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aparticularbandit · 2 years ago

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The Thrall of Magic V - Time Unmeasured

Chapter Summary: Wanda didn’t know what she was doing. It seems impossible – how could a witch, any witch, cast spells of such complicated magnitude and not know they’d done it, not know their effects, not realize—

Well, and that’s the thing of it, too, isn’t it? Something within Wanda had realized. The realization – the fear of what she might be possibly doing to Agnes – made her check. Made her make sure. Which suggests that if Agatha hadn’t been here at all, hadn’t allowed the little witch to place her hands on the small of her waist, hadn’t leaned in to her lack of subtlety, Wanda would never have noticed at all. And, in truth, she still hasn’t fully realized the extent of what she’s doing. She knew she might be hurting Agnes, and that’s…that’s it.

This isn’t how magic works.

Nothing. adds. up.

This isn’t magic, this is wish fulfillment, and magic doesn’t give anyone wish fulfillment; it certainly never has for Agatha, not in the centuries she’s spent dedicated to it, checking every cost and every spell before casting it, and when she used magic she didn’t know, it didn’t come with a world full of everything she ever wanted but with a world devoid of it.

It isn’t—

companion piece to Kisses Through The Decades

Agatha Harkness/Wanda Maximoff Chapter Rating: M for sexual content Fic Rating: M for dark themes and sexual content

AO3

previous chapter / next chapter

She doesn’t want to stop kissing Wanda’s skin.

It’s a small thing, really, not entirely divorced from the way magic ripples through her, aftershocks of what they have done quivering, throbbing through her, and yet still vibrating against Agatha’s lips as they press against the younger witch’s skin. But it’s more than that: you see, Agatha knows a thing or two about scars and the insecurity of having them, of having other people see them, and she kisses gentle along each that she finds.

(She could never have kept Wanda’s fingers from brushing against her own, not with the intimacy of the past several moments, but she could have kept her from seeing them, could have kept the shirt on the entire time, could have kept the lights out, could have kept herself hidden, other than the sharp hisses of pain whenever she just touched them. Wanda has not kissed her scars, has not even tried, but this fact does not bother her. She’d rather Wanda didn’t touch them at all.)

Wanda laughs when Agatha’s lips find the stretchmarks newly etched into her skin, and her laughter makes her belly shake, and the shaking causes Agatha to grin against one mark before kissing another again. Then she curves upwards, brushes her lips along the curves of Wanda’s ribs, and Wanda laughs again, twists beneath her. “Stop!”

Agatha does as requested and scoots up, crosses her arms on Wanda’s stomach, and rests her chin atop them. “You’re ticklish.” A wry grin spreads across her lips.

“No—”

But before Wanda can even finish speaking, Agatha traces her fingertips along her skin, that barest sort of touch that tickles more than any wiggling fingers can, and when Wanda starts to writhe beneath her, she begins to kiss around her bellybutton, edging her way up past the curve of her breasts, fingers skimming along her ribs to her hips so that she can angle herself up, kiss further up Wanda’s neck, and then catch her lips just as she gasps. Wanda’s fingers interlace with hers and drag her hand back to her waist as she curves into her; Agatha circles her thumb on her skin, and Wanda gasps again against her lips.

I love you.

The thought flickers in and out of her mind so quickly that Agatha could be convinced that she never thought it at all, but she won’t lie to herself like that. It means nothing. Her love is cheap, provided she isn’t speaking of magic itself, and the thought has often flickered through her mind with other, equally lesser people – women, men, both and neither together; she stopped being particularly picky sometime in the 17th century. There is always something about someone else to love; it comes to no surprise that she should think it now, with Wanda.

“Agnes?” Wanda whispers the name against her lips, brushes her nose against hers, wraps one leg around hers. “Don’t stop.” She shifts, nibbles on her earlobe. “I don’t want you to stop.” Her lips find the sensitive skin just next to her ear, and she draws it between her teeth, starts to suck on it gently.

Agatha’s eyes flutter closed. She lets out a low moan as Wanda sucks harder, as Wanda’s fingers push through her hair, as her lips trail down Agatha’s neck along the same path Agatha’s just traced up hers. Wanda squeezes her hand before releasing it, before placing her other hand on Agatha’s hip and pressing, gently guiding her to twist, to shift, so that when Wanda bites on her collarbone, she lies atop Agatha, not the other way around.

“Wanda, hon—” Agatha starts to say, a hiss seeping through her lips as she presses too hard against her back, as she shifts to relieve it. “Don’t—” She hesitates, then strokes her forefinger gentle up and down Wanda’s spine. “Please, dear.” Her hand curls at the nape of Wanda’s neck and gently guides her up. Then she locks eyes with her, catches the gentle curve of Wanda’s lips, and offers her a small smile of her own. “Please.”

At her words, Wanda stops, collapses almost atop her, resting her head on her chest. She runs one finger in circles on Agatha’s skin. “I just want to stay like this,” she murmurs, unable to lift her eyes. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To stay here, like this, with you?”

There is no longer any script, so Agatha cannot guess at the answer that Wanda truly desires. Left to her own devices, she would assume the little witch wants her to say no, it wouldn’t be so bad, and that they can stay like this for as long as she needs. That would be the easiest answer to give.

But that isn’t what she says.

“Is that truly what you want, dear?” Agatha asks, still slowly stroking her finger up and down Wanda’s spine. “No husband, no kids, just you and me and the whole wide world?”

Wanda doesn’t say anything at first, only curls closer against Agatha’s chest. She wraps her arms around her waist, where they’re always meant to be, and draws herself tighter against her. “I don’t know,” she whispers finally, so soft that Agatha isn’t sure she’s heard her at all. “I don’t know what I want.” Her brow furrows. “That’s what makes everything so hard.” She licks her lips, presses them together, and then asks, glancing up at Agatha, “What do you want, Agnes?”

For a moment, Agatha is silent because, for once, that near constant thrum of I want you that she’s found lingers even without Wanda’s casting has grown quiet. She can examine that thought in the light of truly having Wanda – in one form, anyway, although the little witch herself has suggested in so many words that she could have her in others as well – and finds that desire hasn’t changed, hasn’t lessened by being appeased.

There’s no taming this—

She’s not thinking about that, no matter how true it might be.

If anything, Agatha needs to compare that desire with the reason she came here in the first place – to figure out how Wanda cast these spells, how she is maintaining them, how she didn’t immediately crumple under the immense pressure of it all – combined, now, with the question of how Wanda could craft such an intricate protection spell as the one she cast over Agatha without every putting words to it. She wants to know the spells used and how they are used in conjunction so that she can craft them herself; she can stare at the tapestry of them woven together as much as she wants, but that doesn’t mean she has the words – the incantations – to recreate them. Even if she did, what Wanda has done is so broken that she can’t mimic it precisely. No, she would have to go through each spell and search it for what the other witch did wrong so that she can fix it—

“I want to go home,” Agatha says finally, as she strokes idly through Wanda’s hair. “I want to go home, and I want to take you with me, dear.” One corner of her lips crooks upward as she glances, near fond, down at the little witch. “If that wouldn’t bother you too much.”

Wanda glances up, meets Agatha’s eyes, and then relaxes, smiles. “That sounds nice.” But almost as soon as the words pass through her lips, her brow furrows, and she tenses up again. “But I can’t…I can’t do that.” She tucks strands of hair back behind her ear, dropping her gaze. “I could let you out, though,” she murmurs. “I could…I could do that. If you really want to leave.”

As she speaks, Agatha bends down and kisses her forehead, silencing her. When Wanda glances up, she meets her eyes, lets her search hers. “I’m staying right here, hon. I’m not going anywhere.”

Wanda traces careful between the scars lining Agatha’s back, and Agatha does her best not to flinch when she draws too close to nerves that have been raw for over three hundred years, severed by punishments that were nothing but common at the time and which didn’t always have the same startling effect they had on her, all thick and ragged and debilitating. The minor spells help; they don’t help much. More like a band-aid to ebb a staunchly bleeding wound, as opposed to the sorcery that would make it as though they are not there at all. But she can’t – won’t – ask Wanda to stop running her fingers up and down her back, not when she’s being so intentional to not touch the scars at all. She’s making an effort, and in the future – with the spells intact – it won’t matter at all.

“Thank you, dear,” Agatha murmurs anyway, curving just enough to kiss Wanda’s cheek, “for being gentle with me.”

At her words, Wanda pauses, fingers stilling at a particularly uncomfortable spot, though Agatha refuses to address it, to shift beneath the discomfort. “Was I?” she asks, and one finger moves to run along her collarbone and just under it, where bruised bite marks remain.

“Gentle as a kitten.”

This time, when Agatha tries to meet her eyes, Wanda averts her gaze, brow furrowing, lips pursing together. Agatha follows her dropped gaze to the wedding ring still shining bright around her finger. “Hon—”

“I…I think I’m going to make some tea.” Wanda shifts away from Agatha but doesn’t move far, stopping herself just on the edge of the mattress. Her ankles cross together, and the sheets crumple under her clenched hands. “Do you want anything?”

It’s an instinct, the purest form of it, when Agatha curls against her again and wraps her arms gentle around the small of Wanda’s waist. “It’s okay, hon,” she says. “You don’t have to—”

“Do you want anything?” Wanda repeats, voice hushed through gritted teeth. Her knuckles grow white.

It would be improper to reply with you, although the thought flicker brief through Agatha’s mind before being squashed. Instead, she curves up, kisses the crest of Wanda’s left shoulder blade, and murmurs, “I’ll take whatever you’re having, dear.”

“Okay.”

The sheets drop from around Wanda as she stands, and Agatha’s eyes linger on the elegant slope of her spine, on the thin whispering of white lines here and there, on the scars she barely felt and has yet to kiss. She aches to step closer and draw the girl back into her arms, to hold her still, here, where she can be comforted. But she doesn’t do that, and when Wanda picks up her shirt off the floor and mentions how it’s still warm, she says, easy as anything, “Put it on, dear. You’re shivering.”

Would you light my candle?

Wanda tugs the shirt over her head and wraps her arms around herself. From here, Agatha can finally read the top line about the wicked witch of the west, and she would roll her eyes at the blatant prodding magic made, as always, dropping signs and notes that should make things obvious to anyone who pays attention, except that no one pays attention to the signs it leaves behind, and if she rolls her eyes now, Wanda will think it’s about her, when it’s not.

Mostly.

“Thank you,” Wanda says with a final shiver. She rubs her arms, and the glint of her wedding ring catches fire in the bald light. “I’ll, um. I’ll be right back.”

Agatha stares after her, nods, and then says, “I’ll be right here, doll. Waiting for your return.”

Once Wanda is gone, though, Agatha stretches back on her bed, mussing her hair, and stares up at the ceiling. Out of habit or instinct or some combination thereof, she reaches out for the threads of magic that run through everything; checks in on the video feeds and finds them full of nothing but static, which should make her smile but only draws her concern; and then strokes one finger along what magic allows her to touch, only smiling when it quivers beneath her. What was that, hm? she asks, as if it would ever deign to answer her. What was that?

Magic doesn’t answer. It never does, not in so many words. If her heart was full of anger, it would attempt to soothe, and if she was panicking, it would attempt to calm, and if she was sad, it would attempt to comfort, but her emotions are not so straightforward right now. She’s content, and there’s no way of magic to respond, other than to curl up, safe, like a kitten, just on the center of her chest, warm and purring, as she continues to stroke its unmarred back.

For all intents and purposes, this is how Agatha should stay while Wanda makes tea, or she should use this free time separated from her to place the sorcerous spells back at their full strength so that her scars no longer hurt her, but she does neither of these things. The spells take longer to prepare than the time spent on making tea, first of all, and the other is—

Well. Wanda takes longer to make tea than she should, and eventually, curious as she always is, Agatha creeps out of bed, wrapped in her sheets, and makes her way to the stairwell. From the top of the stairs, she can hear the silence spiked through with the sound of rushing water. One brow raises. It takes until she is just outside the kitchen before she catches sight of Wanda inside, standing in front of the sink, calmly washing her dishes. Now both brows shoot up, but she doesn’t say anything. Just stares for a few moments and then just as quietly makes her way back upstairs.

Agatha collapses back onto the bed, sheets splayed out around her, and curls a ragged wave of hair around one finger as she considers what she’s learned and its implications.

Wanda didn’t know what she was doing. It seems impossible – how could a witch, any witch, cast spells of such complicated magnitude and not know they’d done it, not know their effects, not realize—

This isn’t how magic works.

Nothing. adds. up.

It isn’t—

Wanda creeps inside the door to her room, and Agatha stares at her, and she feels something within her shift. Her eyes graze the words she’d worn only a few hours before – I’m the wicked witch of everything – and she wonders if that message was really meant for Wanda or if it was meant for her. She glances at the mug held warm between Wanda’s hands as the little witch brings it to her lips and says, voice devoid of something but unsure what, “I believe that’s mine, angel.”

One of Wanda’s brows raises, and her lips curl with mischief. “Why don’t you come and get it?”

After Wanda leaves, after Agatha is once again alone in the house that is not her home, she snaps her fingers like the sitcom witch she isn’t and conjures a soft, fluffy lavender robe to curve about herself as she walks back to the basement. There are enough runes now scattered about the house that she doesn’t, strictly speaking, need to go to the basement, but she doesn’t feel anything compelling her to stay above ground. A woman as ancient as her should be long dead and buried, after all, and the chill of her little dungeon soothes her. She crosses her legs beneath her as she sits on the mattress she’s kept in the very center of her most easily protected space, stares up at the thin runes etched like chicken scratch around its perimeter, takes a sip of the tea she’d rewarmed with the touch of her hand, and sighs.

The Scarlet Witch is not born; she is forged. She has no coven, no need for incantation. Her power exceeds that of the Sorcerer Supreme. She can rewrite reality as she chooses. It is her destiny to destroy the world.

Or rule it.

When she was younger, Agatha spent many years with the Masters of the Mystic Arts – with Cian, before their passage – and while the Darkhold was the primary source for all things Scarlet Witch, the being was mentioned in multiple other texts as well. The Darkhold liked to focus on the negative aspects of her power simply because it liked to deal with the negative aspects of everything; even now, it calls to her to pick it up, to reread the text about the legendary witch herself instead of drawing on her own memory, and as it calls, her stained fingers ache with deadened sensation to brush against its pages once more.

Ironically enough, resisting the siren’s call of the Darkhold feels quite like resisting doing what Wanda wants her to do. But it isn’t the same, not really, not quite. Darkness belies the Darkhold’s call; nothing like that underlies Wanda’s. Hers is a singular, insistent want, a thrumming desire, and fulfilling it – being with Wanda – brings the thrum of magic along her veins. Quite the opposite of the Darkhold, actually.

Which returns to the other texts that discussed the Scarlet Witch, the ones that mentioned a being infused with magic itself, able to control it without the slightest thought, a being to whom magic submitted itself, who was not magic but was so filled to the brim with it that—

Agatha Harkness sits on her mattress, and she remember her discussions with her old Master, and she glances at the runes barely readable above her, glances at the mattress beneath her, stretches her arms over her head, and mutters to herself, “Well, love, if this is why I’m here, then we have got work to do.”

#bandit fic #the thrall of magic with agatha and wanda #kisses through the decades with wanda and agatha #agatha harkness #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #mcu #wandavision #agatha harkness x wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x agatha harkness #wagatha #wandagatha #harximoff

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hyukascampfire · 3 days ago

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i am literally giggling over being called faerie princess. it sounds much better than freakishly obsessed faerie freak. i claim it fully. i know of course that this is your first dabbling into fantasy, but can i just say how beautifully you did it? there’s so much whimsy spun into the little magical and fantastical details, but the language used is also perfect. i think that’s a hallmark for writing fantasy, and you hit it… literally perfectly. no notes from this fantasy lover. in fact, i fear i need more fantasy from you. the little fantastical plants and aspects that you sprinkled in,, yes. i was js in heaven the whole time.

and, FAERIES? i mean?? you did so well with it, i think i need my own faerie soobin. now, preferably. i can’t explain how much his gentleness and personality rlly just struck down to my soul. him still speaking to her when she couldn’t even hear him? consider my heartstrings tugged. just beautiful. i also really loved how soobin was MC’s escape from the real world in a way, and still, her real world burdens & that taint of adulthood strained her belief in him. it was sweet how initially she believed, but then ‘real-world’ rationality had her doubting herself, even if it was all so visceral. just a beautiful portrayal of the detachment of fantasy from the real world!! this was so fun to see behind the scenes, and i knew even then that i had to be excited for it. you did this so incredibly well.

But when their hearts are weighed down, their aura overwhelms everything, blinding me to their true physical form. literally right off the bat, hp. i love this concept, that the presence of a human becomes shrouded when they’re gloomy or trialed.

Today, she rushes to the creek bed, crouches by the water, and her weeps and cries are the loudest I’ve ever heard. She’s shaking. — It twists and turns in search of something and when she leans toward the water, I summon a gold shimmer into the creek, dancing across the ripples as it catches the light. Her gasp breaks the silence, and for the first time, I hear her voice, distant and fragile. first of all, this is so pretty, and second of all him tryna distract her :((

And I hear a giggle. A giggle! It’s gorgeous. Like the first notes of my favorite song. I KNOW WE’RE LITERALLY STILL @ THE BEGINNING BUT THIS IS SO CUTE. i’m on my knees gripping my hair like i’ve gone mad. js smth about ‘a giggle!’ like. stop.

oh no she ran away. pls come back 😞 him being panicky. i love faerie soobin immediately.

i’m strange and all that but i love a good picking berries moment. it’s so foresty and faerie hehe Regret gnaws at me as I pick a bit of a raspberry from under my nail from when I was harvesting them earlier.

A human. Not the one I’ve been waiting for, but they catch my eye—curvy and stunning and flipping through a book. — Her body curves and moves gloriously and she looks irresistibly soft and…sexy. And I don’t use that word often. I want to hold her, touch her, squeeze her, make her feel something, but she can’t even see me. U DID THIS FOR ME!! i knew it was chubby reader but i’m here to say it again. THANK U HP. and his yearning to touch her. i love yearning in the romantic sense, but there’s also smth about a yearning for intimacy for me. especially like this, since they literally cannot touch each other. love.

Most other faeries I know do hate humans, I suppose. I’m not sure why, though—they’re so sweet and cute. Us faeries tend to have a superiority complex. But that doesn’t mean we all have it out for the entirety of the human race. faerie geek in me loving this

“Why can’t I see you?” She asks, sadness laced in her voice. this line got me, it’s so simple, but made powerful by the knowledge that MC is struggling in the human world & finds respite here, communicating in foreign ways with a creature she can’t even see.

Each one has a delicate pearly white cap with faint iridescent streaks that catch the light like oil on water. The ring itself isn’t perfect; they grow unevenly, edges blending with soft moss and fallen leaves. this is just pretty, and beautiful turn of sentence. god i love your writing

Her gasp breaks the quiet as her eyes fly open, and for the first time, she sees me. cries. it’s here. this is such a unique and stunning concept. it’s not often that in writing romance that you’ll have to write the first time the two lovers *see* each other, despite having already slightly fallen for each other already. this moment was so sweet.

“Hi,” she breathes. “Where are your wings?” That’s an unexpected first question. Smiling, I unfold them, letting them catch the sunlight. Iridescent hues of pink and purple shimmer like liquid light. The intricate patterns etched into the delicate surface that scatter rainbows onto the ground below. OOOOH HP I FEAR THAT YOU HAVE DONE IT AGAIN. not only is wings just fun, but youve painted such a beautiful and whimsical picture with it, too. i quite honestly am just having a field day

Her favorite flower is a poinsettia because her mother used to line the front porch with them during a winter holiday called Christmas. fucking love poinsettias & was so happy when i learned that they actually ARENT poisonous

She hates how loud her laugh is, though it's my favorite sound. sobs. She worries about being too much and not enough all at once. sobs again

“It’s real,” I say softly. “Maybe not in the way we want it to be—but real enough to feel.” love this. it’s an aspect of the nature of them, but still, they love. </3

The moment her skin touches mine, a spark—soft, warm, and undeniable—flares between us. She gasps, jerking her hand back as though it's been burned. THE FIRST TOUCHHHH MY BELLY JUST FLIPPED

Our lips fall into one another and move over each other so beautifully—it beats out rainbows and peonies, the sound of water falling, the smell of peppermint leaves. It’s a paradox, making everything else feel insignificant yet illuminating the meaning of it all in the same breath. this is a fucking beautiful paragraph. i kiss the ground you walk on.

The veil lanterns must’ve loosened her lips. LMAOOO this is literslly in the middle of an intimate and beautiful smut scene but i had to say that i’m not over how cool the veil lanterns are. the name is sick

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.” how did you know that beautiful is my achilles heel word

She pulls it off herself, although I think I’m supposed to be the one that does that. Next time. SO YOURE SAYING THWRES A NEXT TIIIIME

“We call them life lace.” oh hell yeah. that is so pretty. ily hp

“Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me,” I say. “We don’t have much time.” fucking dies

Why didn’t I prepare for clean-up? i’m literally in lovw wirh him and nobody will take me away from me and my sweetheart faerie soobin

“Then look at me,” I say, taking her hands in mine. “Look at me until you can’t anymore.” JFC THESE BANGER LINES i am hanging on by a very very fine thread

“Don’t go,” she whispers, her voice breaking. PLEAAAAASE LORD HAVE MERCY DONT DO THIS TO ME

feeling a little hollow omfg, i NEED them to be together forever no matter the extenuating circumstances, but that’s not really reality, is it?? sigh. my heart.

anyway, i THOROUGHLY loved this, and honestly just thank you for writing it. your writing is beautiful, and you did this SO much justice. ugh.

look at me — faerie!soobin x fem!human!reader

cw. soobin is a human-sized faerie with wings, chubby!reader has braces but that's rarely mentioned, reader has anxiety, reader needs to be high on shrooms to see/hear/touch soobin (it'll make sense i swear! ((dear god i hope it makes sense at least))), kissing, penetration (protection not mentioned), cunnilingus, nipple stuff, "baby," angsty ending, let me know if i missed anything. note. like i said, reader has to be high on shrooms to see, hear, and touch soobin, so technically they're both on drugs when they have sex, so caution if that makes you uncomfy. and oh surprise, surprise! very self indulgent. AND omg- shout out to the talented @hyukascampfire for brainstorming with me when i was first thinking about this and along the way as well. i've never written anything remotely fantasy so this is new territory for me and i'm super nervous for y'all to read it, especially faerie princess ashlynn. but i hope y'all love it <3 wc. 7.2K

There she is again. Not many humans venture this far out into the woods, but I recognize her every time. Well, I recognize her aura. Typically, humans appear in a dream-like haze—I can make out what they look like and even hear what they’re saying. But when their hearts are weighed down, their aura overwhelms everything, blinding me to their true physical form.

