferry in England for a new life in Spain. Had they left it beyond Britain’s period of transition out of the European Union, things would have been much more complicated. “We haven’t got a choice—it’s now or never,” the former housing association worker said at the hairdressing salon she has taken over in the resort town of Fuengirola in southern Spain. Britain formally left the European Union on Jan. 31 after its 2016 referendum, but since then it has been in a transition period under which rules on free travel and trade remain unchanged. That period ends on Dec. 31. Fourteen European countries, including Portugal and Spain, will grant Britons arriving before Dec. 31 the right to five years of residency. Other countries have tougher post-Brexit requirements, asking all Britons to re-apply after the transition period. Ahead of the deadline, some people have brought forward retirement plans and others have taken advantage of being able to work from home to move.

Skiing (Financial Times) The European Alps are home to a third of the world’s 2,084 ski resorts, and typically generate €28 billion in revenues. That is roughly 7 percent of the overall European Union tourism market. Though geographically compact, the Alps are the global seat of skiing, and in a typical year are host to about 43 percent of worldwide skier visits, considerably higher than North America (21 percent), the Asia Pacific region (16 percent), and other parts of Western Europe (10 percent). Naturally, this season will not be generating 28 billion euros. France has shut down all ski lifts through January 7, resorts in Italy and Austria are closed, and the Swiss are going to do their own thing but will cut ties with neighbors for the duration of the crisis.

Nepal Falls Into Political Turmoil. China and India Are Watching. (NYT) Nepal’s top leader dissolved Parliament on Sunday amid infighting among members of the governing party, throwing into doubt the political future of a strategically important Himalayan country where China and India have long jockeyed for influence. The prime minister, K.P. Sharma Oli, called for the dissolution of the lower house of Parliament despite protests from his own Nepal Communist Party and opposition groups, including the largest, Nepali Congress. Nepal is now set to hold elections starting in late April, more than a year earlier than the expected vote in November 2022. Mr. Oli made his move in the face of rising dissatisfaction with his job performance even within the ranks of his own party. He was elected to a second stint as prime minister in 2017 on promises of tamping down corruption and forging stronger ties with China and its economic growth machine. But Mr. Oli’s administration has been plagued with its own corruption allegations as well as criticism of his government’s handling of the coronavirus pandemic, which has devastated an economy that has long depended on tourism and on remittances from its citizens abroad.

Rockets fired at U.S. embassy land inside Baghdad’s Green Zone, damaging compound (Reuters) At least eight Katyusha rockets landed in Baghdad’s heavily fortified Green Zone in an attack targeting the U.S. Embassy, causing some minor damage on the compound on Sunday, the Iraqi military and the embassy said on Sunday. The Iraqi military said an “outlaw group” fired eight rockets. Most of the missiles hit a residential complex and a security checkpoint inside the zone, damaging buildings and cars and wounding one Iraqi soldier, a military statement said. U.S. officials blame Iran-backed militia for regular rocket attacks on U.S. facilities in Iraq, including near the embassy in Baghdad. No known Iran-backed groups have claimed responsibility.

Spyware targets phones of Al-Jazeera reporters (AP) Dozens of journalists at Al-Jazeera, the Qatari state-owned media company, have been targeted by advanced spyware in an attack likely linked to the governments of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, a cybersecurity watchdog said Sunday. Citizen Lab at the University of Toronto said it traced malware that infected the personal phones of 36 journalists, producers, anchors and executives at Al-Jazeera back to the Israel-based NSO Group, which has been widely condemned for selling spyware to repressive governments. Most unnerving to the investigators was that iMessages were infecting targeted cellphones without the users taking any action—what’s known as a zero-click vulnerability. Through push notifications alone, the malware instructed the phones to upload their content to servers linked to the NSO Group, Citizen Lab said, turning journalists’ iPhones into powerful surveillance tools without even luring users to click on suspicious links or threatening texts. Citizen Lab, which has been tracking NSO spyware for four years, tied the attacks “with medium confidence” to the Emirati and Saudi governments, based on their past targeting of dissidents at home and abroad with the same spyware. The two countries are embroiled in a bitter geopolitical dispute with Qatar in which hacking and cyber surveillance have increasingly become favored tools.

In Tigray Conflict, Displaced Children Suffer (NYT) UM RAKUBA, Sudan—The Um Rakuba refugee camp is filling again, stifling in the afternoon sun in eastern Sudan, and there are children everywhere. More than 51,000 Ethiopians have fled their country because of the military’s offensive in the restive region of Tigray, and more than 19,000 of them are here at Um Rakuba. Almost a third of the Ethiopian refugees are children, with at least 361 of them arriving unaccompanied, according to the United Nations refugee agency. Many of the unaccompanied children said they were separated from their families as they bolted from their homes in the middle of the night, trekking hours and days with nothing but the clothes on their backs to reach safety. “It is quite heartbreaking,” Filippo Grandi, the U.N. high commissioner for refugees, said in an interview in the Sudanese capital, Khartoum. “For an emergency that is relatively small in numbers, I have hardly seen such a high level of people separated from their families, many children separated.”

The food industry and academic studies (Food Dive) A new study published in the journal Plos One reported that in 2018, 13 percent of research articles published in the 10-most-cited nutrition academic journals were funded at least in part by the food industry. Of those funded by the industry, 56 percent reported favorable findings for the industry backing them financially, vastly higher than the 10 percent of articles that were not paid for by the food industry that reported industry favorable outcomes.