My friends tease me for being so fascinated with humans, but I can’t help it. They’re delightful in their peculiar ways—bringing their lovers and friends for little celebrations, visiting us with their sweet treats and elixirs. They’re so distracted with joy, they hardly notice when we take some for ourselves.

This human is different, though. She’s always alone, shrouded in a deep, stormy grey cloud that darkens every time she returns. For a moment, her aura softens as she rests at the edge of the creek, taking deep breaths while the storm eases into a fragile calm. But it never lasts. Within a week, she returns and the weight she carries seems heavier than before.

Today, she rushes to the creek bed, crouches by the water, and her weeps and cries are the loudest I’ve ever heard. She’s shaking. I creep closer, hoping to make anything out of her cloud, but nothing. Taking a seat on the moss on the other side of the creek, I simply watch her. Her cries crescendo into a gut-wrenching wail and I can’t take it anymore.

I toss a small pebble into the creek, watching as orange flickers throughout her cloud—fear. After another, it turns a muddy blue—curious. It twists and turns in search of something and when she leans toward the water, I summon a gold shimmer into the creek, dancing across the ripples as it catches the light. Her gasp breaks the silence, and for the first time, I hear her voice, distant and fragile.

“Oh my god.”

A grin tugs at my lips. Her cloud has kept her hidden from me all this time, but I just know she’s absolutely adorable. A small pebble shoots out from her direction, falling into the water and I guide it to land right on top of the other two. When she tosses another in, I pause the current entirely, letting the surface hold still. Then, with a flick of my fingers, I release it with a bloop. And I hear a giggle. A giggle! It’s gorgeous. Like the first notes of my favorite song.

“Hello?” She asks and I conjure a ripple in response. “Is someone there?” In the center of the creek, I create a circle of stillness, the current bending around it at my command. Inside it, I make it change color in an attempt to communicate with her. I add the gold shimmer back, trying to tell her—to scream at her—Yes! Yes, I’m here! I’m right here. But her cloud flares orange—panic—and she stumbles back. In a heartbeat, she’s gone, running away from our dell.

Oh no. Shoving the heels of my hands into my eye sockets out of frustration, I shake my head. Oh no.

It’s been weeks. Every day, I return to watch the humans, hoping my favorite may return. Perhaps it was overwhelming for her—turning water gold that quickly. Regret gnaws at me as I pick a bit of a raspberry from under my nail from when I was harvesting them earlier. A rustle in the distance snaps me to attention, followed by the solid thud of something hitting the mossy ground.

A human. Not the one I’ve been waiting for, but they catch my eye—curvy and stunning and flipping through a book. After a moment, they put it aside, sitting criss-cross on the creekbank, bending toward the water.

“Hello?” She asks. Wait. I know that voice. I only heard it for a moment, but I’ve been dreaming about it so much recently, I’d recognize it anywhere now. She’s back! And I can see her!

And she’s so incredibly beautiful, I can’t help but stare. I stumble toward the creek bed and she speaks again, “Hello?” I respond with a water ripple.

“Hello, I’m here.” Speaking is useless, but I whisper under my breath anyway.

“Are you the same…thing I was talking to a few weeks ago?” The water slowly turns a gold shimmer and she grins. “Can I ask you some questions?” The gold gets stronger. “Gold means yes?” The shimmer holds steady. “Am I speaking with the water?” I make it turn a deep, murky teal. “Does that mean no?” Gold. “A witch?” Teal. “A ghost?” Teal again. “An angel?” Teal. “A faerie?”

Gold shimmer. I whisper, “Yes, yes,” proud of her for getting it.

“A faerie?” She asks excitedly and I celebrate with her in the form of a water ripple. “Oh wow,” she whispers. “So you can hear me?” Gold. “Can you see me?” Ah, what do I do now? I can’t quite see her yet, but I definitely can see more of her than she can of me.

“Grey?�� She’s silent for a moment, humming as she tries to understand. “You don’t know if you can see me?” Teal. “You can kinda see me?” Gold. “I can’t see you at all,” she mumbles. She looks up again, unsure where to look. “Did you know that?” It stays gold while she chuckles to herself. The sound of it is intoxicating—like the sound of leaves rustling in the wind or a bird chirping. It warms me from the inside out.

“Where are you?” She asks. The current splits into two, flowing against each other and converging in a point aimed directly at me. As she follows the arrow with her eyes to look at me, her cloud clears fully and I can finally see her. For real this time. There’s still that angelic glow that won’t go away until the Veils have been lifted but I’m not so sure I’d want it to go away anyway. She’s absolutely, positively stunning. My breath is taken away. Her smile reaches her eyes and there’s something in her mouth—something I’ve never seen before, shiny and on every tooth.

Her body curves and moves gloriously and she looks irresistibly soft and…sexy. And I don’t use that word often. I want to hold her, touch her, squeeze her, make her feel something, but she can’t even see me. Even if I tried, my touch would be nothing but the whisper of a ghost.

Glancing down, her eyebrows furrow in confusion. She asks, “What does pink mean?” I shake my head to rid my thoughts of her and the water returns to its natural, clear, blue state.

There’s a beat of silence. She awkwardly speaks up, “So, a faerie, huh?” Slowly, the calm pool turns gold again. “I’ve got some books about the Fae.” Bubbles rise in curiosity. “Are you a human-sized faerie?” Gold.

“I think I may be a bit taller than you, though…” I whisper. I’m taller than most everyone in my village, so I can only assume I’m taller than her as well.

“A lot of these books say you all hate humans,” she says matter-of-factly.

The water turns a deep, angry red. “That’s a misconception!” I say with a grumpy giggle. Although, she’s not totally wrong. Most other faeries I know do hate humans, I suppose. I’m not sure why, though—they’re so sweet and cute. Us faeries tend to have a superiority complex. But that doesn’t mean we all have it out for the entirety of the human race.

“Oh,” she says, holding her hands up. “Sorry.” I forgot she can’t hear me, so the water calms itself. “Do you hate humans?” I can’t make it teal fast enough.

We spend hours in our woodland dell together—she watches as I make the water change colors, as I make flowers bloom in patterns, and as I talk with rabbits, asking them to bring me back berries and nuts. The way her eyes light up when I make the peonies bloom makes me feel like nothing else matters. I’d sit here for hours, building and blooming the garden of her dreams if I could—just to make her happy.

“Can I tell you a secret?” She asks, sitting next to me on the creekbank now that we’re on the same side. The water constantly follows me to show her my location.

“Of course,” I respond under my breath, hoping something might leak through into her realm.

“Coming out here and talking to you…” she sighs. “Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy.” She chuckles. “Like, what would someone think if they saw me giggling at the water?” I wish I could shatter the wall blocking her realm from mine, dissolving any of that hesitancy and uncertainty. “But it makes me feel sane. It’s the only time I feel like my world isn’t falling apart.”

She’s told me all about her world—a stressful job, family problems, and constant crippling anxiety. I can’t imagine living in a world like hers. Humans fascinate me, yes, but I avoid the world they’ve created at all costs—booming cities absent from flora and fauna, no magic, lifeless but overwhelming at the same time.

“That’s a new one,” she says, glancing down at the water. When she looks back up, guessing where my eyes are, she asks, “What does silver mean?”

“I’m sad,” I whisper. Almost at the exact same time, like we’re connected at the heart, we say,

“I wish you could hear me.”“I wish I could hear you.”

As she fiddles with the green moss under her legs the water slowly turns a gold shimmer. I want that too. I want to talk to her, to feel her, hug her, kiss her. I want to be hers, to protect her from all that pain in her world. But my heart drops, the water steadily turning a sad silver again. I could never be that for her.

“Why can’t I see you?” She asks, sadness laced in her voice. I conjure a gentle wind, making one of her books fly open, flipping to a page titled, The Fae and Humans: Perception and Interaction. Her head snaps toward the sound, curiosity pulling her closer. Slowly, she crouches and reads aloud, “There is an intricate balance of aural, visibility, touch, and the altered states required to bridge the divide between the Fae and human realms. Understanding the two key thresholds—The Veil of Sight and Sound and the Veil of Touch—are crucial when communicating with the Fae.

“The Veil of Sight and Sound: Faeries exist on a frequency of reality imperceptible to humans. Under normal conditions, human vision and hearing cannot penetrate this Veil; however, certain factors can alter a human's perceptual capabilities. Mild intoxication induced by substances can create a temporary overlap between the human and faerie realms. In this state, humans can see and hear faeries in their true forms.

“The Veil of Touch: Even when humans achieve the rare ability to see and hear faeries, the Veil of Touch presents a further barrier. While perception might align momentarily, the physical matter of faeries and humans does not naturally interact. For touch to occur, a human must enter a deeper altered state—one that further detaches them from their own plane.”

Taking everything in, her lips barely move when she whispers, “Intoxication?” The water points toward a ring of mushrooms nestled at the edge of the creek. Each one has a delicate pearly white cap with faint iridescent streaks that catch the light like oil on water. The ring itself isn’t perfect; they grow unevenly, edges blending with soft moss and fallen leaves. They look relatively ordinary, but those iridescent streaks tell me they’re undeniably veil lanterns, a substance that lifts both veils for humans. Moving closer to the ring of mushrooms, she asks, “If I eat one of these, I’ll be able to see and hear you?” Gold shimmer. “How does it make me feel?”

How do I put this? I make the water swirl in on itself in different directions while it turns different shades of blue and green. It spirals upward into a sphere that hovers for a moment before gracefully falling back to the creek.

“Like I’m floating?” She asks curiously. Gold shimmer. She looks back at the mushrooms, her expression torn between hope and hesitation. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” she says softly, but her hand doesn’t move closer. Eventually, though, she plucks one out of the ground, holding it between her pointer finger and thumb, twirling it between her fingers. “Just one?”

“Just one,” I whisper under my breath as the water turns gold. Popping it in her mouth, I watch the soft aura that still surrounds her physical form turn a pretty relaxed yellow over the course of a few minutes. She talks to me as she lets the mushroom settle in—asking how long it’ll take or what happens if it doesn’t work.

“What if I’ve been making all this up in my head?” She chuckles to herself. “And I’ve been talking to a creek this whole time? How embarrassing would that be?” She rubs her hands over her face, groaning. “I can’t believe this,” she grumbles, curling into herself, her knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Resting her chin on her knees, she closes her eyes and mutters, “Thinking a creek is talking to me…”

“That does sound a little silly,” I say, my voice light with amusement.

Her gasp breaks the quiet as her eyes fly open, and for the first time, she sees me. The realization washes over her in waves—hesitation, awe, and then a dawning understanding.

“Hello,” I say softly, letting her take me in, her eyes tracing over my entire body.

“Wow…” she whispers in disbelief. She reaches out slowly, her fingertips trembling as they near me. But her hand passes straight through, our realms still worlds apart. Confusion clouds her face and her glassy eyes blink with disappointment.

I shake my head and remind her, “The Veil of Touch, remember?”

“Oh, I need to have another mushroom?” I nod. She hurriedly reaches for one.

“Wait.” She halts and looks up at me. “You should take it easy with those. Let’s just talk. I’ve been dying for you to hear my voice.”

“That’s true.” She looks over at the water, then glances back up at me. “You’re so…pretty,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Soobin.” Then she tells me her name. “We can have conversations much easier now, huh?” I smile.

With the Veil lifted, we spend the hour learning all we can about each other—her favorite color isn’t just yellow, it’s turmeric. She loves how it looks when she puts a teaspoon of it in her rice cooker and it spreads throughout the water. Her favorite flower is a poinsettia because her mother used to line the front porch with them during a winter holiday called Christmas. Those things on her teeth are called braces and they’re supposed to help her teeth somehow. She hates celery and loves broccoli, especially if they’re roasted in an oven. That scar on her cheek is from learning something called skateboarding. She loves the rain but is terrified of thunder. She hates how loud her laugh is, though it's my favorite sound.

She worries about being too much and not enough all at once.

As we talk, I can’t tell how much time we have left. I can tell I’m fading from her view but she never fades from mine. Her laughter grows quieter, her giggles becoming rare until they’re gone altogether. Her high is wearing off, and with it, the fragile connection we share. I can feel her pulling back, closing herself off again, like the gentle drift of someone falling asleep without realizing it.

Her eyes stay on me, intense and unblinking, memorizing every detail of my face to hold onto me for just a moment longer. Then I see it, the shift in her expression. Realization dawns like a shadow passing over her, her gaze losing focus.

“I can’t see you anymore,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with resignation. She sighs, her shoulders slumping. “You’re gone again.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?” I ask, my voice soft but steady. Over the years, I’ve forged fragile connections with humans, always careful never to push too hard. Yet no matter how gentle I am, the same thing happens—they see too much, fear too much, and never return. And I don’t blame them. It’s utterly overwhelming. There’s no denying that.

But she’s been visiting me for months and I’ve never been this close to anyone. With her, the world feels sharper, more vivid. Every time she speaks, her words resonate with something deep inside me, as if they echo through places I’ve forgotten even existed.

She occupies my every waking moment. I’ve started to feel her even when she’s not here—her absence pressing against me like a quiet storm, a warmth that lingers in the air long after she’s gone. Her voice echoes in my mind when it’s silent. Every time our eyes meet, there’s that spark, that electric connection that tells me we’re on the cusp of something extraordinary.

We’ve talked about taking the next step so many times now. But it’s a huge step. It’s about stepping into a new reality, about making something impossible real.

She nods, her eyes bright with determination. “I’m sure.”

She picks up the mushroom, turning it over in her hands as though its surface might help her validate her decision. Then, with a shaky breath, she sets it back down, her resolve wavering. “What if this isn’t real?” she whispers, her gaze fixed on her trembling fingers. “What if I’ve just been…hallucinating all of this?”

“You’re not hallucinating,” I say gently.

She hugs her knees to her chest, biting her lip. “But what if I am? And if I eat another one, I just sink deeper into this… dream? Or illusion? Or whatever this is.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I assure her, leaning closer.

She lifts her head slightly, her expression torn. “But if I need these just to talk to you…” Her voice falters. “Doesn’t that mean I’ll always be dependent on them?”

I meet her gaze, steady and unwavering. “You’re already talking to me,” I say. “You don’t need another one to keep doing that.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, silence hangs between us. Then she speaks again, “But I can’t touch you.” Her eyes glisten, her vulnerability shining through. “And I want to.”

Something in me stirs—sharp and undeniable. My chest tightens, my voice trembling, “I want that too.”

She sighs my name, and it feels like the world is tilting. Her cheeks flush as she hesitates. “I want to…maybe it’s the mushroom talking,” she says quickly, her words tumbling out, “but I want you. I want you to kiss me and hold me and make me feel—”

“I want all of that too,” I interrupt, my voice low and earnest. “But only if you’re ready.”

Her shoulders sag slightly, her head tilting as she stares at the ground. “But it’ll never be truly real, though, will it?”

“It’s real,” I say softly. “Maybe not in the way we want it to be—but real enough to feel.” Nodding, she takes several seconds to think, picking at the green moss as a distraction. “What if I ate one too?”

“Would it even affect you?”

I nod and add, “It gives me a high, but nothing…magical happens.” We both agree to eat one, giggling and talking while we let them both set in.

“I’m not feeling much different, to be honest,” she says, her voice faltering. “I’m starting to think none of this is real. I’m just… seeing you, but you’re not really there.” Her hand lifts, a trembling finger reaching toward my cheek.

Then it happens.

The moment her skin touches mine, a spark—soft, warm, and undeniable—flares between us. She gasps, jerking her hand back as though it's been burned. But before the space between us can grow too wide, she reaches out again, her palm settling against my cheek, her thumb brushing over the curve with a tentative tenderness.

Her touch anchors me, and for a moment, I can’t speak.

“…Soobin,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m scared.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re there. You’re really there.”

“I know,” I say, chuckling. “I’m really here. Watch this.” I reach out, dragging my fingertips over her forearm. She gasps again, yanking her hand back. “Are you okay?” I ask, concern flickering in my voice. She nods, slowly and deliberately moving her hand forward. Then, she runs her fingers through my hair and glides them down my shoulder and arm, leaving a shiver in their wake.

“Can I…your wings?” she asks, her voice filled with awe. I let them unfold just enough for her to see. Her breath hitches as she reaches out, the tip of her pointer finger brushing against the delicate edge of one wing. It flutters instinctively at her touch, responding to her presence, which spooks her a bit.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, watching her hand.

Encouraged and confident, she places her hand fully on top of my wing, her fingers tracing its intricate patterns as though committing every curve and shimmer to memory.

“Wow…that’s unreal,” she says. “I mean, it’s real, but doesn’t seem like it should be.” She inches closer, the space between us dissolving until our knees barely touch. Her fingers run down my arm lightly before picking up my hand, examining it closely, her thumb tracing the lines of my palm, the curve of my fingers. Then, I mirror her actions, taking her hand in mine. It’s warm, human, and yet so fragile under my touch.

Her hand travels upward to trace my features with her thumb. She lingers over the arch of my eyebrow, down the bridge of my nose, along the edge of my jaw. When she reaches my lips, her thumb pauses, grazing over the softness of my bottom lip. A breath escapes me, unbidden, and her touch slows, her thumb resting there for just a moment longer before she withdraws, her hand trembling slightly as it falls back into her lap.

I respond, my thumb swiping across her bottom lip and I tug her closer by her jaw until I can feel her breath on my chin.

“Can I kiss you?” I whisper.

She nods.

It deepens and I hover over her, her legs coming out from under her while I guide her to lay down on the mossy patch, our lips never parting. Her lips feel so magical and soft and we only stop when she needs to come up for air. We smile at each other, our eyes sharing the same redness and glassy daze. I know exactly what I want to happen next, but I’m not so sure she’s ready for all that. I look at her, taking in all her beauty.

“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her.

“So are you,” she slurs. She reaches for my hand that’s already resting on her hip and moves it up to her chest, encouraging me to feel all of her.

I whisper her name and ask, “Are you sure you want this?”

“Please.” My lips crash into hers again and our hands are all over each other, on each other’s bodies, in each other’s hair, squeezing and squishing and feeling and rubbing. She breaks the kiss, “Have you ever done this before? You know, with a human?”

“Not with a human,” I chuckle. “But all the anatomy’s the same.”

“That’s good,” she giggles, grabbing my hair to kiss me again, but she’s quick to pull back. “Go slow, okay?” I nod. With a snap of my fingers, flowers swirl together, carried by a gentle breeze, forming a soft pillow for her to rest her head on. “Ah, thank you. I forgot you can do stuff like that.” Lifting the skirt of her dress up, I slowly move it past her thighs and she asks with a trembling voice, “Will people see us?”

I shake my head, telling her, “I cast a shadow cloak around us. No one can see us. Not even the other fae.” A look of relief and content falls across her face. “Can I…?” I ask, lifting her dress more. She nods. With each passing inch, my heart thumps as I drag my fingertips over her legs. Lifting it over her head, she’s laying under me, mostly bare. She’s still wearing two tiny pieces of fabric that cover her chest and bottom.

“I wore these for you,” she says, her voice soft and tinged with a shyness she can’t quite hide. The veil lanterns must’ve loosened her lips.

“You did?” My hands explore her curves, reverent and curious, tracing every inch of her body. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.” Her skin is soft and inviting under my lips, and I scatter kisses lower, her body responding perfectly with mine. But then, I can’t hide my fascination any longer. I pause, my thumb brushing over the delicate pink fabric that’s still on her body. How do I put this? Ah, let’s just be candid. “What is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“These,” I say, running my fingers along the straps and edges of the fabric. “I’ve never seen clothes like this before.”

“Oh,” she giggles, tugging gently at one of the straps. “This is a bra. And these,” she gestures to the sides of the fabric on her hips, “are panties.” I hum thoughtfully, studying her with an amused tilt of my head.

“We don’t wear things like this. What’s the point of them?”

Her lips curve into a playful smile. “Look at me.” And I do. She’s delicious. “That’s the point.”

I smirk, my gaze lingering on her. “Am I—are you—supposed to take them off?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice catching just slightly, her flush deepening. My fingers brush over the fabric again, savoring the contrast between it and her skin. “Do you not like them?” she asks, her tone almost teasing.

“No, I do,” I reply, my voice dipping lower. “I have a feeling I’ll like your body even more.” I start to try and pull them off, but—

“Not yet,” she sighs. “Come here.” I sit up and she follows, her hand drifting to my top button. Slowly, she unfastens it, the slinky pink velvet slipping through her fingers with each deliberate motion. Once she pushes my shirt past my shoulders, I tug at the cuffs to free my arms. Her gaze stays locked on me as I fold my wings down, the delicate motion allowing me to slip the shirt off completely.

Extending her arm out, the tip of her middle finger barely touches my chest before she jerks her hand back, still not believing I’m tangible. Then she lets her hand fully press my body, dragging down to my waist. I remember how much my wings fascinate her, so I unfold them for her and she gasps.

Leaning closer, our lips fall into each other and I guide her to lay down again just the same as before. My thumb drags across the apple of her cheek, trailed by my pointer finger down column of her neck, following a line between her breasts, down to squeeze her waist. Holding her bra strap between my pointer and middle finger, I slowly pull it down, leaving kisses along the way and hoping I’m doing this whole bra-and-panties thing correctly. Then I do the same with the other side, watching as she effortlessly reaches behind her, making something snap so it falls off her chest, hanging loosely. She pulls it off herself, although I think I’m supposed to be the one that does that. Next time.

Looking down at her bare chest, I can’t help but feel giddy. The way her chest curves on itself, creating a gorgeous shape I desperately need to feel.

“I love these,” I say, kissing the side of her breast. She hums in question. And I nudge the marks on her skin with the tip of my nose. “These,” I say.

Her gaze follows mine as she glances down and asks, “Oh, my stretch marks?”

“We call them life lace.”

Her expression softens, her eyes meeting mine. “Life lace,” she repeats quietly, as if testing the words, a touch of wonder in her voice. I search and scour for every bit I can find—the most of it on her tummy, hips, and thighs. She’s still got that last bit of clothing around her hips she hasn’t taken off yet. That final barrier between us. We’ve knocked every other barrier down but something about this last one feels utterly real in a way the others didn’t.

Wrapping my hands around her thighs, I pull her gently so her legs wrap around my ears gently, shoving my face into her center over that last bit of clothing, inhaling. I’ve never been this close to a human before. She smells so different from the fae I’ve been with. She’s intoxicating and delightful—my mouth waters at how delicious she smells.

“I take this off, too?” I nudge at her entrance, earning a jolt. I must’ve nudged something sensitive. She nods eagerly, helping me take them off her.

“You too,” she reminds me and I shuffle to get rid of the rest of my clothes. Looking down at her, she’s giddy and completely entranced, which twinges my heart. It’s just the veil lanterns, the cynical part of me reminds myself. Her legs are casually spread open, giving me a full display of her glistening pussy. I skate my hands up her legs, feeling her ground herself in the feeling of my hands.

Teasing her entrance with my thumb, she’s hot and wet as she flutters around nothing, waiting for anything from me. I gather just enough of her wetness to make my pointer finger slick and tap her clit, making her flinch. Then, I rub the slowest, lightest circles over the nub and she lets out a ragged sigh. Her tightened muscles relax as she allows herself to feel every move I’m making, letting her head gently fall to the pillow of flowers.

Once she’s practically dripping, I slide my two middle fingers inside her, curling them to tease the most sensitive bit with the pads of them. Bending, I flick my pointed tongue against her clit, eliciting a whine while she desperately reaches for my hair. I’ve never tasted a human either, I realize. I’m not sure anything will ever be as delicious as her again.

“Oh my god,” she whimpers. Every sound she makes is gorgeous but I can’t wait to hear what she sounds like when she comes. I bet it's the most beautiful in the world. “W—wait…” she trails off, her hip thrusts betraying her words. “Soobin, wait—” she gasps. This time, I stop. Gently wrapping her hand around the back of my neck to pull me closer. “I want you…all of you, please.”

I take the time to memorize what her face looks like, how her hair is splayed out against the flowers, how kissable her lips look. And I don’t resist them. Pressing my lips to hers again, they mould into each other like we should’ve never been apart in the first place. She tries to place her hands on my back, stumbling as she realizes my wings are in the way, which rustle in response. Instead, she rests them on my waist, squeezing delicately.

We hesitantly part so I can sit up on my knees. This time, I take the time to memorize everything about her body—her stomach rolls folding from holding her legs open, the life lace at the tops of her thighs, the swell of her ass squished by the ground. Everything is absolute, utter perfection.

Slowly gracing my hands to follow the curve of her waist then down to her thighs and hips, little bumps cover her skin. I forget what humans call them. Finding her clit with my thumb again, I rub agonizingly slow circles, forcing her hips to roll involuntarily. Barely prodding her entrance with my cock, I watch her shiver and whine, quickly getting impatient. When I back off, her pelvis bucks, her body begging for me on its own.

Aligning myself at her pussy again, I push myself in, only letting myself about halfway inside her but she still takes my breath away. Just as she’s about to let out a sigh of relief, I pull out of her again.

“Stop…” she whines. “Stop teasing me so much.” I chuckle with her—I guess I should get to the good stuff. “Please…please stop teasing me so much.”

I concede and when I’m finally fully inside her, everything feels so…much. It’s all so much. I feel like I’ve never felt before, like nothing has ever had any impact before her, like nothing will ever feel as good until we’re together again. I bend at my waist, supporting myself with my elbows around her face and her eyes flutter shut.

“Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me,” I say. “We don’t have much time.”

When she opens her eyes and looks into mine, still nothing matters—not that she can’t see me without the veil lanterns, not that I could disappear from her view any minute, not that we could never truly be together. The way she feels overshadows all of that.

We don’t have much time, I remind myself. I sink deeper inside her, digging my face into her neck.

“Look at me,” she reminds me and I follow her instructions. We find a rhythm we both like, desperately thrusting in and out of her. “Kiss me…kiss me please,” she whispers. Our lips meet furiously as my hips dig into hers. “I need to feel you as much as I can,” she says. “Before I can’t anymore.” Resting her arms against my lower back—right below my wings—she squeezes around me, rubbing her hands up and down my waist. Delicately and hesitantly, she slides her hands up, letting her hands rest gently where my wings meet my skin.

There’s a vulnerability to it I wasn’t expecting. It’s not something I’ve thought about before—no one’s ever touched me like that there before, not even another faerie. My breath catches when her fingers trace the delicate ridge where my wings connect to my body. I shudder, the sensation overwhelming and pleasant. Her eyes widen, searching mine, unsure if she’s crossed a line.

“Is this okay?” she asks softly, her voice trembling.

I press my forehead to hers, nodding. “It’s okay,” I respond. “More than okay.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, her thumbs brushing lightly against the base of my wings.

“You won’t,” I promise, though my voice is raw, barely audible. “You couldn’t.”

Her lips find mine again, gentler this time, like her touch softened the urgency between us. The rhythm slows, turning into something deeper, more deliberate. Her hands never stray far from my wings and the trust in her touch makes my chest ache in the best way. In this moment, she sees me—not just with her eyes, but as someone she wants to hold onto, even when she knows she can’t forever.

“You feel,” she gasps. “I can’t—”

“I know, baby…” I sigh. “I know.” I silence her whimpers with my mouth, swallowing any whines that escape past her lips. I argue with myself trying to decide if I should close my eyes to savor how she feels, never leaving her lips or if I should keep them open to make sure I commit the sight of her underneath me to memory. Either way is a win for me to be fair.

Breaking the kiss, I trail my lips all over her body, tasting every inch of her. She’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever tasted before, slightly salty and warm against my tongue, different from the typical sweetness of other faeries. Every time I press my lips to her, I kiss away a hardship. I kiss away the stress in her shoulders, kiss away the problems she faces in her day-to-day life, kiss away any anxieties she feels. I’m desperate to make her feel good, to remind her that none of that matters here. With me.

When I flick my tongue over her nipple, her back arches, a gasp following her movements. I keep my thrusts steady, feeling her release building up in her stomach. I watch as her tummy muscles tighten then she desperately reaches for my hair, pulling me closer so our bodies are pressed together again. Her arms are wrapped around my torso and I can feel her clenching around me, teetering on the edge of something incredible.

“Soobin—” she gasps. “Don’t—” Her back arches. “Hmm…I’m close,” she says, a smile evident in her voice. “Please, please…” I don’t think she even knows what she’s begging for anymore. Begging for anything—my cock, my hands, my lips, a release.

Then, her nails dig into my lower back as she bites my shoulder, groaning loudly against my skin as she comes around my cock, pussy pulsating around me as she whimpers and whines through it.

“Oh my god,” she pants and just as she starts to twitch from overstimulation, I slow my movements, peppering her neck and face with kisses. She catches her breath, whispering incoherent things in my ears, things like my name, swears, giggles.

“Use me,” she whispers. I hum in question. “Use me to make yourself feel good.” I lift her legs, pressing them toward her chest, letting me reach the deepest parts of her. And everything about her feels incredible. Pounding into her quickly, I squeeze one of her tits with one hand and use the other to hold her waist in place.

It doesn’t take long for something inside me to twist and turn, begging to be snapped so I can fill her up. My stomach ties itself into too many knots as a white hot fire burns in the pit of it. The noises she’s making adds fuel to the fire, burning and burning until I can’t hold back anymore. With a few final thrusts, everything inside me breaks, like it’s all been building until this moment. I make a conscious effort to take my time and feel everything, thinking about how her pussy feels wrapped around my cock, how her tit feels in my hand, what she smells like, what she looks like. Everything is magic.

As I catch my breath, I pull out of her so slowly she shivers and I watch as my cum spills out of her while she giggles bashfully. I panic as I realize I didn’t prepare to clean up. Why didn’t I prepare for clean-up? She finds that little piece of fabric she was wearing earlier—what was it called again?—and uses them to wipe herself clean before folding them meticulously to store in her bag.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Eh…” she hums. …Eh? “Just kinda bittersweet is all, you know?” I shake my head in disappointment. “No, no!” She runs her fingers through my hair, looking at me sweetly. “That was amazing.” She kisses me deeply. “I should’ve started with that. I’m sorry.”

“You swear?”

“Of course,” she sighs. “That was incredible. It’s just…”

“I know,” I say. “How much time do we have left, you think?” Averting her eyes from mine, she looks down to fiddle with her thumbs.

“You’re already starting to fade.”

“Then look at me,” I say, taking her hands in mine. “Look at me until you can’t anymore.” She chuckles, bringing her eyes up to meet mine. We stare at each other, running our hands over each other’s bodies until we’ll no longer be able to feel the other. Once the Veil of Touch separates our hands again, we hesitantly get dressed during the last few minutes before the Veil of Sight and Sound completely separates us. She pulls her dress back over her head, closing off my view from her.

We sit again, facing toward each other, anxiously waiting until I fade from her view. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes. I start to reach for her, until I remember I can’t touch her.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Soobin,” she sniffles. I scoot closer to her.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I can do this,” she gestures between us. “Only seeing you when I’m on some kind of high from those mushrooms? This would never work. I can’t just…not see or hear you when I’m sober. I can’t—this isn’t—” Her words puncture my lungs and I can’t breathe. The ache in her voice echoes into my chest and I hate these fucking Veils. What’s the point in them anyway? Can’t they be destroyed?

“Don’t say that,” I plead.

She shakes her head, tears spilling over as she wipes at her cheeks with trembling hands. “I can’t keep falling deeper for you, only to lose you every time the spell fades. It’s breaking me apart.”

My throat tightens. “You’re not losing me. I’ll always be here. Always. I promise.”

“But I won’t really be here, will I?” she says, her voice cracking. “I won’t ever be in the right state of mind when we’re together.”

Her words hang heavy in the air and all I can hear is the soft babble of the creek. I try to reach for her again, forgetting again I can’t. My hand hovers uselessly in the air before falling back to my side.

“There has to be another way,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice. “Something we haven’t tried. A way to get rid of them so we can be together.” She looks at me, her expression a mixture of longing and heartbreak.

“And if there isn’t? What then? Do we keep doing this forever?”

Leaning closer, I say, “You’re worth it.”

Her face crumples, and she presses her hands to her face as if to shield herself from my words. “Soobin, I—” I know the edges of her vision are starting to blur, the Veil is about to take me from her. Again. “Don’t go,” she whispers, her voice breaking.

“I’m not leaving you,” I say. “Not really. I’ll always be here. Waiting.” And then I know I’m gone by the sound of her cries. I turn the water a rich, warm shade of yellow with deep golden and earthy undertones—turmeric—so she knows I’m still there with her. She stands slowly, turns and starts to walk away but stops a few steps in, she looks back, somehow right into my eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

#soobin smut #soobin hard thoughts #soobin hard hours #txt hard hours #txt smut #txt hard thoughts #choi soobin #chubby reader #soobin x reader

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arizona2004 · 3 years ago

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Heyy! Can you do azriel x fem reader fluff that Azriel really likes to kiss her. They like to be connect with each other in every situation like even if it’s a hand touch on waist / arm. I just saw a gif that the boys kisses front of her shoulder ,back of her neck, side of her breasts like close to her back and inside of her thigh etc. I know it’s oddly spesific but I just can’t stop imagine how beautiful it would be in headcanon stuff. So can you please write something that includes these or these kind of intimacy💖 I’m okay with +18 stuff as long as you’re okay with it but I would love to be heartmelted by sweetness and love in the piece💖💖 Thank you even if you will do it or not 💖🥺 Love you!

okie dokie, I hope you like it. And sorry it took a little while

Pinky Promise

Azriel x fem!reader

"Warnings": I wouldn’t call this smut… there is some content, though, that may not be for younger viewers, per se, mostly it’s just kissing… and fluff...

word count: 960

As we walk down the street to the river house, Azriel’s hand brushes mine for a split second before his pinky hooks itself through mine. The first time Az did this, it caught me off guard; I knew he had an extreme hatred of his own hands, and he mentioned that he didn’t like hand-holding, so I never pushed it, but deep down: I wished he would hold my hand. And every day after that first time he would grab my pinky with his own, and with that little touch, he stole my heart.

Falling in love with him was the easiest thing I have ever done. The day I met him and every day since have been the best of my life. His kind words are music to my ears, and his gentle touches are all my soul needs to sing a response. He makes me want to smile forever and forget what sadness even feels like.

He isn’t one for big displays of public affection. He didn’t like bear hugs or kissing where other people might see, but he loved touching me in small gentle ways. And he loved kissing me when no one was looking. When we stood around the dining room table discussing plans for the upcoming war, Azriel stood behind me: an unmoving, unyielding force-just what I needed. He draped his arms gently on my hips and placed a light kiss on the back of my neck, reminding me of his presence even as I feared for his life in Rhys�� hands.

When I walked back to our house alone, my body missed the delicate touch of his pinky in my own more than anything else. My heart aches for his warmth against me. Tears nearly well up in my eyes, but I push them back down. I’m being sensitive for no reason at all; he isn’t even leaving yet. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still hate his job, even while I love him.

When I arrive home, alone, I collapse into our bed without him and stare at his pillow. Anxiety rushes through my body. What if he doesn’t come back to me? I know how powerful and capable he is, but this is one of Rhysands riskier plans.

It’s an hour later when I lay, still awake, on my back. I’m staring at the ceiling, making things worse by imagining all the horrible things that could happen, so I don’t even notice Azriel’s arrival until he’s kneeling on the bed near my feet.

I look down at him without moving and know he sees the worry in my eyes by the expression he returns. A second later, though, he’s placing a kiss on my ankle and making his way up my legs, pulling the blankets away from my body with him. I close my eyes and let my head rest on the pillow while Az makes his way up my body. He places a soft kiss on the inside of my thigh, sending shivers up my spine, and the next kiss lands on my hip bone as he lefts himself over me.

His nose brushes my naval as he pushes my shirt up. Another kiss lands above my belly button, making me giggle and squirm. I can feel Az’s smile widen against my stomach as he crawls further up and moves to the right. The next kiss, accompanied by a gentle bite, lands on the side of my left breast. I giggle again and lift my arms to rest above my head. His hands follow them, pinning my wrists to the bed as he re-centers himself to hover just above my face.

The next kiss is placed on my right shoulder, and the following one is a nip at my collarbone. I lean my head back, arching my neck up for him, and now he’s the one laughing, “eager, are we?”

I grumble something but am cut off by my moan as Azriel gently bites the side of my neck. He spends many minutes marking my neck and decorating it with bruises before his lips find my own. And as he kisses me: soft and slow, his hands leave my wrists and travel down my arms. When he reaches my shoulders, his right-hand moves toward my neck and the left continues its path down to grip my thigh, pulling my leg up to wrap around his waist as he presses closer to me.

His right hand is gently wrapping around my throat and pressing against the fresh bruises. And when a grin spreads across my face at the pleasurable burn, Azriel leans down to kiss me again but slowly pulls away while he does so.

A moment later, his hand is no longer wrapped around my throat; he isn’t holding my leg to him or grinding against me. He’s lying at my right and pulling me to face him. My face is in an expression of confusion, so he leans in to press a kiss to my nose.

“I love you,” he murmurs against my lips, “that just isn’t how I want to spend tonight. I’m tired; it’s been a long day. And all I want is to fall asleep with you in my arms.”

Pushing closer, I press my face into the side of his neck and wrap my arms around him, “ I love you, too,” I mumble, holding him as tight as I can, “promise me you’ll be careful on the mission.”

“Pinky promise,” he whispers back, a smile spreading across his face as he lifts his hand between our bodies. So I pull one of my hands back too and link my pinky with his, and we fall asleep like that: pinkies linked and hearts in one another's hands.

#azriel imagine #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acotar fic #acotar imagine #azriel acotar #azriel fic #a court of dreams #not smut smut

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years ago

Text

The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Chapter 27

Original Title: 二哈和��的白猫师尊

Genres: Drama, Romance, Tragedy, Xianxia, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 27 - This Venerable One Will Cook You A Bowl of Noodles

Chu Wanning felt completely faint.

He blamed himself for being so distracted and unsuspecting on Life-Death Peak. He didn't even notice someone come over.

What was going on? Where did this child come from? His last name was Mo, but Mo. . . what was is again. . . ? Mo Shao? Mo Zhu? Mo. . . Yu?

He composed himself and put on an expression that screamed: "get away". The surprise and panic in his phoenix eyes were quickly masked by his usual harsh and threatening demeanour.

"You—"

He raised his hand out of habit to discipline him, but something suddenly caught his wrist.

Chu Wanning was stunned.

He had been around for a while yet no one had ever dared grab his wrist so casually. For a while, he was frozen in place, not knowing what he should do.

Pull it away and give him a backhanded slap?

. . . It felt like a good word to describe that would be "indecent," like he was no different from a woman in this situation.

Then pull his hand away and not slap him?

. . . Wouldn't that seem like he was being too nice?

Chu Wanning hesitated for a long time and didn't move but the young man laughed: "What's this on your hand? It's pretty good-looking, do you teach how to make stuff like this? Everyone else has introduced themselves already but you haven't spoken yet. Which elder are you? Hey, do you have a headache?"

With so many questions thrown at him, while Chu Wanning's mind hadn't hurt before, now it did.

His mind felt like it was about to split in half. . .

As he got irritated, a golden light in his hand started to glow. When they saw that Tianwen was about to be summoned, the other elders were horrified and moved - Chu Wanning was crazy, right? He would even dare to whip Young Master Mo?

Then, Mo Ran was suddenly holding his hand.

Now Mo Ran had trapped both of his hands. Mo Ran didn't up on the danger of his situation. He pulled him closer and stood in front of him. He tilted his head and said with a smile: "My name is Mo Ran. I don't know anyone here, but just from looking at you, I like you the most. How about I worship you as my shizun, okay?"

This was completely unexpected. The people around them were even more horrified. Several elders gaped with mouths ajar.

Elder Xuanji: "Huh?"

Elder Pojun: "What!"

Elder Qisha: "Oh?"

Elder Jielu: "Uh. . ."

Elder Tanlang: "Hah, ridiculous."

Elder Lucun was the most feminine of the bunch with wavy hair and eyes flooded with peach blossoms: "Ah, this little boy is so bold. He's truly a courageous young man. He might even be so bold as to touch Elder Yuheng's ass."

". . . I beg you, can you not say something so repulsive?" Qisha said with disgust.

Lucun rolled his eyes gracefully and hummed: "Fine, let me put it more eloquently. He's truly a courageous young man. He might even be so bold as to touch Elder Yuheng's buttocks."

Qisha: ". . ." Just kill him and forget this ever happened.

The most popular of all the elders was the gentle and jade-like elder Xuanji. His techniques were easy to learn, and he was a modest gentleman. Most of the disciples on Life-Death Peak worshipped underneath him.

Chu Wanning originally thought that this Mo Ran would've been just like all the others. If not Elder Xuanji, then it should be the energetic Elder Pojun. It never should have been his turn

But Mo Ran was standing so close to him. His face showed a kind of intimacy and affection that was unfamiliar to him. He was like some clown that was just chosen. It was all so distressing for no reason.

Chu Wanning only knew how to deal with "awe", "fear" and "disgust". Something like "affection" was too complicated.

He didn't even have to think about it. He immediately rejected Mo Ran.

The young man froze. Hidden under his slender eyelashes, there was a sense of loneliness and unwillingness in his eyes. He lowered his head, thought for a second, and unreasonably muttered: "Anyways, I still choose you."

Chu Wanning: ". . ."

The Lord was watching with great interest. He piped in with a smile:, "A-Ran, do you know who he is?"

"He didn't tell me, how would I?"

"Haha, since you don't know who he is, why would you pick him?"

Mo Ran was still tugging on Chu Wanning's hands. He turned his head, smiling and said to the Lord: "Because he looks the most gentle and easiest to talk to."

In the darkness, Chu Wanning's eyes snapped open, everything appearing fuzzy.

. . . That was one hell of a scene to see.

He didn't know what the hell was wrong with Mo Ran's eyes back then to actually think that he was gentle. Not to mention that all of Life-Death Peak heard about it. They all sent affectionate greetings to Young Master Mo Ran with looks that said "look at this foolish kid".

Chu Wanning lifted his hand to the corner of his faintly throbbing forehead.

His shoulder hurt, his mind was in turmoil, his stomach was hungry, and his head was spinning.

It seemed like he wasn't going to sleep anytime soon.

He fumed on the bed for a while. He sat up and was about to light a stick of incense to calm his mind when suddenly there was another knock on the door.

Mo Ran was outside.

Chu Wanning: ". . ."

He didn't answer. He didn't say whether to stay or leave.

But this time, the door opened by itself.

Chu Wanning looked up gloomily. The lit match in his hand hovered in mid-air but never reached the stick of incense. After a while, it went out.

Chu Wanning said: "Get out."

Mo Ran strolled in.

He was holding a steaming bowl of noodles, fresh from the pot.

This time it was a bit simpler. The noodles weren't as fancy. The rich white noodle soup was garnished with chopped green onion and white sesame seeds, small spare ribs, bok choy, and a slightly browned poached egg.

Chu Wanning was incredibly hungry but he didn't let it show on his face. He glanced at the noodles, then at Mo Ran. He turned his face away and didn't say anything.

Mo Ran put the noodles on the table, and gently said: "I asked the inn's chef to make another bowl."

Chu Wanning lowered his eyes.

Sure enough, Mo Ran didn't make this dish himself.

"Eat some." Mo Ran said. "This bowl isn't spicy, has no beef, and no bean sprouts."

After speaking, he left and closed the door for Chu Wanning on his way out.

He apologized for Chu Wanning's injury.

But he could only do so much.

In the room, Chu Wanning leaned against the window, not knowing what to think. He crossed his arms and stared at the bowl of spare rib noodles from a distance until the heat of the noodles dissipated and they grew cold.

He finally walked over and sat down. He picked up the chopsticks, stirred up the cold and soggy noodles, and slowly ate them.

The case of the Chen family's haunting had been closed.

The next day, they picked up the black horses they had boarded from inside the stables and returned to the sect the same way they had arrived.

In the streets and alleys, tea stalls and rice shops, the people of Caidie Town were all talking about the Chen family's affairs.

The not-so-small town had broken out in scandal, one large enough for the townspeople to talk about it for a whole year.

"I didn't expect that Young Master Chen had been secretly married to Miss Luo for so long. Miss Luo is so pitiful."