#headlines #news

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 5 years ago

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Without Question (12)

Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Content: the...walking dead? Like in a good way.

Warnings: …yes Steve!

Word Count: I wasn’t kidding when I said I want to live in a quiet town with my one cat and one dog and oh so fucking hopefully my lover. Lover! Wherefore art thou, lover? What seas must I cross to have ye look for stars in mine eyes and rest thy head in bosom? Huh, Lover?

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The peace that comes with the silence of the compound is not as comfortable as the residence had measured it would be in the past. The battles have been won. The deeds have been done. The ones who are lost have been mourned and the ones who have survived have walked past their guilt. The ones who keep the threads together now sit under the trees in the garden, looking into nothing, waiting for news- any news- that might stir them in some way that makes them figure out for themselves whether they're alive. But none comes in through the gate whatsoever.

Yet Natasha sits in the garden, her hands mingling with each other because they're not sure what else to do for now. She considers it a true miracle to have survived this much inactivity, still feeling herself jolt up in the seating under the tree when she sees Loki walk into the garden towards her.

"Any updates?" No one does it better than the Balck Widow bringing her composure to a still when required. Even Loki admires this of the redhead. You don't find such humans. You don't find such creatures anywhere for that matter who can replicate a perfectly functioning life form even when they’re broken to smithereens inside. Loki’s knows it all too well.

"I contacted Rocket and Danvers. The entire species has been annihilated throughout space. No sign of survivors. Even if there are," he mentions matter-of-factly, permitting himself to sit at a decent distance beside her, "they won't be enough to go about destroying planets."

She breathes. Her hands have paused the torture on each other, the fingers nearly running red from all the unwanted pressing and rubbing onto each other. Loki notices it too. Not that she’s trying to hide it.

“How is he?”

Natasha blinks, looking at the horizon- or maybe even further than that.

“He thinks it’s his fault,” she nearly croaks, “again. He thinks he could have stopped it. Even though he knows she would have still found a way. The fact that she turned to dust makes it worse.”

“And she did not want to lose any more of the love,” he mumbled in deep thought, making Natasha turn towards him.

He read her mind, she remembers the God’s ability before passing a soft smile. Loki sighs and looks out at the compound. The sunny weather with clearest of skies is bringing in birds on their road to migration, travelling by in perfect sync in the sky. The breeze carries with it the fresh and sweet scent of spring.

“I’m guessing he is keeping his promise?”

Natasha silently chuckles, the back of her index finger wiping something off the corner of her eye. “Yes,” she nods, turning to Loki with a tender smirk on her lips, “yes, he is.”

Both of them sit there for some more time, enjoying the silent yet fulfilling company, watching nature heal itself like it always does, while wondering what the future holds for them now.

The last bit of loose soil is patted by gloved hands into place. Untamed drops of sweat drip over the very ground, mixing in with the dirt before the hands break contact with the freshly prepared field, standing up to finally take a breather after a long day’s work.

The sun reflects sharply over Steve’s face as he watches the cherry blossom tree stand in its full glory right where it was always supposed to be. The breeze is already playmates with it in their playground, making it swing and dance under the bright yet soothing sun.

She’s beautiful. Steve chuckles to himself, if only so faintly in comparison.

“It’s stunning, I must say.”

Steve turns to find Loki standing a few feet away from him, admiring the little cherry blossoms tree, giving him a nod. “It is,” he acknowledges.

“How are you doing, Captain?”

Right to the concern. I like him. Steve gives a faint smile, removing his gloves, throwing them into the toolbox before keeping his hands on his hips. “I’m fine, Loki. What’re you doing here?”

Loki shrugs. “Just making sure you’re not wallowing in survivor’s guilt.”

Even though he is sharp and straight to the point- which pricks, really- Steve can’t help but find a shade of honest concern in his eyes. “As I said, I’m fine,” his words are nearly a whisper as he bends to gather the tools in the box, “and I’m sorry.”

Loki’s brows crinkle. “For what?”

Steve stands back up with the toolbox in his hand. “Sorry, there was no one when you were suffering through survivor’s guilt.”

The breeze passes between them, running an invisible hand through their hair, caressing their unspoken wounds and winding around their allyship, doing all that deemed it not necessary now to be spoken in words.

Steve walks back towards the house and a bark makes Loki turn to look in the direction of the forest. Stacie comes running through the wild field towards the God, barking her happy bark before coming to a halt at the tree, sniffing it to her heart’s content. He can hear a low whimper from her throat when she smells something familiar off the tree. Her paw scratches the trunk a little, her head snuggling with it for a few moments before coming to stand by Loki and sniff him.

“You miss her too,” he states, down on one knee to pet her, an involuntary smile finding its way on his lips. “I think she left you in charge of that one. Make sure he’s okay.”

Stacie huffs and wags her tail, happy to receive a scratch behind the ear when suddenly both she and Loki pause where they stand before standing in high alert.

Steve comes out with Stacie’s bowl and two beers, pausing at the porch on seeing both Loki and Stacie in defensive stances.

“What is it?” the Captain is curious now.

Loki is still looking at the forest while Stacie has started to growl. All he does is raise his hand for Steve to stop. “Stay here,” Loki declares before vanishing into a light of gold and green.

Steve, reasonably, is left shocked and confused, walking to Stacie’s side, who is growing agitated, jumping and barking at something in the direction of the forest that he cannot see.