"If you ask me, if the Chen family hadn't gotten rich, they wouldn't be able to survive this affair. Sure enough, men can't handle their money. Once they have money, only misfortune will await them."

One man was unhappy and said: "This wasn't Young Master Chen's fault. It's his parents' fault. Mr. Chen, that son of a bitch. His children and grandchildren should only give birth to children without assholes in the future."

Another said: "The dead are pitiful but what about the living? Look at Chen Yao, Yao Qianjin. She's the one who's truly been wronged. That black-hearted mother of the Chen family deceived her. Tell me, what should she do now?"

"Just get remarried."

The man rolled his eyes and sneered: "Remarried? Are you here to get married?"

The mud-coated man who was teased bared his teeth and picked at them, grinning: "If that woman at home agrees, I'd marry her. Ms. Yao looks so beautiful, I don't mind her being a widow."

"Bah, the toad wants to eat swan meat*."

(T/N: 癩蛤蟆想吃天鵝肉 - means having unrealistic wishes or expectations)

Mo Ran sat on the back of the horse, ears perked up, listening to all the conversations in high spirits. If it weren't for Chu Wanning's closed eyes, frown, and the words "extremely noisy" essentially spelled out on his forehead, Mo Ran might have wanted to go join the villagers.

They walked together and finally left the main city, arriving at the outskirts.

Shi Mei suddenly gasped and pointed to the distance: "Shizun, look over there."

In front of the ruined Master of Ceremonies Ghost's earthen temple, there was a large group of peasants in brown clothes and shorts. They were busy moving the bricks and stones. It seemed that they were planning to repair the damaged earthen temple and remould the golden body of the Master of Ceremonies Ghost.

Shi Mei said anxiously: "Shizun, the old Master of Ceremonies Ghost is gone but they've made a new one. Will this be cultivated into an immortal body again and do evil?"

Chu Wanning: "I don't know."

"Should we go and persuade them not to?"

Chu Wanning: "The custom of ghost marriages in Caidie Town has been around for several generations. How would you or I be able to persuade them in just a few words? Let's go."

As he spoke, dust flew up from the horse's hoof and he walked away.

It was already dusk when they returned to Life-Death Peak.

Chu Wanning said to the two disciples in front of the mountain gate: "You go to Danxin Hall and explain what happened. I'll go to the Court of Discipline."

Mo Ran looked puzzled: "Why would you go to the Court of Discipline?"

Shi Mei, on the other hand, looked worried: ". . ."

Chu Wanning nonchalantly said: "To receive my punishment."

Although it's said that an emperor commits the same crime as the common people, what emperor would actually have to go to jail for killing someone? The same goes for the cultivation world.

The elders who break the sect rules are as equally guilty as the disciples - in most sects, it's just empty talk.

In fact, if an elder breaks a rule, it was good enough just to write an apology letter. What fool would actually go to be punished with a willow vine or dozens of sticks?

So, after listening to Chu Wanning's explanation, Elder Jielu's complexion turned green.

"No, Elder Yuheng, did you really. . . did you really beat your client?"

Chu Wanning was indifferent: "Yes."

"You're so. . ."

Chu Wanning raised his stare and gave him a sullen look. Elder Jielu shut up.

"According to the law, for breaking this rule, the punishment is two hundred cane strikes, kneeling in Wushan Temple for seven days, and being forbidden from leaving the grounds for three months." Chu Wanning said. "I have no defence, and I voluntarily accept the punishment."

Elder Jielu: ". . ."

He looked around and hooked his fingers, and the door to the Court of Discipline closed with a clang. The surroundings fell silent, and it was only the two of them that stood opposite each other.

Chu Wanning: "What's the meaning of this?"

"Well, Elder Yuheng, it’s not that you don't understand the rules and their consequences, it's just that it shouldn't be something that you should be overly concerned with. This matter is finished. Let's forget it. If I beat you, won't the Lord be angry with me when he finds out?"

Chu Wanning didn't bother to talk such nonsense with him and simply said: "I hold people accountable according to the law, and I should also be held accountable myself according to the law."

Kneeling down in front of the hall, facing the plaque of sect rules, he said:

"Punish me."

#2ha novel #2ha translation #2ha #the husky and his white cat shizun translation #the husky and his white cat shizun #english translation #chinese bl #chinese novel #bl novel #yaoi novel #yaoi #danmei novel #danmei #chu wanning #mo ran #ranwan

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thesevro · 4 years ago

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more than a mistake

𝖓𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖎 𝖐𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖔 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖘𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 927 words

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: where you face near-death and nanami gets so, so scared for you. 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: angst

HE WALKS WITH the rage of a storm in his wake. You can only follow with downcast eyes, afraid of the harsh yet perfectly justifiable rebukes that will come from this man. He knows how to hit it where it hurts.

His anger is a fault of your own miscalculation. A curse had shown up in Central Tokyo. You had dashed ahead of him upon arriving at the scene, trying to reach for a woman who was about to fall into the hungry mouth of the curse, and had nearly gotten your skull cracked open like a split egg when the curse's companion dove right into you as you jumped into the air.

Nanami remembers how... how still you'd looked then. You did not look like you would ever move again.

Your eyes were closed, then. Face so calm he could almost believe you were asleep. For a split second he was fully convinced the curse had stolen your life.

And he'd stopped breathing, just as he thought you had.

It had taken one large, somehow angry arc of a swing from him to kill both curses. He did not even to check to confirm the kills. All he could see was you.

Ieiri has been able to patch you up since then. But nothing will ever rid Nanami of the fear he felt then. The image of you bleeding out on the ground while he stood there, helpless as he thought that the one he has always loved but never told had died.

You follow him now. He hasn't talked to you in days. It is so unlike the relationship you'd formed previous. He is a cold man now.

"Kento," you call. Desperate to talk to him. "Um, did you hear about the new student Gojo picked up a few days ago? Crazy how... how that kid's Sukuna's vessel now."

A laugh forces itself from your throat. He does not respond, only continues making his way across the hall. You trail behind him. Hoping with all hope that he would just say something.

You really don't even know why it is he's so... mad. You might have made a potentially fatal miscalculation during that mission, but you were here now, alive and now feeling well enough. If he just thought you were too stupid to be in his company, well, that couldn't be your fault.

"Kento, please talk to me. Did I do something?"

He goes still. Stops walking. But he still doesn't look at you.

"Kento?"

"Are you aware that the decision you made during that mission could have cost you your life?"

So it still is about the mission. Anger bubbles in your chest. Red-hot and fiery.

"I did everything I was supposed to, Kento. I'm still alive aren't I? And I was able to save that woman—"

"What would that matter if you had died?"

You freeze. Something now tells you his bitter, ill temper isn't completely about how you might have been stupid, or something of a similar nature.

"You could have died, (Y/N)," he whispers your name. Faces you with sorrow in his almond eyes. "What do you think I would have done then?"

He takes a step towards you. An apology rises on your tongue but there is a sadness so prominent on his crestfallen countenance you remain riveted to the spot. When he touches you you can feel the fear inside him, the fear that the touch exchanged when he offered you that cup of coffee earlier that day would have been, could have been the last. He would never have gotten to explore the taste of you, how his name would feel like on your mouth when he kissed you. How a smile on your lips would feel on his.

This is the first intimate touch he has ever shared with you. His hand closes around yours. You look up at him with a twisted frown, reflecting the same fear he feels at this new level of closeness. This foreign level of intimacy. He's never held someone's hand like this before.

"I'm... I'm sorry," you whisper, averting your gaze. Your heart stutters in your chest as he tilts your chin back upward.

"I never would have gotten to look at you like this if..." he trails off, his face only inches from yours. He sees realization dawn in your beautiful eyes.

"You...?"

"I do," he says. "If I did not, then I would not be so wroth with you."

"That's... not very logical of you, Kento."

"How do you expect me to be logical around you?"

I love you, that's why.

"Oh." You grow shy. Another epiphany hits you. "Oh."

"I am sorry for acting so frigid around you. Seeing you that way just..."

He looks away from you now. Your courage returns, and you cup his cheek in a gentle hand.

It is the second most intimate touch he has ever shared with you.

"I'm sorry, Kento." You trace the sharp outline of his cheekbone with a thumb. "I didn't know."

Though now you understand all the implications your death could have filled his mind with.

"I must confess something, (Y/N)."

You try not to predict what it is he wants to tell you. But from the look in his eyes, you know. Even when he had already professed this earlier. You want to hear him say it. Just as much as he wants to say it to you.

"I am in love with you," he says with his face in your hand. "And if I were to die tomorrow, or today, then I would like to go knowing you feel the same way.

"Because my heart belongs to you."

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autumnshowell · 17 days ago

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Time wears on into a night that proves itself ungentle and cruel.

The waves of pain reach first a slow rhythmic march across her being. And then something staccato. Autumn can hear her heartbeat, louder than she’s ever heard it before. She feels things flooding into her thoughts that she’s never thought before. She perceives Aria, in brief microcosms of time, in new ways she’s never experienced; scent, the taste of her in the air. Autumns voice stretches around the change, going from the girlish timbre that a choral instructor in High School had once described as a squeak into something low and guttural and altogether monstrous. She only screams once in those first two hour, the rest is all low grunts and growls. When it gets worse, when she’s all but blind to the world around her, Autumn feels Aria’s hands at her cheeks, eyes fighting to focus, blue bled out into some animal brassy yellow.

I’m sorry, Autumn tries to say, but who knows if the words find their way around a convulsing tongue and long fangs spreading apart incovenient human teeth. She’s still there enough to recognize the intimacy and the love and to whimper and let it happen, and she wishes — oh, God! — how she wishes it brought the comfort it deserved to bring.

Every bone feels like it’s being bent. Every joint feels like the tension is going to snap it in the wrong direction. For some of them, it’s true, and it does. But this is no horror movie, cut clean for runtime. Autumn feels fresh and sharp fangs push their way in between her teeth. Bones surge and broaden, all in agonizing time.

Somehow, Aria manages to wrangle her into the hardware store chains they rigged into Aria’s bathroom. Autumn remembers none of it, and as the night wares on, things make less and less sense. Why the need for chains? She’s not sure she’ll go anywhere again. Aria says try not to fight it. But she can’t let it win. She tries to fight it, whatever exactly fighting it means, but that only seems to make whatever is shredding its way through her angrier and eventually, exhausted of mind and body, the tide turns; her mind slowly comes around to the idea that there is no fighting it because it is just her. For a fleeting moment, this sole realization makes the groaning heap on the tiled floor laugh in a bout of mania, because maybe if Aria’s right, if she stops trying not to let it happen, it will be gentle.

For hours, she lies on the floor, all sweat and spittle and undignified meat and bone, shifting between quiet tears and pleading to a God she’s never really spoken with. Maybe, the thought occasionally crosses her mind, the pain will get so bad that she’ll pass out.

She never does.

A few hours in and Autumn isn’t herself, or isn’t somebody one could really recognize as her. Misshapen, rattling with agony. Aria’s words of comfort don’t really mean anything to her anymore when they amble from behind the door. A jumble of sounds that seem less comforting and more annoying. Its here, when chains meant to hold human arms starts to tug at the fraying edges of human patience, begin being tested.

And it’s when things change and she can see them that she feels insane. Her hand, not really a hand, nails that she’s always been neurotic about clipping short long, dark, hard things, shaped to a point out of fingers that aren’t fingers on a hand that isn’t a hand anymore. Hair that’s dark and ruddy and brown wiry springing out of her skin. All in its own time, not hers.

She had reasoned, as the month went on, that if this were to happen, then maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. That it would be manageable. One of the last thoughts that passes through her mind as recognizably human is how much she wishes Aria would grab the heavy lid from the toilet and bash her head in with it, to stop the agony. At one mean snapping sound, the muscles in her arm tense so greatly that one of the chains comes loose from its mooring.

In some time, the human throes stop, wind down quiet, only occasionally piercing through once Aria closes the door on her and she has to be alone. She can hear Aria still. Smell her. But that name, Aria, it means less and less to her. Who is an Aria? What is an Aria? Something big and beyond strong, even stronger than its size would betray, bucks at its bonds, a cacophany preceding the sound of another anchor snapping loose from the wall. Something scratches at the door again.

When the pain stops, Aria isn’t in her thoughts, not the way she usually is. Not haunting her desires. Instinct is playing the game now. An Aria is keeping her here. She takes unsteady steps on four legs she’s never used, and looks through eyes that have never seen the indignity of a door. Trapped. Hungry. She scratches at the door. Let me out, she thinks. Let me out, I am hungry. Let me out or I’ll kill you. Don’t you love me, she thinks. Let me out or I’ll kill you and eat you, because I am hungry. This room is so small and I am afraid, let me out. I am so hungry. These whimpers prompt little other than more of the Aria sounds from behind the door, and so the scrapes at the door turn into violent thudding as Autumn throws the whole of her weight against the door. Let me out. Let me out. I am going to eat you. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. You are killing me. Let me out.

THUD LET ME THUD THUD OUT

Legs slip free of chains too loose on new shapes. Something growls feral and furious behind the door. The door is just another cage in a life full of cages.

Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!

"Okay, so we hunker down." She murmurs and moves away from Autumn to grab the chains -- How ridiculous this is, what they're doing. She doesn't know if the chains will hold or if the wolfsbane Autumn's been drinking will weaken her enough to stay bound by them. But there's no turning back now.

She can see something rippling through Autumn's muscles and joints, can smell the change within her - something animalistic and raw and-- It's not a great smell. Aria watches as Autumn twitches on the floor and when it subsides, she clasps the chains around her limps - wrist, wrist, ankle, ankle. Will it be enough?

The crack comes soon after and Aria feels bile at the back of her throat at the sound of it.

The shifting change is clear on her face - she looks more.. monster than human and Aria finds herself whimpering at the sight of it. "It's okay, it's okay - don't fight it." Her hands go to Autumn's face, and she searches the golden yellow hues for something to latch onto. Without thinking, she leans forward and kisses - oh, so gently - the bloody lips hiding sharper teeth behind them.

"Just a little longer." Another kiss, this time to her forehead, then to her nose. "You can do this. I'll be right outside the bathroom."

Now that she can see the shifting signs of the wolf coming, Aria knows it's not safe to stay sitting beside her all night -- a feral werewolf is terrifying on its own. But she reluctantly lets go of Autumn and moves back, out of the room. To watch? To wait?

She sits down right outside of the threshold, pulling her knees to her chest.

#aria #body horror #blood #aria girl i am so so sorry about ur security deposit

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averyhappychainsawhalloween · 3 years ago

Text

Shhh | Part 3

Michael Myers X Reader Part 1 Part 2

Your shift at the deli on main street ends late and you’re not walking out until close to midnight. The dark doesn’t frighten you anymore and you walk freely through the dim downtown area towards home.

It’s been one year since the incident at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium. Eleven months since Michael Myers came to your home.

It’s odd how easily people forget. Now that words come easily to your tongue they forget the month you’d been silent. Now that you smile and attend community picnics and make brownies for the church potluck they’ve forgotten the personal trauma that was the town’s gossip for weeks.

Your mother had sobbed the morning she’d come home and you’d spoken to her. You didn’t tell her of your midnight visitor or of the intimacy you had with him, only that you didn’t feel so afraid anymore.

It’s a cold night but the chill feels good against your skin. It’s a long walk from main street back home but you don’t mind it. Even when you hit the residential areas where the streetlamps die out and the only thing to guide your path are the stars you stay calm. You know what lurks in the dark now, there is no reason to wonder.

You saunter up to your front door and after stepping inside you don’t bother to twist the deadbolt into place. It’s easier if you don’t and you don’t feel like waiting tonight.

You head upstairs and slip out of your work clothes. Your desk is bare but for a single letter from Illinois State University that announces your acceptance for the fall semester next year. You have some time to figure out your major but right now you’re leaning into psychology.

You walk down the hall to the bathroom and take a warm bath. You leave the door open and in the comfort of the steaming water you listen to the silent house. You hear it, the slightest creak of a stair underfoot. You’ve gotten good at hearing it now. Your heart speeds up but not from fear.

You take your time in the bath, luxuriating until the water grows tepid. You step out and loosely wrap a towel around your body. The walk back to your room feels miles long and with each new step your heart pumps faster. Goosebumps sprout across your arms and a shiver runs down your spine and coils itself in your stomach as you turn the corner.

Your room is dark and oddly quiet. You shut the door behind you and scan the small room for any sign of movement. There isn’t any, he’s too good for that.

“Good evening,” you say with a smile to the quiet room. You let the towel around your body drop to the floor.

There’s a moment where you’re alone, naked and exposed. The cold air in the room stiffens your nipples and makes you tremble. You wait, your wet hair sending droplets cascading down your body.

And then you’re not alone. There’s movement in the shadows behind you and suddenly a warm hand grips your hip. You tilt your head to the side as lips brush over your the junction of your neck and shoulders. It’s a gentle touch that comes to a quick end as he picks you up and slams your body face first into the wall.

You catch yourself, your hands protecting your face from a collision with purple wallpaper. Your toes just barely touch the floor and you have to rely on his body to keep you from falling over. He’s impatient tonight but you love it when he clamors to touch you. He kicks your feet apart and you follow his demands, leaning against the wall to keep from crashing into the floor.

He kneels behind you and without warning you feel his tongue between your legs. Wet and warm you melt against his mouth, a breathy gasp escaping your lips as he laps at your clit. His movements are painfully slow and despite knowing Michael does not like to be rushed you let out a frustrated sigh.

His tongue leaves your skin and you know what comes next. You watch his shadow unfurl against the wall in front of you, bathing your entire body in darkness as he stands up. There’s a rustling of clothes and then the warm hard length of his cock is pressing against your entrance. You have only enough time to take a breath to brace yourself before he grabs your hips and slams into you.

Despite his nightly visits you’re always surprised by the size of him. Your mouth falls open as your body stretches to accommodate the intrusion. He does not give you time to acclimate, he’s already pulling out to slam back into you.

His hands move, grasping your wrists and pinning them painfully against the wall. His chest is against your back, sweaty and hot as he thrusts in and out of you. His mouth is beside your ear and you listen to him panting as he takes his pleasure with you. You want to turn around and kiss him, to look into his eyes as he brings you to the edge, but there is one rule about these midnight encounters.

He sees every part of you but you’re not allowed to see his face. You listen to his groans, you memorize the touch of his hands, but your eyes never meet. The urge to break the unspoken rule is strong, like thirst in a desert.

His hands tighten around your wrists as if reading your very thoughts.

Then, in the midst of pleasure, he slips from your body and takes a step back. You stumble, catching the edge of your desk to steady yourself. You look up to see Michael at your bedroom window. The moonlight catches the curves and dips of his muscles, the sweat across his skin glistens. His mask has been discarded on your nightstand and you realize that if he just turned around you’d see all of him. Instead he pulls the curtains closed sending the entire room into pitch black.

Your body is confused. Warm and wanting, but also cold and for the first time in a long time a little scared. You can’t hear him moving in the dark, his steps to quiet against the carpet.

Suddenly hands grab your waist and lift you into the air. You can’t fight your instinct to struggle and you twist in his grip. Then you’re tossed through the air and land on your bed. The springs squeal with the sudden weight and the pillows are knocked askew, falling into the floor. As soon as you land on the mattress he follows, his weight pressing you down into the blankets. His hands are parting your legs, his fingers circling your clit for a moment before his cock is pressing back into you, slowly.

You let your head fall back. He never fucks you in your bed. He’ll bend you over the side of it but he is always standing. He fucks you against walls and over tables but never in bed like couples do.

Your knees are on either side of his hips as he thrusts into you. His hands are planted beside your head, his breath hot against your face. If there was only a little light in the room you’d be able to look into his eyes.

His mouth falls to your throat and you’re lost in the sensation of his lips and teeth against your skin. He’s not fucking you like he usually does, he’s fucking you like they do in movies. You would dare to call it making love if you thought he was capable of such an emotion.

Your body trembles as his touch pushes you further away from rational though. You’re so close to your peak and in this angle you can do something about it. You wrap your legs around his hips, crossing your ankles to hold him in place. Your nails bite into his shoulder blades as wave after wave of sensation rolls over you. His teeth sink into the mess of bite marks along your collarbone and your hips jerk against his with the force of your climax. He fucks you through it until his hips stutter. He doesn’t spend it on your back or your stomach but fills you with his warm seed. Laying beneath him it doesn’t run down your thighs but stays deep inside of you. It makes your heart flutter.

Without thinking you lean up in the darkness. Your lips bump against his nose at first but you find his lips soon enough. Your blood covers his lips giving his kiss an iron tang.

You pull away just as headlights on the street light up your window. Bright light filters through the curtain and shines across his face revealing sharp blue eyes.

And then the light is gone and the room plunges back into darkness.

#michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #slashers x reader #slashers x you #slashers #Michael Myers

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theskywaslookingback · 4 years ago

Note

tma fic recs please ? 🤲🏽

Oooooo yes! I never get asks like this, thank you!

[my tumblr fic recs tag is here for browsing]

I had to put it under a cut because it got...entirely too long barely half an hour into making it, sorry.

Under 5k

means of cartharsis by orphan_account [G] [965]

“You’d think – you’d that at this point nightmares would be second nature for me, hm?” Martin says, forcing a smile even as he tugs the blanket tighter around his trembling shoulders.

It’s meant to be a bit funny. Instead of laughing, though, Jon frowns.

“No,” he says simply, and matter-of-factly wipes the moisture from Martin’s cheeks with a tissue like he’s a crying child.

A Proper Sleepover by Goodluckdetective (scorpiantales) [T] [1.4k]

In a different world, one where Elias is not waiting for them outside the Lonely, everyone has a chance to savor a moment of respite. As much as they can get these days. If only to talk about things that long need to be spoken.

“Basira says we should all sleep in the same room tonight,” Jon says without looking up. “Safer. So we can keep an eye out for intruders and also each other.”

“So we’re having a proper sleepover then?”

Jon scoffs. “Technically we’ve been having a proper one for months.”

where i go, when i go there by rainny_days [T] [1.7k]

Martin wants Jon to hold his hand. Martin doesn't want Jon to hold his hand.

It's complicated.

all the other ways by AptlyNamed [G] [2.2k]

Jon loses his first soul mark when he is eight years old.

a palace from ruin by bibliocratic [G] [2.2k]

"What're you sorry for?” Martin asks.

“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”

interiors by doomcountry [T] [2.7k]

In the doorway, he fumbles with his keys. Their sound is loud in the silent stairwell. You don’t remember getting here.

searching for a light (for a right) by Kalgalen [T] [2.7k]

Some people make the mistake of assuming he's naive about sex, for the simple reason he hasn't dated in a while. Tim has called him a prude, at one point, and implied that he was somehow afraid of the intimacy required by the act; he wasn’t entirely wrong, but this definitely isn’t the reason for Jon's disinterest and general bafflement toward what most people seemed to consider as "what makes them human".

Jon simply hasn't found the right person. That is all it is: high standards, and a reticence to let people in.

(In which Jon finds out society is wrong about what a romantic relationship should be.)

how to plant a garden in rocky soil by treeprince [T] [2.9k]

Sometimes you just need a good pair of hands to work out all the kinks in your life.

Good thing Martin has two.

A Weather In The Flesh by cuttooth [G] [3k]

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

I'll bring the motion by callmearctus [T] [3.1k]

A long series of kidnappings and international flights leaves its own special mark on someone. Before the Unknowing, Jon is a mess.

Martin helps.

A Bread Made In Heaven by Againstme [G] [3.3k]

Martin moves over and watches how his boyfriend handles the dough. He's awkward with it, tentative and gentle, as if he's scared of hurting it somehow.

"Is this, uh, am I doing this right?" Jon asks, still slowly stretching out the dough and folding it onto itself.

"Well," he says shifting closer to Jon again, "you could be applying more pressure. Here, let me help you out, dear."

Martin moves fully behind Jon, and reaches around him, putting his hands on top of his boyfriend's. Jon inhales sharply, but doesn't say anything else, just lets Martin's hand rest on top of his.

Martin's hands are bigger, but not big enough to entirely envelop the other's hands, and Jon's hands are much, much warmer than his own are. To see what they're doing, Martin moves his head to look over Jon's shoulder. Though he can't see his boyfriend's face from this angle, he can see how it is slowly growing red at the edge of his vision. He decides not to tease him on it, instead content with letting a smile spread across his face and slowly guiding their joined hands in the proper motion.

Or, Martin teaches Jon how to make bread.

stumbling and spinning by lady_mab [G] [3.3k]

“Things happened,” Jon says demurely, trying to untangle Gerry’s fingers, but it only results in him getting pulled in so Gerry can kiss him properly. “It’s not all that bad.”

“I suppose not,” Gerry says with a sigh, sitting back upright. “You somehow managed to snag an incredible boyfriend out of it.”

It takes a solid few seconds before realization clicks in Martin’s brain. “You mean me?” [...]

“You have to admit, Jon has great tastes,” Gerry teases.

nothing sweeter than local honey by beeclaws [T] [3.4k]

So Tim is content, one arm leaned into the spray, waiting for the water to warm, enjoying the feeling of homecoming underneath the gentle fuzz of jetlag, when he hears gasping, panicked breaths coming from the other room.

Tim and Jon, in the aftermath, relearning how to be okay.

When Words are Inadequate by Mugatu [T] [3.8k]

Meals and the preparation of are, for want of a better word, informative. Fact gathering. A place where they can fill in the gaps of their knowledge of the other.

Jon cooks for Martin, and they learn more about each other.

go softly by doomcountry [T] [4k]

And there is nothing else besides this.

Imago by cuttooth [T] [4k]

“Jon?” he asks tentatively, tightening his grip around the poker as it slips against his sweaty palm. The antennae twitch, and suddenly Martin knows that it’s Jon, the knowledge sliding into his mind in a surge of desperate affection, the same profound love he felt that first time he truly saw Jon in the fog of the Lonely.

“Oh,” he whispers. “It really is you.”

Jon changes, but he’s still the same to Martin.

shoreline by bibliocratic [G] [4.1k]

“Martin," Tim says kindly, tipsily, only mildly slurring. "Dearest, dearest Martin. You're wankered, babe. Last train to Stockwell fucked off hours ago because it is now piss off o'clock in the morning, and there's a sofa with your exact name on it at my place. Thought you said you wanted some handsome fellow to take you back to his tonight?”

Or: The OG Archive crew go drinking, Martin comes out, and gets some well deserved TLC. In that order.

get your epitaph right by bibliocratic [G] [4.2k]

Martin's daemon has tried on the shape of dogs and lizards and snakes and horses, and even – once, when he was younger and Mum took him to the seaside, a fish.

Martin's never seen his soul in the dressing of a spider before.

i've known the warmth of your doorways by beeclaws [T] [4.2k]

'I’m always in pain, Jon wants to say, even as he dismisses the thought as melodramatic. Between his growing collection of old wounds and scar tissue, the supernatural hunger for statements that hasn’t been truly satiated in months, and the unpredictable aches and strains his body threw off day by day long before he ever set foot in the Institute, some level of pain and discomfort follows Jon wherever he goes now. He is used to being in pain. He’s not used to someone holding his hand as he suffers through it.'

Jon catalogs the comforts he receives, and wonders how long he will be allowed to keep them.

lay down your weary head by Zykaben [T] [4.6k]

Jon has been running himself ragged, searching for every scrap of information he can possibly find about the Unknowing. He's exhausted and sleep-deprived but he can't bring himself to take a break, not now.

Luckily, Tim and Martin are there to make sure that their boyfriend gets the care and rest he needs.

only the sweetest words remain by bluejayblueskies [T] [4.6k]

This isn't how things are supposed to go, right? Jon remembers those ratty paperbacks from the charity shops, dime-a-dozen romance novels with broken bindings and yellowing pages and words that spoke of love and passion and sexuality in prose that was more than a bit too mature for someone whose age hadn’t yet reached double digits. Stolen glances turn into dinner dates turn into passionate kisses turn into…

Well, he’d never actually read those parts of the books, because it had all seemed so deeply uncomfortable and gross. But he got the picture.

Or, Jonathan Sims, on being loved

5k-20k

and they keep not letting go by Marianne_Dashwood [G] [5k]

It’s an electric feeling, something strange and new and familiar all at once, even though he has been holding Martin’s hand for most of the day. His stomach swoops, like he is standing on the edge of the precipice of realisation and staring into the void of unknowing. But at the same time, he does know. In this instant of contact between them, the last few years of cups of tea and small smiles and momentary glances, of panic and fear and only feeling safe with Martin’s solid presence in the room, despite his paranoia, rush into him, and oh, oh oh.

ready to call this love by yewgrove [G] [5.6k]

How is Martin supposed to tell Jon that he panicked, stupidly, when the lovely old lady down the village asked him what they were doing in this part of the world? Got the shopping! Oh, by the way, we're married now! Whole village thinks we're on our honeymoon, hope you don't mind!

Prenons-nous la main by luftballons99 [T] [6k]

They still haven't talked about it, any of it, not even to pass the time on the long train ride to Scotland. Instead, Martin fell asleep in the seat next to him, pressed into his side from shoulder to knee, and Jon thought about love confessions and verb tense and how the two fit together when you think you're dying.

or: Good cows, mediocre poetry, and other crucial topics of discussion.

This Must Be The Place by cuttooth [T] [6k]

“You said – you said we were going home,” Martin says softly.

“I did,” says Jon, and is grateful that Martin doesn’t comment on him calling the Archives home. “I – I don’t really know where to go. I, uh, I don’t have a flat anymore, I don’t think. We could find a hotel?”

“Let’s go to my place,” says Martin. His hand squeezes Jon’s, more gently than before. Most importantly, Jon notes, he doesn’t let go.

Jon and Martin go home for a little while.

Small Things, Simple Acts by ZaliaChimera [T] [6.6k]

Even after leaving London, Jon and Martin are not free, not really. Maybe they never will be.

But for now they can be themselves, and maybe in the end, that's enough.

house by tomatoes [G] [9k]

Martin can take care of himself.

roses, roses, roses by acetheticallyy (judesstfrancis) [T] [9.3k]

Rose scented laundry detergent. Running into Jon in the breakroom. Running into Jon on his way back to his desk. Rose scented detergent. Running into Jon. Roses. Jon. Roses, roses, roses.

a deeply annoying child by ajkal2 [G] [9.6k]

Jon is hiding under the desk.

----

There's a child in the Archives, who shouldn't be there.

Inseparable by voiceless_terror [T] [10.3k]

“You can stay.” The voice interrupts his internal panic, and he looks over to find Jon studiously avoiding his gaze, staring hard at a neighboring bush. Martin wonders what caused his sudden change of heart. “But you have to sit on the other side. And don’t talk to me.”

Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood meet as children. Some things change, others do not.

i'm almost me again, you're almost you by gruhukens [G] [12k]

After a second Jon steps in towards him, close enough that Martin flinches, but all Jon does is put two fingers under his chin with his free hand and raise it until Martin can’t duck away. Jon has never touched him so casually before – at least, not until today, and it raises a lot of thoughts and feelings that Martin is trying very hard not to process.

Much like a lot of other things that have happened, he thinks. Not that it’s horrible or terrifying or numbing like everything else has been: it’s just another thing on the list of things he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with.

---

In the wake of the Lonely, there's a lot that Martin doesn't really want to think about.

hello my old heart by firebirdsuite [T] [15.8k]

Peter’s wrong, of course. When it’s all over, Martin does still want to tell Jon everything. It’s just—well, there’s a few things they need to work through first before they can get there.

Martin and Jon find each other again in Scotland.

Over 20k

The Kindness of Strangers by TheOestofOCs [M] [23k]

It was easier to treat Jon like a monster when he wasn’t shivering against his back, brokenly humming—wait, was that…

“Are you trying to do ‘Hey, Jude’?” Tim demanded.

Jon stopped, stiffening. “Mm hrmh mm mmh hm,” he said defensively.

“You really can’t hold a tune, can you, boss?”

It was just an ordinary walk to a restaurant. Tim had insisted that if they were going to talk, there would be no tape recorders or weird Archives ghosts listening in. A bit of fresh air wouldn’t kill him, Tim had said. What could go wrong?

By the time Jon spots the white delivery van, it’s much too late.

The Stranger kidnaps Jon. Tim comes along for the ride.

Misjudged by ShastaFirecracker [T] [36.5k]

Martin's been a longtime listener of What the Ghost, so when Georgie gives a shoutout to her flatmate's Twitch channel during a Q&A, he checks it out - only to discover that her flatmate is also his most terrifying coworker at his new job. The first time they crossed paths, Jon yelled at him for incompetence. But on the streams, Martin sees an entirely different person - someone fun and relaxed, engaging and unfairly attractive. Over time, Martin begins to find that Jon buried inside his dour, awkward coworker. He also learns to live with the fact that his crush is painfully one-sided... or is it?

if we make it through the night everyone is gonna hear us (Series) by skvadern [Ratings Vary] [42.4k]

In which Sasha survives the NotThem (with a little help from a certain Distortion) and she and Jon spend s2 working together to try and make sense of everything that's happening to them. It goes...interestingly

the garden of forking paths by bibliocratic [T] [49.7k]

Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.

Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

it's only forever by lady_mab [T] [50.9k]

“The castle at the center of the labyrinth,” Jon breathes, recalling again the words from one of the past conversations with Martin. “He’s there.”

“Turn back, Jonathan,” the Goblin King says, and Jon is surprised to hear a slight edge of desperation in the tone. “Turn back before it’s too late.”

“I can’t,” Jon answers with the same tone. “You know that I can’t.”

The Goblin King’s grin is gone completely, and he regards Jon with a degree of pity before that melts into resignation.

Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey [T] [53.3k]

"Who the hell are you?" Jon could feel his hands shaking. The man laughed, taking a step forward and raising a hand to point at him. "I'm you, from the future!" he said, then swayed, eyes going unfocused, and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. -------- Post-season-four Jon and Martin time travel back to the season one Archives.

A Home For What Loves You by TheWrongShop [T] [151k]

It was completely fine that Jon was following up on this very normal, non-supernatural statement at midnight on a Friday. He was going to find nothing at all, and then he was going to go home and sleep for fourteen straight hours and feel absolutely no qualms about moving case #0150409 directly into the filing cabinet marked "discredited".

Or; Jon and Martin end up investigating Carlos Vittery's basement and finding the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss together.

RATED E *MINORS DNI*

A Look And A Voice by cuttooth [E] [6.9k]

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Jon asks bluntly, and for a second Martin can’t breathe.

“It - it doesn’t matter what I - ” he begins valiantly, before Jon interrupts him.

“Because I want to have sex with you, and frankly it doesn’t matter if you think it’s for the wrong reasons. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions. The only thing that matters is if you want to as well.”

Martin meets a guy in a bar and takes him home.

Warms The Coldest Night by cuttooth [E] [11k]

"Flame that warms the coldest night Bring to us the waxing Light, Be with us on Solstice Night." Gypsy - Bring Back The Light

There is mistletoe hanging in the doorway to the Archives when Jon gets in.

Curiosity by ShastaFirecracker [E] [11.6k]

“You know that conversation we had the other day about how one of the most important things for queer youth to learn is that it's okay to change their minds, because identity and self-discovery are always fluid?”

Behind him, Martin slipped oven mitts over his hands and pulled open the oven door. The scent of garlic and rosemary flooded the kitchen. “Yeah?” he said.

“I, um... I'd like to revisit the topic of sex.”

At the Interim (Series) by Rend_Herring [E] [41k]

A Measure Outside the Lines and The Residuum

triptych (Series) by Stacicity [E] [44.9k]

A collection of Jon/Tim/Martin fics

a steady hand, a delicate man by callmearctus [E] [52.8k]

Martin is the proprietor and manager of a very discrete and fairly exclusive brothel situated between Belgravia and Chelsea. Blackwood House excels at special requests and pleasing any client.

Except for Jon, who probably has never been pleased a day in his entire life.

Despite that, he still comes back. It eventually begs the question: how do you solve a problem like Jon Sims?

#statement ends #anonymous #fic recs #save #((this took me like two hours lmaooooo))

113 notes · View notes

crow-mlm · 4 years ago

Text

To Capture Wind in a Bottle. Part 1 (Childe x Reader)

> Word Count: 1.9k

> Summary: A wandering bard, loyal to the God of Anemo, ventures from their home of Mondstadt, drawing the interest of a certain Fatui Harbinger - an interest which spurs an unfortunate infatuation.

> Notes: My first fic on here! I’m hoping this is offering enough to the gacha gods to bring him home. Diluc is lonely...

> Warnings: Implied stalking, non-consensual touching, intimidation, yandere.

There was no earthly possession quite as precious as freedom, at least not to you. The winds that graced every corner of Teyvat, that met the wings of birds and allowed them to soar unrestrained amongst the limitless stretch of sky, was as essential to their voyage as it was to yours. They emboldened you, whether it was a gentle breeze drifting through the foliage of Mondstatd, or the howling currents that coiled around Liyue’s peaks. It was a constant reminder of the Anemo God’s blessing, one that you saw to embrace as best as possible.

The comfort of Mondstadt’s familiar walls and streets was one difficult to part with, but the proclaimed City of Freedom was one that you found contradictory to stagnate in. With the wind at your back, and lyre held tight to your chest, you set yourself on a pilgrimage of sorts. You were, after all, a worshiper in practice and a bard by trade. You admired the nuns that diligently served Barbatos within the Cathedral, but you found that sedentary brand of reverence to be at odds with the creed he proclaimed.

You’d parted with your family and friends, your younger brother gripping your clothes with tear-filled eyes as he begged you not to go. He was eventually subdued with promises of souvenirs and trophies on your eventual return, as well as reassurances offered by your mother with a misty gaze. You wondered if they were more for her than for your brother.

Your lyre proved to be a reliable companion. From Springvale to Liyue Harbour, your performances made ends meet with tips, and your songs garnered you a modest reputation. It was perilous, now and then, and with no combat experience nor vision of your own, you were exceptionally vulnerable amongst the inhospitable wilds. But your cunning proved to be a valuable weapon; hilichurls were easily distracted by the notes of your lyre, and the occasional slime was easy enough to outmaneuver. It was, of course, the human threats that proved to be the most dangerous. Bandits, scavengers and, most unpredictable of them all,-

“The Fatui...” you mumbled, grip tightening on your instrument. It took you a while to put a name to the uniform, but it was unmistakable. This was only supposed to be a minor gig - a small tavern in Liyue that you decided to perform in as you saw the sights the region had to offer - but you couldn’t help assuming the worst as more and more agents filtered in to block every entrance to the establishment. You scanned the audience from your makeshift stage. It was sparse, unsurprisingly, and all the patrons seemed to be stiff in their presence.

All but one.

The mop of orange hair accompanied by the smug, handsome face it belonged to was too distinct to forget. His elbow was perched on a table, hand cupping his face as his unwavering stare held a mixture of intrigue and expectancy. The young man had attended a number of your performances, each time sending you off with a standing ovation and a firm clap, accompanied by an emphasised enthusiasm that made it hard to determine its sincerity. What shocked you was his consistency; whether you were playing in some hole in the wall in Mondstadt or in a secluded town tucked away within Liyue’s landscape, he always happened to make an appearance.

His presence was once flattering, assuming he was simply an adventurer, but his apparent satisfaction at having you cornered like an animal made you sick to your stomach.

Your animosity toward the Fatui was not unfounded; their desire for control and subjugation was one so incompatible with your own values. It was inflamed further by the whispers of their treachery against Barbatos, their rumoured attempts to steal his power and murder one of the four winds. Whether it was true or not, they certainly weren’t above such allegations.

“Ah, don’t tell my our little bard has developed a case stage fright,” The man proclaimed with a chuckle, standing to his full height. His voice made you flinch from your thoughts, an action you immediately regretted as his grin broadened.

You straightened your back, attempting to feign confidence. The glare you met his gaze with seemed to only amuse him, placing a hand against his heart in mock hurt.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, truly,” he sauntered closer to the stage, steps slow and methodical. “I’m just eager to hear that beautiful music of yours, right?” The man nudged a frozen patron with his elbow, eliciting nothing but a subtle recoil in response. You cleared your throat, fists balling with an increasing desire to wipe that smug grin off his face.

“I wasn’t aware I’d be playing to such a large audience,” you remarked, narrowing your eyes at the man before you, “forgive me for being shy.”

Apparently delighting off your discomfort, he chuckled. “My apologies then. See, I simply wanted to invite some of my friends to come hear the wonderful bard they’ve heard so much about,” the man gestured to the squad of Fatui that now guarded the tavern. You shivered, his statement stung with a meaning deeper than it seemed. He closed the distance between you gradually, using a finger to nonchalantly inspect the dust that settled on the tables.

He suddenly directed his gaze back at you, the glint in his eye completely suffocating. “Mondstadt, right?” he nodded in your direction. “The style of music, I mean. Although your sense of fashion is pretty distinct.”

You froze under his words, the light fabrics and pleasant colours of your attire seemingly stripped from your body under his roaming eyes. It dawned on you that this sounded like a thinly veiled interrogation. He punctuated your growing disgust with a sly wink like he knew exactly of your epiphany.

“You’ve been a busy little bard, haven’t you? Seems there isn’t a corner of Teyvat you haven’t graced-”

“The same could be said about you,” you interrupted, tired of the demeaning playfulness that characterised his tone. His surprise at your little outburst was emphasised by a halt, and you realized just how close he was as he stood right before you. Even with the slight elevation of your platform, he seemed to tower over you, evidenced by the crane of your neck to meet his face.

The slight furrow of his brow relaxed, and the teasing grin returned to his face. Oceans of deep, drowning blue locked onto your form, and you felt even smaller in his presence.

“I’m so flattered you remember me!” The man beamed as he arched his back to draw closer to your level. His voice grew quieter, lower, and a fresh wave of fear chilled you to your core. “I’m really quite a fan, little bard.”

Spurred by the heat of his breath against your ear, you jolted yourself backward. Faster than you could comprehend, his gloved hand snatched your forearm in an iron grip, giving a painful squeeze that betrayed a strength unfathomably greater than yours. The wince you gave was met with an affectionate sigh, like a tired parent scolding a misbehaving child.

“No need to run away, (First). We can talk, can’t we?” The use of your name made the ball in your throat thicken. It wasn’t uncommon to have your name known by strangers, word of mouth seemed more fluid and far-reaching than the wind itself, but the preciousness of his tone sounded much too familiar for your liking.

You dropped your gaze to the hand gripping your arm, cursing yourself for the submission but unable to bear the weight of his stare.

“Unhand me,” you demanded weakly, the crack in your voice betraying your paper-thin confidence. “Then I’ll talk.”

The man hummed, humouring your request. With a laugh, he eased his hand off and threw up his arms in a show of passivity. You rubbed your forearm, sore and slightly red. You knew as well as he that you were cornered, and you assumed his grip was a subtle way to demonstrate the chasm of strength between you two. Although your pride pained you to admit it, it worked.

“You’re welcome,” he quipped. He waited, expectantly, the silence dragging on into a momentary eternity. The man took to straightening your crinkled shirt, long fingers lingering uncomfortably before toying with your buttons. “See, I have certain responsibilities,” he continued as he played with your attire, “They’re a real drag, but I can’t neglect them, you know?”

You couldn’t help but squirm under his slight touches, lacking the courage, and presumed strength, you’d need to pull his arm away. He delighted in that, the smile on his lips widening as you writhed. There was an obvious cat-like glee in toying with you, one that made you wonder if all Fatui interrogators were this sadistic.

“One of those responsibilities is ensuring the Fatui aren’t,” He mulled over his words for a moment before continuing, “Infringed upon.”

You furrowed your brow, confused. How did this have anything to do with you? It didn’t go unnoticed by the Fatui member, chuckling deeply. His fingers trailed from your torso, ghosting up your chest before cupping your face in his hand. He bent to meet your eyes, revelling in the myriad of emotions that swirled within them.

“Unfortunately, Mondstadt hasn’t proved to be the most receptive toward Snezhnaya,” His lips quirked a frown, “So to catch wind of a roaming little bard, who sings so highly of the Anemo God, well...” he leans in closer, almost nose to nose, breath dusting against your lips in unwelcomed intimacy. “You can’t blame us for questioning your intentions.”

Anger flashed across your features, trying to pull away from his grasp only for him to lock you helplessly into place.

“Are you accusing me of being a spy?” You seethed, fear momentarily dissolving into rage, “I have no desire to concern myself with scum like you. You’re wasting your time. You-” narrowing your eyes into his, you hissed, “Snezhnayan lapdog.”