“What is it, Stace?” he asks softly, not peeling his eyes from the trees in front of him till a brilliant streak of gold and green out of space has Loki standing in front of him with another figure supported by his left arm.

A gasp escapes Steve when he recognises the long dark hair and metal that bounces the light off its surface, finding it hard to believe what his eyes are seeing.

“Bucky!”

At first, it is a microscopic sensation which slowly turns into a coherent vibration. It is not comfortable until it is an unnecessary shiver running up and down your skin, forcing you to go into the fetal position. Still, the cold does not stop bothering you, gnawing at your skin, your flesh, every corner of your insides, even your heart.

Heart.

But it was not supposed to be cold in the void.

The shiver forces you to draw your limbs closer and makes you feel this unspoken rage at not being able to feel any heat.

Why?

Y/N.

I’m dead. I’m not supposed to feel cold.

Y/N?

Sleep. I am supposed to sleep now.

Y/N! Wake up!

No, let me sleep for a w-

“Y/N!”

A scream escapes your lungs at the jerk as your eyes jerk wide open at the sun way too bright for the shocked pupils before being blocked by a familiar face.

“Loki?”

You look at the God in question. Is he dead too?

“Yes,” he answers with a careful nod. “Can you get up?”

“Why?” As soon as the question escapes you, you know it does not make sense except for the fact that maybe your body just doesn’t want to. “Wait. Where are w-”

You stop yourself short when you notice the forest clearing- looking somewhat brighter and less murder-y under the spring sun.

“You’re home.”

Home.

But I was supposed to be…

“Oh no!” The sudden panic confuses Loki. “No no no! I am supposed to be dead!”

Loki tilts his head at you.

“I’m supposed to be dead! She promised she’ll bring Bucky back! Bucky’s the one who’s supposed to be alive.”

And suddenly it all makes sense. Love- makes us do the most outlandish things.

“I think we should go home,” he mentions gently, grabbing your full attention before inhaling a lungful and unclasping his cape, “and not to mention you are stark naked right in the middle of the forest, darling.”

You look down at your figure that is letting the sunlight dance all over it before feeling the heat rush to your cheeks as Loki covers you up.

“Oh.”

Natasha, Clint and Sam are already here as soon as Loki informs them of the news- never telling Steve they were already on their way to see how he was doing- not believing their eyes when they see Bucky sitting on your porch, taking in the sun and sounds like a newborn man. The hows and whats are set back for future interrogation, for right now, tight hugs and misty eyes take the room.

The smile on Steve’s face is incurable. How many people can say their best friend gets to live even after death. Twice! What more could he want?

His heart knows.

So does some mysterious force in the universe, testing his emotions, when another streak of gold and green rips the space apart by the cherry blossom to give place to Loki and you resting all your weight on the former, wrapped in green.

Everything stops.

Every sound is on mute, every change is on pause, every inch of his skin that the breeze touches is numb. Nothing is sensed in the way of him taking you in. The y/h/c hair strands float in the breeze while your eyes glimmer in the direct light, looking at Steve. Only Steve. The hitch in your breath gives him hope that you are real when he starts to walk towards you. The movement of your feet towards him raises it even more. The lone tear escaping your eye sets the truth in stone, forcing him to take two long steps to cover the distance and have you in his arms. “Y/N,” he nearly sobs your name, finally making it a reality for himself.

His arms. You wrap your arms around his torso as tightly as you can, breathing in the familiar scent. His scent. This is real. The heartbeat. The relieved breaths and deep kisses in your hair. Real. You are back. You are home.

“Steve,” your voice softly reverberated through each other’s existence, making them hold on to each other tighter, bringing everything that was on pause- majorly his entire life- back to normalcy.

His arms break the hold they have on you to take your face in them while yours try to keep the cape in place, something that doesn’t miss his eyes.

“Are you-” he lowers his broken voice when his eyes see it- “are you naked under there?”

You nod, smiling sheepishly through the tears. “I love you,” you don’t waste any time. Not this time, getting on your toes to get closer to his lips.

He reciprocates with a deep kiss, letting go of your jaw from one hand to secure his arm around your waist. His lips, soft and supple, tasting of apples and cinnamon, slowly turn a little rough to push his tongue through your chapped yet tender lips. His hand goes into your tousled hair to bring you closer when the tongues discover each other once again with a need to declare their love for each other, only letting go when there is no more room for air.

“I love you too,” Steve breathes as soon as your lips part, his calm ocean gazing directly into your eyes. “God,” he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on yours, never letting go of you- not this time- “I love you so much. Please don’t leave me like this. Ever.”

You chuckle, the tears never stopping. “I won’t,” you sniffle, “I promise.”

You wrap your arms- this time with the cape- around him, closing your eyes to rest your head on his chest.

Home.

“Not this time.”

The rest of the gang sits on the porch appreciating the relief you have brought them and their Captain and yet looking everywhere else with stretched smiles on their faces, holding a very excited Stacie in place.

“So, she’s the reason I’m alive?” a very curious Bucky asks the rest of the group.

“Yup,” Clint answers, opening the beer bottle Steve left on the ground, “she’s the one. The reason all of us are alive, I guess.”

“She’s the reason he’s alive,” Natasha hums, sharing a knowing look with Loki- who simpers in return, “again.”