The Fatui’s face fell for a moment, and you revelled in the thought you’d dashed that smugness. To your horror, his visage beamed into a wide grin, and you noticed the light pink that dusted his cheeks. He looked truly, terrifyingly authentic for once.

“Cute,” he cooed, “and here I was thinking our little bard didn’t have any bite.” He released your chin, standing up straight and letting you stumble back. With a signal of his hand, the Fatui that guarded the tavern were ordered to leave. He gave you a final grin, taking in the sight of your shivering form.

“I’ll see you soon, (First),” His tone was deep, intimidating, more a threat rather than a friendly goodbye. “Don’t misbehave.”

“Oh!” He interrupted himself with a snap of his fingers, “It’s Childe, by the way.”

With a final wink and flash of his cocky smirk, ‘Childe’ exited the tavern. You felt like you could finally breathe, although the building dread in your stomach failed to subside with his promise. Placing a hand against your temple, you felt your pulse rage beneath the skin.

There was more to this, you concluded. His intimacy, the lingering touches and burning stares suggested more than just Fatui interrogation. You held the anemo sigil placed around your neck, offered a desperate prayer to Barbatos, and hoped that you were wrong.

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #tartaglia x reader #yandere tartaglia #yandere childe #childe x reader #childe imagines #tartaglia imagines #my writing #tw stalking

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ohheyitsokay · 4 years ago

Text

overwhelming

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader (g/n, no y/n)

Warnings: none? this isn’t explicitly Ace!Din, but it was more or less inspired by the concept

Wordcount: 1.6k

Summary: As Din grows closer to you, he navigates the overwhelming sensations of innocent skin to skin contact.

The first time the Mandalorian's skin touched yours he was woefully unprepared for it. It was innocent, just a brush as he caught you from falling, your hand grabbing at his – you were new and were still a bit clumsy around the Crest. The tips of your finger touched a gap between his gloves and the shirt under his armor. The moment wasn’t lost on you though, the two of you froze and you pulled away with quiet thanks. He had touched others with his hands, rarely, but this was different. Overwhelming.

He turned on his heels and left immediately, shutting himself into his room. Heavy breathing sounded worse through the helmet and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why he felt so vulnerable.

When you saw him again, he didn’t acknowledge it, but you felt guilty.

“Mandalorian…” his helmet turned just a degree or two. “I didn’t mean to offend. Please forgive me! Please…” you gulped, your anxiety obvious, “please don’t send me away.”

You weren’t useless by any means, but you knew he did not need you. But you did not want the only place that had ever felt safe to be taken from you so quickly.

He was confused. Send you away? Why would he do that? You were the only genuinely nice being he’d interacted with in awhile. Why would he give that up if he didn’t have to? Why did you look so sad? Was this because he told you about his creed? You thought he was mad at you?

His mind was running but he said, “It’s fine,” before turning back to his task.

And that was all.

It didn’t happen again until many months later, and the two of you were much closer. You had developed a rhythm, working through tasks like seasoned friends. You even talked sometimes, around the Crest, which was to say that you were special to him. He even told you his real name, and you kept it safe.

So when he came to the ship with a bounty, battered and bruised, he had a thought. It made him jittery but he was sore and exhausted to his very bones, so after the bounty was frozen away, Din went looking for you.

You were making sure everything was secure after he came in, and the protocols were all in place for your next journey. You noticed him as soon as he came into view but he didn’t say anything until he was close to you.

“Would you…” he swallowed, realizing he hadn’t thought this part through. “Would you help me?”

You looked confused, and he pointed to the back of his shoulder, where he’d already removed the piece of armor to reveal torn cloth, an ugly bruise, and a long cut. You nodded, following him silently back to where the medical supplies were.

Your hands trembled slightly as you cleaned the wound, gaining confidence the longer he let you. He was tense, nervous at the intimacy of the act, but your hands were gentle as you spread the cream and carefully applied the bandages for the night.

After you parted ways, however, Din Djarin was overwhelmed again. He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like that – with so much care. His skin, even wounded, felt strange and he was afraid.

What the two of you had already was so good. Changing it was dangerous. He was afraid of being so vulnerable with another person. But greater than that, was the fear of how good it felt to have your skin touching his. A very small part of his mind was yelling that if he opened this door – to touching you – he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He would never be able to go another day without wanting to feel you, in some small way. This created a resolve in him: no more. He couldn’t, wouldn’t put himself at risk like that.

Over the next few weeks, this proved to be unexpectedly difficult. He began to realize he was drawn to you, how long had he been seeking you like this? Din kept catching himself stepping close behind you as you walked and leaning in as you talked. His hand drifted towards you: your lower back in a crowd, your shoulder as you worked, your hand as you sat by each other. When did it become second nature for his body to search for yours, to stay by it whenever possible?

Even worse than that was you seemed to gravitate towards him as well. You were respectful – enough to make his heart ache – but still. Once, you put your face on his shoulder, the cold armor squishing your cheek. Another time, your hand tucked itself in his elbow as you wove through a crowd. And when his gloves hand squeezed yours, you always squeezed back. These moments were impossible to ignore: they inhabited his dreams.

So caught up in his self examination, he didn’t realize that you had noticed something change.

You had been overjoyed when he had begun to share little parts of himself and his life with you. Every touch of his was tucked into your heart, the memories to be savored. So when he suddenly stopped, acting increasingly stiff around you, it took no time at all to realize something was up.

“Din,” you said one afternoon, nervous, but determined to make him talk to you. “Have I done something wrong? Have I hurt or offended you?”

He turned in his seat and despite his helmet, there was a familiar feeling of his gaze on you.

“No,” he said, just a touch of confusion slipping through the moderator.

“Have you grown to dislike me, then?”

“No,” he sounded more resolute this time. You smiled a bit, feeling less no less confused but not as anxious.

“Am I repulsive?” your smile grew, “Have I become unbearably smelly?”

“Why are you asking me these things?” his hands moved towards you, then stopped, and gripped the sides of his seat. Quieter, he added, “Of course you are not.”

You shrugged, chewing on the words, trying to find the best way to spit them out. The movement, and repression had not gone unnoticed.

“You are moving away from me,” you said finally, as simple as you could explain it.

He was silent for a long time, barely moving.

Eventually you stood up, hating the expanse the quiet made.

“If I have done nothing wrong, if I have not hurt or offended you,” you moved closer with each phrase, “if you like – if you do not dislike me, if I don’t repulse you, if I am not smelly,” you were right in front of him. “What is it, Din Djarin?”

His gaze had followed you, his helmet tilted up, then down as you sunk to your knees. The closer you got, the harder it had become for him to deny his feelings. It was hard to remember any good reason at all not to have you in his arms. What was he afraid of, again?

There was more silence, and any lightheartedness dissipated, but this time you waited.

The words that finally came out were the very last thing you expected.

“You are too soft,” he said, his tone indiscernible. Your brow furrowed.

“I mean,” he corrected, “I like to be near to you… to touch you…” his helmet turned away from you, almost as if he was embarrassed. “Because of this, I felt I must not.”

Your heart was hammering. You had so many questions, you yearned to dwell on his use of past tense, but you offered silence again, allowing him to explain in his own time.

“Touching your skin, it is intimate. Overwhelming.” He had never been so bold with his words, his feelings. The vulnerability made the silence scream, but his heart skipped as though it had been freed.

“Is it bad?” you asked, feeling a wave of guilt .

He shook his head, looking at you again.

“We move at your pace, Din,” you said honestly, trying to convey your own heart in the words.

They struck him, enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. His resolve crumbled and he was surprised to find that he was not afraid anymore.

Slowly, carefully, he removed his right glove. Your breathe caught, your wide eyes glued at first to his exposed skin, then flying to his visor.

“There is no pressure, Din, no hurry,” you said, but he shook his head again.

“I want to. It is the right time, cyar’ika,” he said, his hand touching your cheek gently, as though he was afraid you would break.

You were unable to resist leaning into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, warmth seeping into your bones. Spurred by your reaction, his large hand pressed against your skin, cradling it.

The two of you stayed like that - you kneeling in front of him, his hand on you, thumb bravely stroking your cheekbone – for what felt like eternity.

From then on, every day at some point, if the two of you were in the ship at the same time, he would find you. He would yank off his glove, with urgency and annoyance, and hold his palm out to you. You would move towards him, and he would gently touch you for a few moments.

The first week, he only touched your cheek, cradling your jaw.

The second week, his hand wandered across your face, tracing your nose your eyebrows, and reveling in the way your eyelashes brushed his bare skin when your eyes closed.

After that week, both his gloves came off for the first time, and he held your face still as the forehead of his helmet pressed against yours.

He did not need to tell you what it meant – you cried and smiled, and as his hands brushed away the tears, he felt himself doing the same.

Bonus:

“You are so soft,” he said reverently, fingers trailing up and down your arm. It had been weeks of growing with you and still he was in awe.

You laughed, “I would not say my arms are particularly soft.” You reached for his hand with one of yours and lifted the hem of your shirt a few inches with the other. “Here,” you said, putting his hand on the skin of your tummy.

He froze for a solid moment before abruptly standing up and turning with a large step away from you. His heart and mind were reeling, and he moved too quickly, and tripped, falling to his knees.

“Are you okay?” you were startled, scrambling towards him. “Din?”

He sunk down until he was fully sitting on the ground and as you made it to him, his arm slung across his helmet, covering it’s face. He began to shake and when he spoke, and you realized you heard laughter in his voice.

“Cyar’ika... You are going to be the death of me.”

#din dijarin fanfiction #din dijarin x reader #din dijarin x you #maybe i don't know people #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader

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phantasmiafxndom · 4 years ago

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hello! i just found your writing and your ideas are amazing, and i love your AUs! you can just ignore this if its too vague, but could i please request some general nsfw headcanons of the obey me! brothers in your pet au? thank you~!

Thank you!! o3o This is pretty vague, so I’m just doing what their attitudes toward sex with an owner would be~

. . .

Lucifer

Whatever his owner commands, he’ll do. Lucifer doesn’t question any order, no matter how unusual he sees it as. He’s not expecting for his owner to want to use him sexually, but if that’s their wishes, then he’ll willingly comply. In his position, there’s no way to do anything else. During sex, Lucifer does exactly what you tell him to. He’s definitely a stiff lover and it’s pretty obvious that he’s just following orders. Unless he’s very attached to his owner, it’s hard for him. to work up much interest in the act beyond doing what he’s told and satisfying his owner as they want him to.

Mammon

The idea of sexual contact with his owner makes him kind of nervous. Mammon crushes on just about anyone who treats him decently, so it’s not an unwanted thought, but it still gives him anxiety to think about actually going through with it. He’s probably had weird fantasies about his owner before if they’ve been kind to him, but expect a near nervous meltdown if you actually try anything. He’s very submissive and eager to please, in part because he’s scared of what will happen if he’s not. Underneath his ego is a whole lot of fear of not doing good enough.

Leviathan

Just mentioning intent for that kind of thing is enough to make Leviathan nearly combust. He can’t imagine actually being used for that. No matter how he thinks about it, he can’t picture an owner actually wanting anything sexual from him. If his owner has been nice, it’s not that he really minds the thought... it just seems like way too much to be true. Maybe his owner will get attached to him if they can use him in that way? It sounds nice to be wanted, even if he has to use sexual means to get there. He cares a lot more about the affection and intimacy than the sex itself.

Satan

It’s... certainly nothing something he’s expecting to happen to him. As a companion type with aggression issues, sex is the last thing he expects to be used for. That said, if his owner expresses those desires, he’ll treat it as any other order and do his best to comply to a satisfactory degree. Resisting would just get him into more trouble than it’s worth, after all. There’s a part of him that’s nervous about going through with it, but Satan pushes that down and forces himself to fulfill what he’s been commanded to do. He’s very attentive, servicing, and obedient during the act.

Asmodeus

He’s been used for sex plenty in the past, so it’s something that he views very casually. Being used by an owner is just what happens to him. Asmodeus acts eager and willing for those kinds of things... even though a part of him wishes that he could have intimacy instead of just being fucked and forgotten. Because he naturally craves a lot of attention, it’s hard on him to just be used. That said, he’s very open when it comes to sex and sees it as inevitable when he’s owned by someone. No matter what he wants, it’ll happen, so he might as well be used to it.

Beelzebub

Being wanted sexually isn’t something that happens to him. It just doesn’t make sense. As a labor type, he’s kept outside and away from things that he could potentially fuck up. And obviously, being that close to a human is something that he could easily fuck up. Even if it was offered, he’d be very anxious about having sex with his owner, and would consider it an order to be followed... which kind of just makes things worse. He tries to be as gentle as possible, but when overwhelmed and feeling good, he can get a bit carried away with it all. Just... be nice to him.

Belphegor

He doesn’t really like the idea of it, seeing it as being “used”. All Belphegor can view sex with an owner as is them taking advantage of him. Even when he gets to a point where he wants it, he has trouble changing his perspective and actually letting it happen. A part of him really wants the affection, but the rest of him can’t stop pushing his limits and being a brat just to test when his owner’s kindness will run out. He’s more likely to let his owner just do whatever they want to him while occasionally sassing back than he is to take any initiative when it comes to sexual contact.

#Obey Me #Lucifer #Obey Me Lucifer #Mammon #Obey Me Mammon #Leviathan #Obey Me Leviathan #Satan #Obey Me Satan #Asmodeus #Obey Me Asmodeus #Beelzebub #Obey Me Beelzebub #Belphegor #Obey Me Belphegor #Headcanon #Obey Me Pet Au #Reader #Lemon

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attack-on-kiwi · 4 years ago

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Hi! I really enjoy your writing and your characterization. Could I please request the rest of the fluff alphabet for post-timeskip Reiner? (whichever point is easiest for you to write from)

Check my master list for letters F, H, N, & R!

A ctivities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

There isn’t much Reiner genuinely likes doing. He’s more than happy to just take part in whatever activities his s/o wants to do. At this point he doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to have an opinion or have any strong wants. This does bother his s/o, so they need to try and coax an answer from him.

They find out he enjoys going for walks. Reiner specifically likes going on long hikes where no other people are around. Sure, he enjoys walking around the marketplace, but there’s always a pressure that he’s going to be cut down at any given moment. Therefore, private hikes are more his scene. He’s able to relax and will be more willing to open up to his s/o during these hikes.

If he had to pick another activity, it would be training together. He’d want to do something physical, such as sparring because it gives him an easy and familiar way to tease them in a more lighthearted manner, such as play wrestling. It’s one of the few times his s/o gets to see Reiner act his age and not put up walls.

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

Resilience. The fact that his s/o is able to push through being with someone like him and still see the good in this terrible world has him weak. He feels undeserving of someone so good, but he’s too attached to even consider letting them go.

To Reiner, their laugh is the most reassuring and calming sound. No matter if their laugh is a gentle chime or a crashing wave, he can’t get enough of it. He swears to himself whenever he makes them laugh, he falls more deeply in love with them than he thought could be possible.

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

Reiner wouldn’t really know where to start. His mind is racing with thoughts such as “Is there an attack?” and “Did they get hurt?”. He lacks tact when calming them down, gripping their shoulders and forcing them to look at him as he near demands them to spill what’s going on. When that doesn’t work, he tries to rethink his approach. He’ll breathe and calm himself before smoothing his palms over their arms and gently asking them what’s wrong.

He’ll hug them tightly and wait as they relax. Whether they just cling to him until their breathing calms or they ride out their panic, he’s pressed his lips to the top of their head, mumbling “everything is fine” even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Reiner, like other warriors, doesn’t entertain the idea of having a future. This man has already resigned himself to the idea that he will be dead within a few years, so what is the point of him imagining a future?

If he could have his way, he’d want a family. At least one child. Though, he wonders if his child would need a friend since he has no siblings that could provide cousins. Maybe two children, then, so they don’t get lonely. He thinks about how he wants a small, comfortable home away from the bustling of the towns. The seaside sounds ideal. Sometimes he imagines what it would feel like to have those children tucked between him and his partner while he told them exaggerated stories of the animals that lived in the forests.

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

He’s physically dominant when it comes to most situation. He’ll put himself before his s/o and make sure they are always in his view. When it comes to intimacy, he teeters between being timid and overbearing. It’s difficult for him to find a balance between wanting to be careful and wanting to have his s/o to himself, and they often find him coming on too strong then becoming reclusive for a few moments after due to the fear of having possibly crosses a boundary.

Reiner sees himself as a natural guardian, so it’s only to be expected that he takes on more traditionally protective roles.

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

Reiner is extremely touched that his s/o would stay with a coward such as himself. He thanks them often and brings them gifts. Most of the time it’s food that would otherwise be difficult for them to get their hands on.

He has a hard time getting out of his head but is able to see that his work and attitude does affect his s/o to a degree and tries to be as mindful as possible. Most times, this mindfulness is chalked up to a simple, “I don’t know what I’d do without you” which needs to be interpreted depending on the context of the situation and his emotional state.

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

His s/o grounds him, but they haven’t made huge steps in affecting his personality. He is lost and needs to figure out how to depend on others, and unfortunately, he’s unable to do so credibly at the moment. His s/o hopes Reiner will one day be able to share his burdens with them, even if just a little bit. Reiner definitely teaches them to be patient.

On the other hand, Reiner is happy to help them overcome their fears. He’s always got a solution and steps to help them get to their goals.

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Yes. He’s insecure and is easily provoked by other people giving his s/o attention. If he sees them giving others intimate attention, he will become extremely suspicious and angry. Reiner tries to ignore it since he doesn’t want to cause a scene. Image is important to warriors, after all. He does cling to them more as he tries to calm himself, often holding their hands or hugging them close in private.

If he’s in a situation where he is allowed to make a move, he’s more than willing to use physical force to scare off anyone he sees as trying to get with his s/o.

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

Reiner’s a good kisser when it comes down to it. His kisses are hot and nearly suffocating. He always has a strong hand behind his partner’s head and another firmly on their back pressing them into him as deep as he can. His skin is warm and being so close to him increases that heat.

His first kiss with his partner was desperate. Whether it was during an episode back in Paradis or when he got back home, his s/o found him uncharacteristically quiet. Serious.

Their voice surprised him, causing him to jump as they made their presence known. It was an unusual sight- to see Reiner hunched in on himself. When they got close enough to sit next to him and ask what was going on, he simply told them that he wanted to kiss them at least once since he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to again. After their initial shock, his soon to be s/o agreed, letting him take lead. Reiner licked his lips and placed one hand gently behind their neck while the other rested on their thigh. He leaned ver, finally inviting them to his lips and as the two sought one another’s touch, he found himself pinning them down and nearly unclothing them. Whether his s/o allowed it to continue or stopped is up for debate.

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

Reiner would never consider confessing.

He would need to be near death or in an extremely stressful and dire situation to blurt it out.

That, or during more recent manga events, Reiner would try to find a moment of peace where he and his s/o could speak in private. During a conversation where he finally explains his past, he would likely refuse to make eye contact and stare at their feet. His voice is shaking slightly as he steels himself for whatever the outcome may be. It’s his s/o who turns his cheek to look him in the eye, confessing they are in love with him. It’s overwhelming and as he’s embraced by them, he reciprocates it over and over in shaky whispers that are muffled by their neck.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

He likes the idea of marriage. Being with someone who is completely his and building a life together that’s peaceful and without pressure would mean the world to him.

Reiner’s proposal is private. It would be during camp before the climatic battle. One evening, he’d take his s/o to a private area and reminisce their experiences together. He’s unsure why he’s bringing it up until his s/o asks what he wants to do after they win. He’s taken aback, wanting to say there’s not much left for him once the world is saved. “Will you marry me, Reiner?”

Reiner’s heart stops at that moment. It’s not a proposal, more so it’s just gauging his desires. He can’t help but nod. If they survive, even if he has little time left, he wants to spend it with them.

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

Reiner’s love is subtle. It’s not common for people in Marley to outright be romantic in public, so displays are limited. Though at some point when he was younger he would have taken great pride in being overly affectionate in front of others, he now takes solace in being a quiet and helpful lover. It’s difficult for him to really express his love verbally, so he takes action. He’s good with fixing appliances, running errands, and comforting them in private. To most others, it seems Reiner is distant with his s.o, but this is untrue.

He’s skilled in loving them. His holds are firm and comforting. His kisses are deep and true. His actions express his care more accurately than his words ever could. The way he puts himself before them is in itself his ultimate display of love.

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

Reiner prefers to keep his romantic involvement private due to fear for his s/o’s safety. Being Involved with him makes them a target which is something he’s unwilling to look past. This does not mean he is ashamed of them by any means.

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

His hugs are all consuming. Something about being in his embrace helps wash away all anxiety. It’s truly difficult for his s/o to be upset for long when they’re in his hold. This becomes especially useful during high stress events, and it helps Reiner calm down.

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

Reiner’s focus isn’t on helping his s/o achieve any goals. His fixation is his mission to save humanity, so he doesn’t actually think too much about if his s/o has any goals they wan to achieve.

If his s/o shares a desire with him, he’s happy to help them map out a plan of attack. There’s not much he can do in ways of helping them if it doesn’t pertain to training or military affairs since most of his time is dedicated to his work.

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

Reiner prefers having a routine above all else. With how erratic his life is, a sense of peace is important to him. He suffers from PTSD and anxiety among other issues, so knowing where his s/o is during a certain time or having a specific ritual at a certain time every day helps him ground himself. He wouldn’t want to deal with any destructive routines when he has free time. It’s extremely important for him to focus on his healing, so a routine is best.

U nderstanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

Reiner... does not know his s/o well. He knows what bothers them and knows about them from what they share. However, he doesn’t make an effort to learn more. He’s got too much on his plate, and the relationship is reliant on the physical intimacy to help each other blow off steam. He could stand to be more emotionally present. It’s something he’s aware of and feels like it’s too late to do anything about it. If he survives, he wants to build a stronger relationship where the two can equally rely on one another for the support that they need.

He’s empathetic to a degree. He listens to their problems and tries to offer the best support he can, but he’s not necessarily equipped to help someone deal with their own problems when he barely has a handle on his own shaky mental state.

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

Reiner is ridiculously obsessed with keeping his relationship. He knows he’s not the best partner that he could be, but he wants to selfishly keep his s/o because they make him feel human. They make him feel worthy of being alive, and he’s too scared of letting that go for who would he be without a purpose? His mission does come first, but he’d be more than willing to throw himself in front of his s/o if it meant securing their escape.

He’s a natural protector as mentioned before, and couple that with suicidal tendencies and you have someone that’s problematically self-sacrificial. It’s not a good mixture, but it goes to show how dependent he is on his s/o for a sense of stability and how far he’d go to make sure they were safe.

W ild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

He likes lying face to face when the two are in bed. When Reiner is especially tired, his cheeks and nose flush a dark pink. It’s always embarrassing when his s/o decides to tease him about it. Don’t you dare call him cute or coo at him because in his tired state he will have no methods of coping. He might even turn around to try and escape their compliments, but if they cling to his back and try to pull him back around, they’re somehow always successful.

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

Reiner doesn’t kiss often. He does like to hold his s/o’s hands. Clasping their fingers with his own and holding their hand sto his chest in moments of quiet vulnerability will be the most stripped down, vulnerable acts he will ever commit.

He’s not opposed to his partner kissing him and holding him, he just doesn’t feel worthy of starting the act himself. Once they initiate, he’s more than eager to soak up as much touch as he can. He never wants to let go, meaning they can be in one another’s embrace for hours if they’re lucky.

Y earning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

Reiner is good at compartmentalizing his feelings, so he will run on autopilot and just hope that his s/o is alive so he can see them soon.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

As mentioned earlier, Reiner is more than willing to put his life on the line for his s/o. He would run into a head on attack if it meant giving his loved one a moment longer to breathe.

#reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #attack on titan headcanons #attack on titan imagines #attack on titan x reader #snk #aot writing blog #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #shingeki no kyojin headcanons #shingeki no kyojin imagines #shingeki no kyoujin x reader #fluff alphabet

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

Text

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Two: running water Words: 4.3k

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

Work Summary:

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

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

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

Chapter Summary:

"How are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Or read below:

(cw for nonsexual nudity, mild blood, mentions of death)

Jon knows three things, in that moment.

One: that Martin’s jumper is sure to be stained with tea for the foreseeable future, given that their laundry situation is abysmal and that he can feel the liquid seeping into the cuff and creeping up the sleeve towards his elbow.

Two: that either he is experiencing an incredibly vivid hallucination (unlikely) or still asleep (even more unlikely), or a woman he saw die what feels like a lifetime ago is standing in front of him, looking as if she’s been dragged through mud and brambles and dressed in a shirt and trousers that look about two sizes too big.

Three: there is no longer the gentle rumble of water coming from the bathroom.

“Jon,” Daisy says again, voice rough as if from disuse and eyes still blown wide—human eyes, Jon notes, not the slitted yellow things that he’d seen as sharp teeth had dug their way into the meat of his calf. A particularly hard gust of wind sends the hem of her shirt fluttering, and Daisy pulls it tightly around her, stepping fully inside the cottage and shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here? Jon wants to say. His stomach is still twisted into knots, and he’s processing, processing, processing. There are yellow daisies on the kitchen table, and there are white daisies out amongst the grass and the weeds, and there’s Daisy, standing in front of him, but he had mourned her, he’d thought she was—

“Hey. Jon,” Daisy says, and then she’s standing in front of him, hand reached out halfway towards him like she can’t quite decide whether she’s allowed to touch. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She’s so close he could touch her, and before he really thinks about it, he’s reaching out and taking the hand that’s hanging in the air between them in his. He finds himself surprised when it doesn’t dissolve underneath his fingers, like he’d still been expecting all of this to be a dream, a falsehood, a sign that his mind is beginning a slow path towards disintegration without the Eye to hold it in place. He makes a choked-off sound, the kind that comes from the breath being punched out of one’s lungs by force rather than by any vibration of one’s vocal cords, as he adjusts his hand so he can thread their fingers together. It’s a familiar motion, bringing back memories of being buried underneath the weight of the earth and sat side-by-side in his office and curled up in the dustiness of document storage. He looks up at Daisy, eyes tracing the confused furrow of her brow and the strong slant of her nose and the thin scar that traces from the edge of her jaw to just below her ear, and squeezes her hand tightly, trying to convey every ounce of emotion he’s feeling in the weight of his eyes on hers.

“Jesus,” Daisy says after a moment, in that familiar way that’s both fond and exasperated, and Jon could cry. “Don’t look at me like that.” Then, after a moment: “I missed you too.”

That same choked sound comes out of Jon’s throat again, mangled by a laugh, and that’s all the encouragement he needs apparently before he’s standing and wrapping his arms around Daisy’s shoulders, giving her just enough time before he makes contact to step away if she wants to. She doesn’t, and when he presses his forehead against her shoulder and closes his eyes, she rests her hands gently against the small of his back, palms flat and grip loose enough that he could wriggle away if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop hugging her for the foreseeable future.

The foreseeable future turns out to be exactly 38 seconds, at which point the bathroom door creaks open and Martin’s voice floats into the kitchen. “Ugh, it’s cold in here. Jon, did you open the…”

Martin’s head appears from around the corner, wet curls sticking to his forehead. He’s wearing a cheery yellow jumper that matches the daisies on the table. Somewhere around the did you, Daisy had pulled back, and now she stands a few paces away from Jon, her face still carefully neutral but with a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there moments before. Jon holds one of his wrists with the opposite hand and watches Martin’s face crumple from an easy smile into shock, lips parted slightly and eyes wide as they fixate on Daisy.

“...door,” Martin finishes, his voice very small. “Um. D- daisy?”

Daisy raises a hand in a half-wave. “Hey.”

“What—?” Martin cuts off, opens and closes his mouth a few times. Finally, he says faintly, “What is happening right now.”

“I’m standing in your kitchen,” Daisy says simply. Then, with a frown: “My kitchen, actually.”

“Right, I guess it is…” Martin shakes his head, letting the sentence trail off into nothing. “Okay, then: how are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

“What? Why?”

Daisy shrugs. “I remember things. Bits and pieces, not a lot other than the blood, but I remember that the sky was… different. A lot more eyes. And the fear was… more. I remember the hunt, and I remember you.” She looks uncomfortable, and her eyes find Jon before glancing off. “Familiar blood. Basira. Pain. And then I woke up.”

Martin blinks. “You… woke up?”

Daisy nods. “Didn’t know where I was, just that it was cold and that the sky was normal again. I think I was in a field somewhere, just… covered in dirt and blood.” Her lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile. “Gave the farmer who found me quite a fright, I think. But the look on his face when he saw me… I knew it had all been real.” She exhales, a breathy laugh that’s not really a laugh at all. “The word really ended, huh.”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. Next to Daisy, Jon shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, so many words building at the back of his throat that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He looks over at Daisy—at the dirt smudged along the side of her face, the bits of moss and leaves tangled in her hair, blood dried and rusty-red on her hands and wrists and crusted underneath her nails—and decides that if he can’t talk, at least that, he can help with.

He reaches over and takes Daisy’s hand in his, tugging it gently yet meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom. She looks over at him, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. “What?”

Jon blows out a frustrated huff of air through his nose and sets his jaw, gripping Daisy’s hand tighter and beginning to cross the room to where Martin is standing, to the hallway that leads to the bathroom and the shower. There’s a moment of resistance, where Daisy digs her heels in and doesn’t move, but after a moment the resistance vanishes and she lets him guide her across the room and into the bathroom. As they pass Martin, he reaches for Jon’s free hand and holds it in his, just for a moment, squeezing lightly. “We’ll talk when you get done, okay?” he says, quietly yet firmly, which means saying no probably isn’t in the cards. That’s fine, Jon thinks; it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. (Except maybe that he doesn’t, not about any of this, but he elects to ignore that.) He just needs a bit of time between then and now, to fully adjust to the fact that Daisy’s hand is in his and she’s standing next to him and somehow, she’s alive.

So Jon nods once, tries (a bit unsuccessfully) to give Martin a reassuring smile, and finishes guiding Daisy to the bathroom.

Once the door is shut behind them, Jon lets go of Daisy’s hand and turns to face her, suddenly unsure. He’s been assuming that everything’s as it was before—that they’re still friends, that she still trusts him with her vulnerabilities, that she would still be willing to accept help from him—but what if it’s not? What if, despite what she said and despite the way she looked at him and despite the way her hands felt when they rested lightly upon his back as he’d hugged her, she doesn’t remember him like that? The Hunt is gone—they’re all gone, Jon thinks, though he can’t Know for certain and that scares him more than he’d care to admit—but he knows that the Eye has left its own scars on him, changed him in so many ways, so what if… what if she’s gone?

Maybe the Daisy Jon knew is still dead after all.

“Hey,” Daisy says, and then her hand is sitting heavy on his shoulder and she’s looking at him intensely. “Stop that. I can tell you’re overthinking things, so just… don’t. I’m here, I’m still me, and I could really use a shower, which I assume is why we’re in here.” She pauses, and then amends, “Well. It’s why I’m in here.”

Jon flushes, feeling a bit embarrassed, and steps away from her touch. He’s halfway through turning to go back out into the hallway when Daisy reaches out again, captures his wrist with the tips of her fingers, and says, “I didn’t say you had to leave.”

Jon pauses with his hand outstretched towards the door handle. I didn’t know if you’d want to be alone, he wants to say. He knows it had been hard, back in the Archives, for Daisy to be alone at all at first. Even though the air was clean and the walls weren’t close together, she’d said that sometimes, it still felt like she was choking down dirt, buried beneath the earth where nobody would ever find her again. She’d hated the sensation of running water too, and it had taken a few weeks for her to finally tell him why. That when it rained, the water would run in rivulets down her hands and the back of her neck, dripping sediment into her eyes and making her clothes stick to her in a way that became repulsive.

The Institute had one shower, situated between the Archives and Artefact Storage, meant for decontamination according to the signage on the wall. At some point during Jon’s coma, someone had stuck a shower basket to the tile wall, filling it with shampoo and conditioner and body wash, and had erected a haphazard system of rings, curtain, and rod around the showerhead to allow for a modicum of privacy. After they’d crawled out of the coffin, covered head-to-toe in dirt that seemed to permeate every inch of them, they’d walked together wordlessly to the room that contained the shower. Jon had offered to let Daisy use it first and had made to leave, but he’d been stopped by the tightening of Daisy’s hand in his, an unspoken desire to not be alone, not again.

So Jon had stood beside her and tangled his fingers loosely with hers through a gap in the curtain and had kept her company as she’d slowly, painstakingly washed six months of grime out of her hair and off her skin and out from underneath her nails, shuddering as the dirt turned to mud and slid in clumps off her skin. And when Jon had taken his own turn, scrubbing at his skin with a harsh, crisp efficiency, he’d pulled back the curtain with a towel wrapped around him to see Daisy leaning against the wall across from him, eyes fixed on the floor just in front of the shower as if she’d been reminding herself of Jon’s presence by the way his shadow fell across the floor beneath them.

It had become easy after that, to fall into a routine. Jon thinks he should have felt more vulnerable, more exposed. But he hadn’t. He’d just felt safe.

Now, he hesitates only a moment more before nodding and turning back from the door, and Daisy lets her hand drop from his wrist. She exhales heavily before stepping out of her clothing, letting it fall to the floor in a pile by her feet. Jon looks away, but not before he sees the blood on her skin—dried and cracked brown, mixed with smudges of dirt. He takes a breath, then looks back, taking a step forward and lifting a hand towards her stomach, hesitating halfway there and giving her a questioning look.

“It’s not mine,” Daisy says, reaching for Jon’s hand and settling it flat against her stomach. The skin there is smooth, unbroken, and when Jon drops his hand after a moment, it comes away clean. Her voice is strangely even, like she’s trying not to let any emotion slip through, when she says, “I think some of it might be yours, actually.”

That… makes sense, Jon thinks, even as the thought makes his stomach twist. He wants to ask what happened—why she’s still covered in blood and dirt, why she came in wearing clothing that wasn’t hers but otherwise unchanged, how she made it here, why she even decided to come here in the first place—but he can’t think of a way to do so without his notebook, which is still sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it. So instead, he sighs, steps around her, and turns on the shower, letting the water painstakingly warm up to a bearable temperature and periodically sticking his hand in the spray to check. As he does so, he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him, level and without much weight, yet curious and analytical in their own way. Finally, as the water reaches lukewarm and begins to climb to hot, she says, “Did something happen to you?”

Jon looks over at her, at the discerning slant to her mouth, and wants to laugh. Did something happen. It feels like the understatement of the century. He rolls his eyes and nods, hoping that it’ll give off the proper amount of yes, but you’ll have to be more specific, and sticks his hand back in the spray, satisfied to find it finally at the proper temperature.

“You know what I mean,” Daisy says, her tone no-nonsense but soft around the edges, like she’s taking care with how she proceeds. “I can see it on your face, Jon—you’re dying to ask questions, but for some reason, you’re not. From you, that means that you’re physically unable to ask them. So something must have happened.” She taps her fingers on her arms where they’re crossed over her chest and gives him a searching look. “Suppose it’s got something to do with the fact that the Eye’s gone, along with the rest of them?”

Jon’s not surprised that she knows. He’d felt the severance of the Eye from him almost as acutely as the knife slicing through the skin and muscle of his chest, like the snap of a thousand threads in his mind, and it had been agony. Even if she hadn’t felt it herself, being… dead, or something, the Eye’s absence for him is like a constant ache, and he keeps reaching for it instinctively only to find that part of him missing, like the ghost of an amputated limb. He doesn’t have to Know to know that she can feel the absence of the Hunt, gone in a way that’s equally as relieving as it is painful. But he still hesitates because it’s not… it’s not as simple as the Eye just being gone.

He doesn’t know why his voice is gone. Not for certain. But he can’t help but remember Annabelle’s words, see her running her fingers along the tape-strung webs that had taken his voice, and wonder that if when the Fears and the tapes that bound them were whisked away into other worlds, they weren’t so keen to return what had been given to them.

He nods, then hesitates and, after a moment, shrugs. He pulls his hand out of the water and gestures towards it, a clear go on, but Daisy doesn’t move—just keeps staring at him. “Hm,” she says after a moment, then shrugs and uncrosses her arms. “Would’ve thought it would have been the eyes, but the voicebox makes sense too, I guess.”

She steps past him and into the shower, making a face as the water hits her back and begins to run down it, bringing with it trails of brown and red that drip dark onto the tile floor. She doesn’t see him raise his hand and ghost his fingers lightly against his throat, just beneath his chin, feeling the thin scar that sits there raised and smooth beneath his fingers. He’d been surprised too, he supposes, once the shock of everything else had worn off, that he’d been left mute and not blind. But the more he’d poked and prodded at the aching bruise the Eye had left behind, the more he’d decided that it wasn’t quite the same kind of severance. Melanie’s had been a clean break, like snipping a thread—intentional and without much resistance. Jon’s had been… messier. And neither side had wanted to let go.

“I don’t remember the water pressure being so awful,” Daisy says a bit sullenly, and Jon drops his hand like he’s been burned. She’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and he knows she’d seen it, but she doesn’t mention it. He gives her a small smile and shrugs again, then frowns and, without really thinking about it, steps closer so he can tug out a small leaf that had been stuck in a tangle of Daisy’s hair. It hangs between his fingers for a moment before he drops it, letting it flutter to the tile and get swept away towards the drain.

Daisy looks at him, something unreadable in her eyes, and for a moment, he thinks he’s done something wrong—that it’s not like that between the two of them any longer. Then, Daisy turns and grabs the shampoo bottle off the shelf beside her, extending it towards him with one eyebrow raised. “If you’re going to stand there, you may as well make yourself useful,” she says, and Jon almost melts with relief, because the slight edge of softness in her voice—the way her words sound like a command but are instead an offer—is just as familiar to him as it had been so many months ago.

He takes the bottle, squeezes a small puddle of pale white that smells of vanilla into the center of his hand, and steps close enough that he can reach her hair. She tilts her head back slightly, accommodating for the few inches of height difference between them, and allows him to work the shampoo into her hair, scratching his nails against her scalp and working out bits of dirt and small twigs and sand that gets underneath his nails. He has so many things he wants to say to her since they’ve last been able to see each other like this, the first of which had come to him the moment he’d turned his back on her and Basira and fled into the damp, musty darkness of the tunnels. I need you to be safe, he’d thought, and he’d almost turned back so he could say it, sure that it could help somehow. Instead, he’d grit his teeth and kept running, because he’d known what she would say in return after she’d finished yelling at him for coming back just to say that. (If she was still able to yell, his mind had supplied unhelpfully. If she still had a jaw and tongue with which to form words.)

You don’t need me for anything, she would have said, and she would have been right. But that didn’t stop the want that crept into his bones as he ran through twisting corridors and dense fog, into his skin as he stepped into a dimly-lit cottage in the Scottish Highlands, into his stuttering heart as he stared up at a sky that stared back, unblinking and loving, and Knew that she was gone, running through this new and changed world with nothing but the smell of blood and the taste of fear driving her forward. He wanted her to be safe.

He’d wanted a great many things, back when the world was twisted and wrong.

He’d wanted her beside him, someone who would understand what it was like to be utterly consumed by that which you served and who knew what it was like to feel like a monster. He’d wanted to help her breathe around the sharp teeth in her mouth and to unclench her fingers where her claws dug into her palms and to talk her down from rumbling growls to heavy, labored breaths. He’d wanted to Look and see her happy, but to see her, rather than something that had once been Daisy but that now barely resembled the woman he had pulled out of the coffin. More than anything, he’d just wanted to see her. To talk to her. To be with his friend.

I’ve missed you, he thinks as he runs his fingers through Daisy’s hair, coarser than he remembers but still the same pale copper color, and watches the suds rinse slowly off as she shifts so she’s standing directly under the showerhead. His sleeves are growing a bit damp, even pushed up to the elbows as they are, and he pulls his hands back, letting them hang uncertainly in the air for a moment before he rubs them dry against one of the towels. And I wish I could tell you.

Once the water has run clear, Daisy shuts the shower off with a sigh and gathers a towel in her arms, rubbing it over her head and back with brisk efficiency. Her hair lies damp and heavy down her back as she wraps the towel around her. Jon’s fingers itch to separate her hair into thirds and pleat it into a loose braid like she’d always allowed him to do when he’d been feeling the loss of his own hair—shaved to the scalp during the coma, just barely grown to the tips of his ears—particularly deeply, but he keeps his hands by his side. Daisy looks at him, and after a moment, she says, “It’s weird not hearing your voice.” Then, softer: “I’m sorry it’s gone.”

Jon might cry. He nods instead, just once, and reaches for the door handle, pausing to give Daisy the chance to stop him before turning it and opening the door.

Martin isn’t there anymore. Jon can hear movement in the kitchen, glass clanking together, the sizzle of something in a pan. It smells of cumin and coriander. He nods at Daisy and leads her to the bedroom, kneeling and digging through the suitcase they’d never quite gotten around to unpacking before he unearths a pair of trousers he’s nearly certain will fit and a dark blue hoodie that only makes him flush a little bit at as he thrusts it towards Daisy.

She takes them without comment, and by the time he’s rearranged the remaining items inside the suitcase and stood, she’s swapped out the towel for the clothing. The trousers are a bit short, but they’ll do, Jon thinks, until they can run into town and get something else.

Then, Daisy plucks the hem of the hoodie between two fingers and says, amused, “Is this mine?”

Jon’s flush grows in intensity, and he covers it with a frown and a little huff of air through his nose. This only seems to amuse Daisy more; she lets out a small breathy laugh to match, drops the hem of the hoodie, and says, “Don’t look so grumpy. It’s sweet.” As Jon sputters soundlessly, she continues, “Have you had this the whole time? I was wondering where it went. Did you wear any of your own clothes in the Archives?”

Jon’s frown deepens into a scowl without any heat, and he looks away.

“Going to take that as a no.” Then, at Jon’s glower: “Relax, Jon. I’m just teasing.” Long fingers reach out and tug at the hem of his own jumper, and Daisy says with an audible smile, “Nice to see you’re still wearing Martin’s jumpers.” Then, a touch softer: “And that he’s here to give them to you.”

Jon flushes again for an entirely different reason, less of a shock of heat and more like a warmth that spreads over him like a blanket. He looks over at Daisy to see her watching him with a faint smile on her lips, and beneath it, a touch of satisfaction. It’s warranted, he supposes, given how much time he’d spent bemoaning Martin’s absence and sending wistful looks towards the ceiling and, enough times to be embarrassing, burying his face in the sleeves of Martin’s jumpers after a few too many drinks and trying to pick out the lingering smell of Martin amongst the must of the Archives that had begun to permeate them.

He looks down at where Daisy’s fingers are still gripping the hem of the jumper, a smile that’s happier than anything he’s worn in what feels like years rising to his lips. He’s wearing Martin’s jumper, in a safehouse in the Scottish Highlands, and Daisy is standing in front of him, and there is sunlight filtering in through the curtains, and there are no eyes heavy on the back of his neck or rust-red blood sitting in the back of Daisy’s nostrils, and they’re safe. Daisy’s here, with him, and Martin is in the other room cooking, and this is real. And he knows things will grow complicated again, likely as soon as they exit the bedroom and have to face the reality of how she’s here, but for now, there’s only this. And Jon intends to enjoy every moment of it that he can get.

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #martin blackwood #my fic #my writing #before tag

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hoe-imaginess · 5 years ago

Text

hostage | madara uchiha

Madara x Tobirama’s s/o

summary: Tobirama’s wife is held captive when the Uchiha invade Senju territory. She does what she can to keep the peace. It doesn’t last long.

word count: 9.5k

warnings: sex as a bargaining tool, physical/emotional harm, heavy angst, mentions of miscarriage/abortion, brutal use of sharingan

a/n: part of a long and self-indulgent founders era fic I was writing, but recently gave up on. so this is just a very choppy rough draft. it’s all over the place. apologies for the poor & skimpy writing style. fair warning: bit of a darker rendition of Madara than what I usually write on this blog. IM me if you want more details before reading

⤰

They attack in the dead of night.

With the main host of the Senju army battling in far-away provinces, Hashirama and Tobirama with it, few seasoned shinobi are left to protect the plot of land which the Senju call home.

The Uchiha overwhelm the paltry resistance quickly and efficiently, then set about infiltrating the rest of the territory to claim as theirs.

They’re met with little defiance. Of the Senju who don’t escape into the woods, slipping through Uchiha clutches before they can fully surround the vicinity, a majority left to endure the raid are civilians with no real experience or means to contend the invaders’ assault.

Chaos ensues. Uchiha chase down fleeing families, drag them back to the center of the camp where hostages are corralled. They bark and shout orders at stubborn Senju who refuse to abide, sometimes resorting to violence to win obedience.