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junqkook · 6 years ago

Text

— OCEANS OF GOLD (m.)

pairing; hoseok/reader words; 6,014 genre; greek gods au, smut, angst rating; explicit

— synopsis; he was like all that glittered, golden and intoxicating—and it only made you want more than what he could give.

contents; gods!au, bisexual!hoseok, public sex, unprotected sex (stay safe!), rough sex, creampie, cum play, dirty talk, strangers to sort of lovers, past character death, unrequited feelings, this is pretty vanilla tbh.

“You’re all getting assigned flowers,” your professor said, making everyone deflate. He held small pieces of paper in his hand, which he placed on the front table by the podium. “You’re all dismissed; take a paper and if you have any other questions about what to write your paper on, see me after class or in office hours. Have a great day, everyone.”

Students immediately began to pack up all of their stuff, shoving things into their backpacks and beginning to make their ways to the front to look for whatever they wanted or grabbing papers at random. You sighed, knowing you’d just have to settle for whatever was left; you were seated almost completely in the back of the lecture hall today.

Once you did manage to get to the front, shouldering your heavy backpack and trying not to wince at the complaints from your back, you looked between two of the papers and just grabbed the one on the right; you didn’t really care either way with what you got.

You opened the folded paper out in the hall, narrowly avoiding the students trying to get past you into the lecture room for whatever class was after yours. You could feel your phone buzzing in your pocket, but you ignored it in favor of squinting at the messy handwriting.

Hyacinth.

You’d never heard of it before, barely able to pronounce it. Just thinking about the amount of research you were going to have to do was already making your head hurt; you had no idea what this paper was even supposed to contain, which meant you had a long day filled with syllabus readings and guidelines to sift through.

When you’d gotten to your apartment, which you shared with another roommate, you stretched out and had a quick dinner before sitting down in front of your laptop and pulled up the syllabus and guidelines for the upcoming paper. Even just looking at the tiny font made your head throb, but you had to push through so you could take a well deserved nap.

Paper #2 Guidelines

Research the history of the flower assigned to you.

Create an intricate backstory to go along with the flower.

Story created must be backed up by research.

Be creative and have fun!

You furrowed your brows. Wait—was he expecting you to write out a short story with the research you gather about said flower? You shot your professor a quick email, asking if that was what was required for the paper, and then opened a Word document. You formatted your name with MLA requirements and quickly typed a quick “TITLE” at the top. You added “Hyacinth” as a new paragraph, needing to triple check that you spelled it right so you didn’t mess up when you were doing research.

Your eyelids drooped and you realized how tired you were, after a long grueling day of classes and lectures and assignments. You yawned and exited your newly opened tab, saving your progress—which was still only your name, your professor’s name, the date it was due, and title written in all capital letters at the top—before shutting off your laptop. Your research could wait; you had another two weeks to complete it, after all.

Deciding to get a head start on your paper, you’d gone out to look for any area of greenery and ended up finding a beautiful meadow. It was filled with flowers, the sun shining down on it just right, and you were in awe as you walked around, feeling the flowers caress your skin and the grass tickle your ankles. You’d researched the flower, finding an interesting story of Greek mythology tied to it.

Walking around the field, you could almost feel love and pain radiating from the Earth underneath your feet. Almost drunk with the odd atmosphere kissing your skin, you slipped your shoes and socks off and let the grassy dirt cool your heels and toes. You’d never particularly craved the touch of nature, but as you stood in this beautiful field, all alone, you had never felt so close to the heart of the Earth itself.

“How did you find this place?” a voice asked, startling you and making you jump as you turned to face them.

A man with hair a color that you couldn’t exactly pinpoint was staring back at you, brown eyes wide and shocked. The sunlight seemed to dissolve into his skin, and he looked like he was glowing, radiating that light back out into the world. You squinted, eyes burning at how brightly he shone. The sun bounced back from his hair, making it seem like every color you could think of.

“Who are you?” you questioned back.

He sputtered for a second, face twisting with rage. Then it disappeared, and you weren’t sure if you’d seen correctly or if the sunlight was messing with you. “I won’t ask again. How did you find this place?” His tone was harsh, something simmering right underneath and shaking your core, your heart picking up speed.

Instead of answering him, you grabbed your shoes, socks stuffed inside of them, and ran back the way you came, opposite of where he was standing—he almost seemed to appear out of nowhere. You weren’t sure why, but every instinct inside of you was telling you to get away from him and hope you would never see him again. You could hear him shouting at you, but his voice was faint and continued to fade until you couldn’t hear his voice anymore and that was when you slowed to a stop, slipping on your shoes quickly and breathing hard. Your cheeks were flushed and your heart hammering against your ribcage as you walked the remaining way back to the edge of the forest and into civilization again.

The entire way home, you couldn’t get his face out of your mind; his oddly colored hair, brown almost golden eyes, warm skin, and the way your body had seemed to almost be pulling toward him. It scared you, the way his presence attempted to suck you in, and your body fought against it, kicking into fight or flight mode. You were glad he didn’t decide to pursue you as you began your trek back to your shared apartment.

You squinted at your computer screen, the light starting to make your eyes cross. You’d been staring at it for what felt like forever, hours wasted away on trying to put a complete creative spin on the Hyacinth flower’s history. There was no way you were going to be able to get even halfway through the stupid paper; your mind was a complete blank.

After turning your laptop off and snuggling into your bed, you laid awake for another half hour, the man you’d seen in that field invading your every thought. “Come on,” you whimpered quietly. “Fall asleep.” You turned onto your side, shutting your eyes and evening out your breathing; still, your brain was a constant whirring of brown eyes, flowers, and bright hair.

You swore and sat up, groaning and kicking your feet in frustration. Your roommate banged on the wall and you jumped, sending her quietly muttered apologies that she wouldn’t hear. You sighed, resigned, and grabbed your bag and phone, slipping on some pants and a hoodie.

Making your way to the door, you slipped your shoes on and made your way out of the apartment, locking the door behind you.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered to yourself, teeth chattering. There was a chill in the air and you could see your breath in front of you as you trudged through the thicket of the forest, trying to find that meadow again.

You’d been walking for probably half an hour when you realized that you were truly an idiot; not only could you not find the meadow, but you’d been so caught up on the memory of it and the man you’d seen that you had forgotten to mark your way so you could find your exit.

You swore under your breath and felt tears of frustration well up in your eyes while you turned in circles, lost between the dark forestry. “Need some help?” a voice chirped from behind you. Yelping, you turned and saw him—the same man from before.

“It’s you!” you cried out, teeth chattering painfully against each other as you pointed your finger at him.

A small smirk quirked up his lips and you marveled at the sight of him; there was still a faint glow emanating from his skin, even in the middle of the night. “Were you looking for me?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied immediately, not even blinking an eyelash. “Um, not only you, but—the meadow, too.”

His eyes hardened and he strode forward until he was standing only a mere few feet in front of you. “How did you find that place?” he muttered darkly, your ears straining to hear his voice.

“I don’t know,” you told him truthfully. “I just ended up there.”

“No one should’ve been able to find it,” he warned. “It’s not for humans.”

Everything in your body was on high alert, alarm bells going off in your head. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body and though he appeared to be furious, though he looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to tear you into pieces—something about his eyes were… kind.

“What do you mean by that?” you whispered, too scared to speak any louder.

He huffed and turned to look to the side, running a hand through his multi-colored hair—in the night sky it appeared to be a mix between blonde and brown, shifting between the two colors fluidly enough that your mind could barely comprehend how a color like that could exist.

“I don’t know how you found the meadow,” he muttered. “But you shouldn’t go where you don’t belong, mortal.”

Your eye twitched and you stood up straighter, puffing out your chest a little bit. “I can go wherever I want.”

His smirk was not kind, then.

The faux confidence you’d had shriveled up inside of your chest until it was gone, leaving you to face the consequences of said false bravado. “Or not.” you said lightly.

“That meadow,” he told you, voice dark and eyes darker, “does not belong to you. You won’t find it again—go home and don’t come back, little human.”

Your cheeks puffed out as your lips pulled into a pout and the man turned on his heel, beginning to walk away from you. “Does it belong to you, then?” you yelled at his retreating back.

He stopped walking, facing you again. Your eyes were wide as you took in the expression on his face, lips pulled into a soft smile and eyes swimming with something that wrenched your gut out of its place inside you at the sight.

“No,” he responded, voice quiet and pained. You had no idea how you could still hear him, since it was bordering on a whisper. “No, it doesn’t.”

When you blinked, he was gone, fading before your eyes into the wind.

You probably should have listened to the man, but two days had passed and you found yourself trudging through the same forest, looking for the now familiar head of oddly colored hair and meadow. When you’d gone home after the encounter, the trail back to civilization had been lit up, shining a path for you in the grass so you could find your way out of the forest.

You had an idea of who he was and you were sure that you were crazy. He was crazy—but you were definitely crazy. Your paper remained untouched, sitting in your drafts awaiting your creativity. Sure that the man was the key to an amazing paper and a bump up in your grade, you were determined to find him.

Plus, you could still feel the odd sensations that the meadow had given you from that first day and you craved the feel of the Earth that you knew only the dirt there could give to you.

The more you remembered the man and the nature in the meadow, the warmer the air around you felt. Soon you were walking with purpose, as if your body just knew where to take you. You focused your thoughts on the man from before and pictured how the meadow had felt, closing your eyes and letting your body lead you by some kind of primal instinct that you didn’t know you had.

When you opened your eyes, it was to the familiar sight of the meadow you’d stumbled across days ago. A wide smile tugged at your lips and you let out a breathy laugh before something caught your eye—there he was. He was sitting in the middle of the field, the grass swaying with a light breeze and caressing his legs as he looked up to the bright blue sky.

You approached him warily, sure that he knew you were there.

“You found it,” he mumbled, still not turning to look at you and keeping his brown eyes on the clouds above.

“You’re the god Apollo,” you stated, heart hammering into your ribcage and hands shaking beside you.

He sighed loudly and finally turned to meet your eyes, the jolt going through your body at the sight of his pained expression. It’s odd, you thought to yourself as he watched you silently. He’s the god of light, but he so seldom looks happy.

“I am,” he finally, finally, conceded. He motioned for you to sit beside him and you did, gazing up at him in wonder; you weren’t exactly skeptical after all the research you’d done and seeing him disappear into nothing before your eyes. What else could he be? You opened your mouth to say something, but his gaze suddenly hardened and your body froze as he leaned closer to you. “How did you find this place again?”

You didn’t answer, not really sure yourself.

“I told you to stay away from where you don’t belong, mortal,” he growled, grabbing your wrist in his hand. It scalded your skin and you yelped, attempting to pull away from him. He didn’t let go.

“Answer me,” he said lowly. “How did you come to find this meadow again?”

“I don’t know!” you cried, ripping your wrist from his grasp. “I just thought about it and when I opened my eyes, I was here!”

“You were led?” he asked, though it was quiet and you were sure he was asking himself more than he was asking you. “But why would he bring you here?”

“He?” you muttered, rubbing at the red skin of your wrist. “I came by myself.”

The god muttered to himself, looking around and then picking something from between the grass. When he lifted it up toward your face, you reared back and then your eyes widened, mouth sputtering open. “Did you just pick a hyacinth?” At his nod, you furrowed your brows. “But that’s—those don’t grow here!”

He brought it to your arm, dragging the flower across the skin where he’d touched you. Coolness slipped into your skin and spread through the rest of your arm, the pain fizzling away into nothing. He set the flower down into your lap and the same feeling spread into your legs until you were consumed by it—not only that, but a different feeling. Your eyes welled with tears.

“What happened here?” you whispered, blinking away the tears. “How come I can—why does it feel so sad?”

Apollo’s eyes widened and he turned away from you, mouth twisting unpleasantly. “He did lead you here. But why?”

“Apollo, who—”

“Hyacinth!” he shouted, his own eyes filling with tears. You reared back, surprised at the outburst. “If you can feel it—feel him—then he’s the reason you found this place.”

You gnawed on your bottom lip before speaking again, picking up the flower and rolling the stem between your fingers. “I feel—the Earth here, it feels different.”

“That’s because this isn’t exactly in your city.”

“What?!”

“I made this meadow,” he said quietly. “I made it when he died—when he was killed. It is everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. It hovers between space, always changing places but never changing itself.”

“Killed?” you sputtered, ignoring the weird godly magic aspect of the meadow. “I thought it was just an accident what—what happened to him.” He still refused to really look at you. “What I read said that it was an accident.”

“It was no accident,” he mumbled lowly. “Hyacinth—he’s dead because of Zephyrus’s jealousy.”

“What happened?” you repeated, scooting closer to him.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and you felt more exposed the longer his eyes remained on you. Finally, he broke the silence that was threatening to eat you alive as you waited for his response. “Since he approves of you, somehow, you may call me by another name.”

“You have another name?”

“I have many,” he replied. “Call me Hoseok.”

Your lips twitched up into a smile. “Okay, Hoseok,” you started. “Why does the Earth here feel so full of—of pure love but also—”

“Death?” he snorted.

“Pain,” you said quietly.

Hoseok was startled, facing you with an unguarded gaze. His golden skin was still as radiant as it had been the other two times you saw him and you knew now that it was just as warm to the touch—you wondered if his body temperature changed with his moods. Earlier, he’d been angry and it had felt like the sun itself was enclosed around your flesh.

“It’s odd,” he murmured, leaning in even closer to you. You could feel his breath on your face and your cheeks heated at the proximity, but you didn’t move away from him. “You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not that unique,” you squeaked, blinking rapidly.

“No, your—it’s your soul,” he whispered, nose brushing against yours. “Your soul is bright and the meadow senses it.”

You were heady, eyes darting down to his lips, which were oh so close to your own. You didn’t know what to say, mind a fuzzy blank as you watched him shift even closer.

“Can I try something?” he asked quietly, lips barely grazing against yours with every word. You nodded your head in response, not trusting your voice.

He pressed his lips to yours gently and it was like every nerve inside your body was on fire, your blood turning into liquid gold moving throughout your veins.

You gasped into the kiss and Hoseok slipped his tongue into your mouth, pressing it against yours as you moaned. He brought his hands gently to your shoulders and nudged you down onto your back on the grass. The hyacinth’s stem was burning your fingers, your skin tingling with sparks wherever the grass touched it. Hoseok shifted and placed himself atop you, one hand coming to intertwine with yours.

He kissed you for only another moment before he pulled back, an audible catch in his breath making you open your eyes. You looked up at him through bleary eyes, the sensations running along your flesh too intense but also not enough. You couldn’t reconcile the feelings mixing inside of you, telling to you both pull away and pull closer.

Hoseok was crying.

Your eyes widened in alarm at the sight of his unshed tears, swimming in his beautifully brown eyes. They were wide as they looked down at you where you were buzzing with absolute—absolute something. Your body calmed down the longer he stared and then he blinked his eyes furiously before sitting back farther onto his knees, his weight no longer pressing you deeper into the Earth and the odd sensations slipping out from your flesh and back down into the dirt.

“What is it?” you whispered, one hand still enclosed within his.

“It’s—I thought, for a moment, I thought I saw—” He cut himself off, laughing quietly under his breath and looking away from you for a moment as he shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

The tears slipping down to his chin and dripping down into the grass spoke a different tale, one you were sure was filled with heartache and a purity of the souls. The meadow seemed to vibrate underneath the two of you as his tears landed on the dirt and you were alarmed, pulling your hand out from his grasp.

He sighed deeply. “You should go,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around his knees as he shifted to face the sky once more. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find your way here again.”

You bit your swollen lip and lifted yourself to your feet, your curiosity wrapping around your brain tightly. He didn’t move, watching the sky as if it held all the answers he sought—and maybe, for a god, it did.

You started to go see Hoseok every day, slipping into the forestry after all of your classes had finished and letting your body lead you to the meadow while your eyes were closed—you found out very quickly that if you kept them open, you couldn’t find it.

It didn’t take long for Hoseok to warm up to you—pun intended—and only days before your paper was due, you sat beside him in the meadow, a question on the tip of your tongue.

“Will you tell me what happened?” you whispered, sitting beside the god and trying to ignore the urge to nervously pick at the grass.

“It is not a happy story, sweet one,” he replied softly, turning his liquid brown eyes to your face. He studied your expression and must have seen something familiar in it.

“I need to know,” you told him.

He stared at you for a few silent moments before sighing and wrapping an arm around you. He pulled you into his side and you rested your head on his shoulder, slipping a hand onto his warm thigh as he laid the two of you back onto the soft grass.

“It was a very long time ago,” he murmured, his fingers caressing the skin of your arm soothingly. You didn’t know if he was doing it to soothe you or himself. “I had a lover—his name was Hyacinth. He was—he was one of a kind.”

Hoseok’s voice was so pained, barely coming out, that you felt guilty for asking. But you needed to know what happened to Hyacinth—and what had happened to make Apollo, the god of light and music and healing, so crushed by guilt that it consumed him, eating at his core.

“You loved him more than anything, didn’t you?” you asked gently.

“Yes,” Hoseok breathed, fingers stilling on your arm for a few seconds before returning to their caressing. “He was very precious to me. I would give anything to have just—just one more moment with him.”

You bit your lip, biting back the urge to ask if he’d give you, too; you knew the answer. “So what happened?”

“We were in a field, much like this one,” he continued. “It was a beautiful day out and we were throwing our discuses to spend some time together before I was off. He wanted to impress me and he—he ran after the discus I threw to catch it and he—” Hoseok cut himself off with a shuddered breath. You didn’t dare look up at his face, wanting to give him some privacy as he grieved for his former lover. “The wind changed as it was soaring and the discus—my discus—struck him down.”

Your eyes widened and you clutched the fabric of his shirt in your hands. “That’s not your fault!”

“No,” he muttered. “Most of the blame lies at Zephyrus’s feet.”

“Who is he?” you whispered into his chest.

“The West Wind. He was jealous that my Hyacinth preferred me over him. It angered him to see us so happy together and he wanted to take it from me.” You could feel Hoseok’s form trembling underneath your fingers and cheek. “He took Hyacinth away from me.”

“Wasn’t he reincarnated then?” you piped up, finally angling your face so you could better see Hoseok’s face.

“No,” the god replied, mouth turning down into a frown. He spread his free hand down to the grass, shifting the blades between his long fingers. “I didn’t let Hades claim him. His blood, splattered onto the grassy plains, I turned into the hyacinth flower; I gathered his soul from his mortal body and spread it into the meadow we sit in right now.”

You were slightly alarmed. You sat up, looking down at Hoseok’s pained face from above. “Is that why I felt those emotions when I came here?”

Hoseok sighed. “Most probably; no one has ever found the meadow before you.”

You pouted your lips out as you thought. “But why would I be the only one to find it? I don’t have any real connections with this history.”

Hoseok sighed loudly and sat up. “I’m not sure. But what I do know is that your soul—it is very similar to that of Hyacinth’s. It is likely that the close resembling of your souls led you here and allows you to feel the Earth as I do.”

You gave him a watery smile as a burst of sudden love gripped your limbs. Your heart squeezed in your chest, as if the pain of losing a lover was seeping into your flesh from the ground beneath you, and you wondered how he hadn’t destroyed himself or gone mad if this was even a fraction of what he felt every day, missing Hyacinth and wishing he were beside him.

Hoseok’s face was close to your own and he pressed his mouth against yours in a quick peck before pulling back. “You remind me of him,” he whispered brokenly, resting his forehead against yours. You ignored your own heart, beating painfully against your chest, and shut your eyes, letting the tears slide down your cheeks. “Having you is like having part of him, again.”

Your heart broke, but you reached up and held the god’s face in your shaking hands. Your own attachment to the radiant god before you was growing with each passing second, and if you could lessen even the smallest bit of his pain, you reveled in it.

“Use me,” you whispered back to him, finally blinking your eyes open.

His own were staring at you, shocked and hungry for another taste. “What?”

You took in a shaky breath, voice trembling as you explained, dragging your hands down to his neck, to his shoulders. “Use me. Let me help you ease the pain.”

It was silent for only a heartbeat before he lunged at you, pushing you down onto your back while his mouth pressed hotly onto yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he dragged a hand down to your thigh, lifting it and helping you wrap your legs tightly around his hips. He ground them down into you and you groaned, moving your head to the side to breathe. He pressed soft kisses down to your neck, continuing to rut his hips into yours and making the both of you shiver.

You fluttered your eyes open, your body burning up with the most beautiful feeling you’d ever experienced. Hoseok shoved your pants and underwear down, ripping them easily when you didn’t dislodge your legs from his hips, and you didn’t care. Your eyes rolled back and you arched your back into him while he slid two of his fingers up and down your folds.

“Does that feel good?” he murmured, yanking your arm away from his neck and pinning it down to the grass. With a flick of his fingers, you squeaked when they shoved all the way inside of you. You could feel your own slick sliding down your thighs and toward the dirt and your cheeks flushed as he rubbed his fingers inside your walls, looking for your sweet spot.

His hand around your wrist was like an iron bracelet, burning into your flesh, but it didn’t hurt. It only increased your pleasure, spikes of ecstasy racing through your veins when his fingers finally pressed into your sweet spot, making you cry out. The pads of his fingers started to rise in temperature as they held against your g-spot, and you moaned loudly as a new sensation took over—it made you heady, your walls clenching around his fingers and your hips rocking into his hand as he pressed his palm into your clit and dug down hard.

“No coming, not just yet,” he whispered, pulling his fingers away. Your abdomen was swimming with pleasure, an ache building between your thighs as he started to push his own pants down to pull out his dick. Your mouth watered at the sight, legs tightening around him to show your eagerness.

“Please, I want it inside,” you pleaded with him, enjoying that dark look in his eyes when he licked his lips and pumped it in his own hand a few times. You could see it shining with your slick from where his fingers had been inside you.

“And you’ll have it,” he purred, leaning over you and using his hands to drag your hips higher onto his lap. He grabbed the base of his dick and guided himself to your entrance, nudging the head against your folds a few times and wetting it with your slick. You whimpered and threw your head back, rocking your hips as the head bumped your clit a few times.

Then he surged forward and buried himself completely inside of you in one stroke. You let out a strangled moan, your body overheating and writhing underneath him as he rolled his hips gently to let you adjust. Every movement had tendrils of pleasure running up your spine, the meadow’s touch against your skin relaxing your body and making everything painless.

“Move, please, I want you to fuck me,” you moaned breathlessly, rocking up your hips and clenching around him.

“Your pussy is so tight,” he grunted, pulling out almost all the way and shoving himself back in as hard as he could. Your body inched upward with each thrust, his dick nestled inside you perfectly and making your breath hitch. You opened your eyes and looked up at the bright blue sky as he thrust his dick in and out of you, the sight and feel leaving you almost delirious. You wanted more.

You grabbed one of his hands from where it lay on your hip, intertwining your fingers and whimpering as the touch of his palm on yours seeped love into your flesh. You knew—you knew—that the love wasn’t for you, but for Hyacinth, and you didn’t care. Your body was drunk on the tightness in your chest, the tears building in your eyes, and you let your lips tug up into a content smile as he drilled his dick into you.

“Am I making this pussy feel good?” he moaned, squeezing your hand in his and releasing some of the pressure. You felt something else seep into your skin, a hint of guilt, and you clenched around him tightly. He groaned loudly and it fled your skin, leaving your blood swimming with love in your veins. “Are you this hungry for my cock?” he asked again, towering over you more and bringing your hips up with him into a new angle where his dick slipped in deeper and hit your sweet spot with nearly every thrust.

“Yes!” you shouted, blearily blinking your eyes as the pressure in your abdomen built up, your swollen clit begging to be touched. You slipped your free hand down between your bodies and rubbed circles into it hard, chasing your high. “Your cock is filling me so good, I want more, please, Hoseok, please—”

He swore under his breath and snapped his hips into yours harder, faster, bringing his face to yours and resting your foreheads together. “You’ll be filled soon enough, sweet one,” he mumbled, panting into your own breaths as he, too, chased his own orgasm.

You came hard, white spots flashing in your vision as he rolled his hips into you, clenching tight around his dick as it continued its merciless pace inside of you. You rode out your high with Hoseok thrusting in and out, and you shuddered as your stomach filled with anticipation.

A few more strokes had him spurting his come inside of you, fucking his seed into you as it streaked your walls. He stilled inside of you as he finished, rolling his hips to grind against you. You hissed at the overstimulation, but everywhere the two of you were joined only increased your pleasure tenfold, the meadow aiding in the sensations slipping into your bones.

He pulled out of you slowly, watching his own come drip out of you and onto the grass of the meadow. Everything seemed brighter when you fluttered your eyelids, exhaustion gripping your body. Hoseok gathered some of the come slipping out of you onto his fingers and then pushed it back inside, making you keen lightly.

He pulled his fingers away and then his hands were on your face, brushing your hair from it. You smiled shakily at him, body trembling with all of the overwhelming sensations seeping into it as you watched the god look down at you gently.

“Sleep,” he murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Let yourself rest.”

And you did.

When you’d woken up, he had been gone. There was no trace of him in your sights and you had sat up to find yourself in the middle of the forest, the Earth completely normal as it had always been.

Your heart had lodged itself in your throat and you had gotten up on shaky feet, feeling the only trace of him slip out of you and onto your thighs. You’d clenched tight, trying to keep it from slipping out even more and dirtying you more than you already were.

You cried the entire way back to your apartment, not acknowledging your roommate and immediately going to the bathroom to take a shower. As you had cleaned yourself, the last traces of the meadow’s sensations had slipped away with the water, swirling out of your body and down the drain.

At least you’d finally figured out what to write for your paper.

You worked on it tirelessly, using your research and experience to fuel your story of a god and his lover and their tragic tale through time. You wrote about Apollo’s bond with Hyacinth, how the flower had come to be from his spilt blood, and how the god’s tears for his dead lover would never cease, creating a space in the Earth so powerful it moved anyone who would ever be lucky enough to see it.

After submitting your paper and receiving your marks on it a week later, you were gleeful once again at the sight of the ‘A’ at the back. You were proud of yourself, not only for being able to get such a high grade, but also for finding the meadow and being able to meet Apollo when you had—and for hopefully helping to ease his pain even a little bit.

You were too scared to go out looking for the meadow again, something in your gut telling you that you had served your purpose and that you wouldn’t be able to find it again. You would never be completely sure unless you tried, but you refused to go near the forestry again, unsure of what you’d do if you didn’t find the meadow again—or worse, if you did.

You just hoped that the now warmer weather and brighter sky were an indication that you’d helped the god of light get his own light back.

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