Then come the fires. The Senju, in one final, practiced act of loyalty, set ablaze as much property as they can in an effort to destroy any intelligence on Senju affairs which the Uchiha might find and use to their favor.

Some of these renegades are stopped before they can succeed, others manage to do their part before being apprehended.

She is one among them, burning the room in her home which her husband uses so often to practice and hone his jutsu; where plots of war are imagined and scribed; where important records are stored.

Tobirama would balk to see all his work going up in flames, but she knows that it’s what he would want her to do.

The anguish that beats mercilessly in her chest as she watches her home catch fire is dreadful.

Such a small little place, she thinks. Just big enough for the two of them. They hadn’t been married for more than a few months now. Arranged, like so many unions those days.

Yet the little, perfect home held such memories in that short time; watching smoke rise from the walls and foundations makes her sick with sorrow.

But it must be done. Whatever the invaders might pillage from her home, they would find nothing to their benefit, and nothing that might end up hurting Tobirama, or the Senju.

Two Uchiha men grab her just as she watches the roof of her home collapse in on itself, pillars weakened and corrupted by flame.

It’s a sodden and meager thing to find so fulfilling, but it’s the only thing from which to reap comfort.

Doomed as she may now be to whatever her captors have planned, she, too, has plans: plans to remember Tobirama’s prudence, adopt it as her own. Whatever awaits her, she can face with her chin held high.

As she’s herded into a crowd of the Senju hostages, uncertain of their holistic fate, the cries and tears of anguish from men, women, and children alike hurt her beyond words.

When the leader of the invaders stands before them and addresses them, with his coal-black eyes piercing every one of them even in the dark void of night, she feels anger beyond words.

And when she learns of his plans to occupy their land, to keep them as prisoners of war, she feels determination.

⤰

When she’s brought before Madara Uchiha in the coming days for the purpose of interrogation, he senses immediately that she isn’t a Senju.

Arranged marriages aren’t uncommon, and Madara knows Hashirama is quick to support alliances with clans he finds trustworthy enough. Madara wonders who, among the Senju prominent enough to be pursued for political marriage, might call this woman their wife.

Feeling foolish for having not expected such a question in advance—though somewhere, she’s hardly able to blame herself, given the chaos of the last few days—her mind races for explanation when he inquires about her husband.

“I’m a widow,” she lies. “He died months ago.”

She remains with the Senju to uphold the alliance her marriage created, she says, hoping he believes it.

His gaze is startling, and she fears intermittently that he’s staring right through her with those merciless eyes, extracting the truth under her lies, truths that needn’t be spoken, only simmering underneath the surface for his scrutiny to grab.

She feels apprehension like she’s never known when, after her explanations, he’s quiet. Utterly quiet.

Then, just as she tries and fails to steel her heart’s rapid beating, he dismisses her.

As she’s led out of the tent the Uchiha have constructed for their own purposes of war, she takes a calming breath.

If she plans on putting her wits to use and curbing the punishments soon to be expounded against the Senju innocents, she needs to leverage herself with composure.

She can’t let Madara Uchiha rattle her this much if she plans on contriving against him.

If she plans on winning his trust.

⤰

It’s fairly easy to be granted an audience.

She’s rigid in her loyalty to the Senju, and answers any of Madara’s interrogations about Senju information with silence or ignorance. Still, she’s compliant with otherwise basic facets of the Uchiha occupation; she tells him where best to find food and water in the land; from which fields they might find the most harvest; offers insight on neighboring clans that may contend the Uchiha occupation of Senju territory, loyal to the Senju as they were.

In compensation, Madara is usually merciful with her requests. She asks that the Senju hostages be given more daily rations and more room in which to sleep and live, now that the Uchiha occupy most of their old homes.

Generally, entreatments to the betterment of their well-being are met with leniency. Something for which she is glad, but the brother, Izuna, is not.

She hears them arguing sometimes: Izuna claiming that his elder brother is being too forgiving on the enemy—she assumes she is the enemy in question—and Madara stating in response that he has no quarrel with Senju commoners, and that amending some of their grievances is no harm to their cause.

These small victories continue to mount, until she finds herself at his side almost daily, discussing hostage afflictions, enduring his queries and, occasionally, even his frustration at receiving no answers.

This frustration burgeons quickly, until she’s half-convinced that her play at ignorance is one he sees right through. But he always dismisses her when his irritation becomes visible and unavoidable, almost as if to save her from facing the brunt of it.

It’s the first of the strange, apprehensive intimacies that he gives her.

More apparent, soon after, are his long-held gazes.

They sweep over her, inspect her while she talks, greedily scrutinizing her responses. He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through her when his dark eyes linger for too long.

She isn’t naive enough to think this prolonged regard is devoid of any suspicious undertone, nor is she naive to dismiss the lust behind his gazes; the careful inspections of her very body that describe something hidden and desiring under his facade.

She doesn’t want him to look at her like that. She doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the way it makes her skin crawl, or her heart stutter.

But how can she be ungrateful for his dangerous admiration when it might prove profitable?

⤰

She reaps the benefits of his greed not long after their invasion.

He’s taken up residency in one of the precluded houses near the center of the camp. No guards stand watch outside; he doesn’t need them.

When she asks for entrance to his room he gives it, albeit cautiously. She doesn’t bother disguising her visit under any pretense; she’s there for him, and he knows this, apparently, judging by the careful look he gives her when she walks in and shuts the door behind her.

Shame and irritation sizzles underneath her skin, but she ignores it. Her efforts have guaranteed the safety of the innocents under Uchiha rule so far, but those efforts won’t last forever. There’s more to be done.

It’s not long until she’s pressed against him. Insistently her hand rubs over the space between his thighs. He’s soft, unaffected by her touch. It discourages her, but she continues, regardless.

“What do you hope to gain from this?” he asks, eyes steely and trained on her, as if her eager hand isn’t even there.

He hasn’t made a move to stop her, so she urges herself on.

"Isn’t this what you want?” she implores.

“What makes you believe that?”

“The way you look at me.”

It’s a calm declaration, though she’s still explicitly hiding something under her tone, he sees, something like frustration.

“How do I look at you?” he inquires.

When she refuses to answer, he lifts a finger under her chin and forces her gaze to him.

“Like you want to control me,” she answers bitterly.

The bulge under her hand twitches to life. She rubs harder. His face changes; his expression is tighter, more concentrated.

“And that’s what you want?” His hand stretches across the back of her neck, keeps her head still. Fingers brush at the nape in deceptively gentle tandem. “To be controlled?”

“No.” She squeezes her hand, hard. He replies with an angry, swift breath. “You could never control me.”

The hand at her nape curls into her hair and yanks hard, so hard that her rubbing stops.

“I already do.”

She’s infuriated by his words, he can see that plainly on her face. But he doesn’t care. She’s made the mistake of dangling her seductions in front of him, and he’ll rise to the occasion, if she's so determined to stir him.

It shocks her how smoothly he maneuvers her to the futon at their feet, lays her down and climbs over her; how expertly his mouth captures hers and his tongue slides over her lips.

She opens her mouth obediently, lets him explore. Shame courses through her when a hand between her thighs coaxes a pleased, albeit startled hum from her mouth.

His fingers work her up quickly, pull her clothes off without a hiccup or delay.

She had, foolishly, underestimated the strength of him. After she’s stripped bare, when he holds her arms down, there’s no room for her to fight back. As he looms over her, powerful and dangerous, she realizes she should be shaking in fear, in hatred, in uncertainty.

Instead, her body is calm, forcefully calm.

Sensing this, he sees it not as her resolve, but as a challenge.

She refuses to close her eyes when he starts, and stares up at him, disputing his gaze. The pleased sigh that leaves his mouth when he starts rocking into her makes her shiver, despite her determination to keep her body still, keep it pliable for his pleasure but loyal to her convictions.

His thrusts are deep and hard, reaching into her in ways she didn’t even know possible until now. Her breath catches with every snap of his hips, until those breaths are choking off into surprised gasps when he angles his body a certain way, hits a certain spot inside of her that makes her legs jolt with pleasure.

One hand is planted firmly into the sheets beside her, keeping his body suspended over her. The other holds her thigh, keeps it pressed down to ensure she’s stretched as open as he needs her to be.

When pleasure urges him to go harder, he takes her leg and curves it around his waist to dig into her deeper. With the new angle she can peer down, watch his cock spear into her with precise finesse. She tears her eyes away, the sight of it making her nerves tingle, making the unbidden pleasure that much more potent.

Even if she wanted to vacate her mind, to numb herself to all feeling until she could be sure he was done and her task finished, it’s an impossible feat. Too many sensations; his heavy breath coming in low pants; strong thighs shoving against her legs with every thrust; his eyes, even when she turns from them, searing into her, pinning her down.

A flush spreads over her body, hot and feverish and anxious. In the scant light she sees his skin giving way to his own pleasure; sweat lines the curve of his prominent clavicles, a drop on his brow as it furrows with the heightened pace of his thrusts.

She starts to tremble uncontrollably as he roughly pounds into her, losing some of his rhythm, a basic need for release urging him. Rumbling, chest-born moans spill from his lips, and against her body’s wishes, she cums with a hard-fought whimper.

As she shivers through the onslaught of pleasure, he stares down at her, his face an emotionless canvas.

She doesn’t even realize he’s near his end until he grabs onto her hard, grunts loud and staggered, then stops moving.

He takes a moment to let the pleasure sink in, eyes closed to revel in the wet heat surrounding him, pulsing and twitching. Then he pulls out.

He leaves her on the mat, naked, curled into herself as if to hide the shame of her orgasm. Nothing in his posture speaks of an identical sentiment on his part. The sex she finds so monumentally impairing, he sees as nothing more than what it is: sex.

No sooner than he moves away from her is he dressing, the raw muscle of his back moving with every motion, his sweat-glazed scars glistening in the moonlight that invades from closed curtains.

Before he leaves, he says, “I assume you have herbs.”

Her eyes open.

The herbs.

She had almost forgotten. She hasn’t needed to take them since Tobirama left, since there was no one else to share her bed…

The thought of Madara’s seed quickening inside of her makes her nauseous. She’s almost grateful he’s reminded her of the contraceptives.

“Yes,” she says. She’ll take them first thing in the morning. They were made to work even after the fact. No need to panic.

“Good.”

He leaves her in his room, and she falls asleep despite her errant thoughts.

⤰

She draws a bath for herself and slips into the lukewarm water.

The bruises and love-marks haven’t gone away. Every time they do, every time her skin is returned to its unsullied state, she’s in his bed again, tempering him, giving herself over to his rough desires in some hope it will continue to coax leniency out of him.

She’s been bathing more often, she realizes: some meager attempt to wash his scent and his touch from her, no matter the pleasure she takes from it in kind.

But there’s still much resistance in her thoughts when she gives herself over to him, a chiding reminder in the back of her head that says what she’s doing is shameful.

She’s a married woman, after all; widow, in Madara’s eyes.

But the masquerade doesn’t take away from the guilt she feels every time she opens her legs for his lust. It’s not even easy to imagine it’s Tobirama anymore. Tobirama isn’t so purposefully rough, isn’t keen on making pleasure so hard-fought with such domination that she receives from the Uchiha.

A chill runs through her to think of the difference between them, to think she might never again know the softer, more loving touch of her husband. The possessive, taking nature of Madara’s intimacy might be all she ever knows.

She touches the skin under her breast, feeling no texture on the flesh, but knowing the seal Tobirama left is still there: a risky, but comforting reminder of his caresses.

She so misses them. She misses his voice, his touch, his earthy scent. The room around her is so devoid of it. The very air feels seized by the conquest of her Uchiha captors. Every breath she draws is more of their smoke, their fire, their danger.

She sinks underneath the surface of the bathwater, eyes closed, a calming air reserved in her lungs.

The water is comforting, reminds her of Tobirama. She imagines it’s him surrounding and warming her skin, if only for a moment.

She lets the world around her numb to nothingness, hoping at some point, so too will her anxieties leave her and make this dilemma all the easier to endure.

⤰

Izuna hadn’t meant to come across her this way.

The woman isn’t answering his brother’s summons, and the guards stationed outside her home say she won’t respond to the calls or demanding knocks they make at her door.

Izuna isn’t a patient man. He has much better things to do than fetch his brother’s stubborn whore.

The guards at the door had apparently been warned not to intrude on her sanctity more than necessary, and utter a protest when Izuna barges into her home unannounced. He ignores their murmuring, unfamiliar with the respect—or whatever it is—that keeps them compliant.

The living area is empty and so is the kitchen. He calls her name once, then twice, irritation coloring his shouts. They garner no response.

At the back of the house, he hears a sound, and goes to it. He hears it again once he’s closer, coming from the washroom, he thinks.

He knocks once.

No response.

He knocks again.

Still, no response.

Sufferance all but worn, he pulls open the door.

There’s a bath of water, her form distorted underneath its surface. His intrusion is apparently louder than any previous call for her attention and she folds up quickly from underneath the water, breaking the surface and sending splashes everywhere in her haste to glance around, size him up, and cover herself for modesty.

Too late. He’s seen it.

Never mind her naked body. Even if he needs to be forgiven for barging in on her later, he doubts, now seeing the mark that she quickly goes to hide under her breast, that she’ll be getting mercy from him or any other Uchiha from this point on.

⤰

When Izuna drags her into the war tent, Madara is more startled by the interruption than irritated.

She’s half-clothed, body and hair wet from the remnants of what he assumes was an interrupted cleanse; Izuna has a distraught look of fury on his face that never bodes well. What surprises Madara most, however, is the way she cowers into herself when Izuna throws her down at his feet.

“What is this, Izuna?” Madara demands of his brother, mildly offended to witness this treatment of her, at his brother’s hand, no less. Madara’s intimacies with her are common knowledge, if not frowned upon by some of his Uchiha lieutenants.

Izuna points an accusative finger down at her. “Look at it.”

Madara blinks through his confusion, waiting for clarity. Izuna hisses in anger, grabs her hair, and yanks her upright.

“Show him,” he commands her.

She groans angrily in response.

He yanks a little harder.

“Show him.”

Madara’s suspicion gains with rapid unease. The doubt always tugging at the rear of his conscience comes to the forefront, ready to be fed with truths, ready to reap its victory.

Izuna forces her to stay still, then claws at the hand she has wrapped about her stomach, hiding something beneath the haphazardly-adorned clothing.

Madara catches on, and approaches.

She slows her writhing when he crouches down in front of her. Then something like preemptive defeat rushes through her when he puts his hands on her, and she stills completely.

Madara doesn’t know what he expects to see beneath the fold of the robe he pulls away from her skin—the skin which is always covered by bandages when he strips her bare at night; courtesy, she always says, of a wound received during the invasion—but Tobirama’s Senju’s hiraishin mark is definitely the last.

The silence that ensues as he scrutinizes the seal is far more tormenting, she thinks, than any punishment he can possibly have in store for her.

He’s enraged, of that she’s sure. And the indignant, defiant scowl on her face which receives him when he looks at her undoubtedly makes that worse.

But she’s been found out, she knows. There’s little else she has to her aims at this point except her resentment, a resentment which she can now display with liberation.

Her masquerade is extraneous now; any excuse she can possibly make redundant. She has to accept her fate, with her chin held high.

Like Tobirama would.

But the conviction doesn’t last long.

“Hold her down,” Madara tells two of the Uchiha men in the room.

She panics.

When Izuna’s hands leave her and more vindictive ones take their place, she starts kicking away, trying to fight and make their hold on her that much more difficult to win.

But it’s useless against the pure fear that runs through her when Madara slips out of the tent and returns a moment later, in his hand, an iron poker which had been mending the campfire outside.

When he brings it over to her, she feels the heat radiating off of its glowing, orange, sharp tip.

Her heart rate skips into the margins of delirium and she shakes her head.

“Don’t—” she pleads, glaring up at him. “Don’t—”

Madara presses the singeing iron against the skin below her breast and she screams. Loud and ragged. He doesn’t care.

Even before the deed is done, the smell of her own burnt flesh nauseates her beyond the limits of her endurance, and she passes out.

⤰

The burn is so severe that it leaves her bed-ridden for days on end.

Every twist and turn of her body stretches the thin, pink skin and leaves her whimpering in pain.

Uchiha medics tend to her wound. She isn’t allowed the relief of healing jutsu; the burn is treated with oils and creams which alleviate only some of the pain, and none of the superficial scarring. Something for which she knows she has Madara to thank. He wants her to bear the mark of her deceit, wants the charred flesh to serve as a reminder of mockery.

She had slighted him with her seductions, made a fool of him with her deception. The burn itself would be a meager sanction in comparison—he could have killed her, after all—if not for the scornful significance it held that did more justice to his condescension than any words could.

Any semblance of superiority her secret had once given her is all but crushed with the wound. Tobirama’s seal had soothed her, served as a pillar of faith and courage; a warm breath of comfort on her skin whenever the chill of her captors’ doujutsu fixed her, whenever Madara’s gaze searched her for weakness.

Knowing her husband’s latent protection remained hidden from the eyes of the invaders had been enough, amidst all the turmoil, to shield her from fear.

Now it was gone, rendered useless and indiscernible under corrugated skin.

Like her home, her body now, too, at the hands of the Uchiha, denied her refuge.

Yet in some twisted, ironic way, the wound still grounds her. The pain is a bittersweet reminder that her body is alive, and not a shell for the hopelessness she feels inside.

It’s a degrading and pitiful comfort. But it’s all she has now.

⤰

Madara makes infrequent visits during her recovery.

The first few are made in silence. As she lies there, pitiful and motionless, he stares without a word to spare. His scrutinizing gaze, both spiteful to set eyes upon her and satisfied to see her agony, is the only acknowledgement he gives.

The patronizing graduates to interrogation. He stands over her impotent form, leering down as he demands to know the reason for her having the seal on her skin, demands to know her relationship to Tobirama Senju.

The line of questioning betrays the deductions he’s already made. He’s already decided that the woman is Tobirama’s spouse, or at the least, some sort of lover. The intimate placement of his seal is telling enough, and her previous elusion on the subject of her purpose on Senju land is further proof. All the suspicions piece together and exploit her lies.

But he wants to hear the truth from her own mouth, the very mouth which conspired to deceive him with its pleasure, keep him pliant with its warm caresses on his body. Only then will he be satisfied, only when she admits who she is, what she is, who she belongs to—

Then he can remind her that it’s he who owns her now. He who conquered her home as easily as he had conquered her.

Her silence isn’t as defiant as she thinks, not by a long shot. To patronize her is a pleasant notion, but the hooded, resentful gaze she gives him fails to stir him in any way besides to sing praises of his own power.

⤰

“Kill her,” Izuna insists.

His determined indignation on the matter comes like a chant in the days following the revelation.

Madara’s commitment to deciding how best to deal with her is only marginally interrupted by his brother’s input, but it does disrupt his logic and feed his own fury.

He should kill her. Should string her up for the rest of the Senju to see: let her be an example to whoever else among them may have delusions of defying him.

“What point is there in keeping her alive?” Izuna presses on. “Kill her. Send her body to the Senju army. Let them know we won’t be trifled with.”

“No,” is Madara’s decisive reply. “She serves more use to us alive.”

“I fail to see how. She’s done enough to outwit you. I would’ve thought you eager to be rid of her.”

Madara resents the comment, but tempers his irritation. “I know your dislike for Tobirama makes you enthusiastic to do her harm. And why is that? Because you know harm done to her is harm done to him.”

“Precisely.”

“Then you should understand the benefit of keeping her alive.”

“Fine. Keep her alive. But not unscathed. If you want to use her as leverage, deliver a gift to the Senju. The correspondence between you and Hashirama has been pitifully civil so far. Send something with the next envoy. Something of hers. A finger will do.”

“No.” Madara’s tone is unequivocally firm. “We will do no such thing.”

Madara has little doubt that his brother’s enmity runs deep enough that an adequate offense on her part, no matter how slight, might be cause for Izuna to damage her. That’s not something Madara can allow.

His conscience forces away the fact that part of his aversion to his brother’s threats are rooted in possessiveness; Izuna has no claim to her, has no entitlement to her punishment.

That’s Madara’s. That’s his. And his alone.

⤰

How she finds herself sharing his bed again, she may never know, and will never be brave enough to ponder.

She’s silent when he moves inside of her. Even when he makes her cum, as easily and powerfully as he always has, she barely lets the ragged, frustrated moan loose from her lips for a second before closing her throat and swallowing down the tightness.

When he rolls off of her he lies in silence. Where he would usually get up to bathe or leave, he remains, like he's done so often recently, to sleep beside her.

He taunted her once, told her he had no fears of sleeping beside her now, because she knows what it would mean for the Senju hostages if she tried anything.

That aside, she’s half-convinced that he’s awake at all hours of the night regardless, waiting patiently for the opportunity to catch her plots and punish her accordingly.

But how difficult would it be? To kill him, leave him, save as many hostages as she can while he bleeds out in the room, alone and cold.

It’s a fantasy she allows herself to imagine over and over again. A fantasy too opportunistic to ignore after their nights of scornful passion leave her weak and spiteful.

The kunai she left under her pillow feels cold as ice when she slowly reaches for it, hiding the purposeful movement behind a comfortable stretch.

It’s been a long hour since she first played at sleep. She never hears him breathing, but considers his silence as good a signal as any that he’s unconscious.

When she carefully turns over, she confirms that his eyes are closed. He sleeps on his back, always, as most shinobi do. Alert and at the ready even in slumber.

Slowly she rises from under the sheets, ever so careful not to let the fabric move an inch across his skin. She should just slit his throat, she realizes. But piercing into him will be swifter, and more profitable.

The kunai wavers in her hand. Killing unwitting men in their sleep isn’t so difficult a task; shinobi and kunoichi alike do it all the time, don’t they? That was war.

It should be easy to stab down into his heart and twist, to watch him wake in tormenting shock as the blood fills his lungs and chokes him. She would enjoy that.

But the wavering in her hand worsens to a subtle tremor.

He’s not an unwitting man, not some simple enemy to kill for convenience. That makes her confidence ever harder to steel, but she has to. She has to kill him.

She won’t wait a moment longer. Kill him, destroy him, and be done with it.

But just as she raises the kunai, a strong hand wraps around her wrist in an unforgiving grip.

His eyes are open, glaring at her.

She shivers with fear and rage as his hand tightens to a bruising grip. Her panic sends her mind into a frenzy of action.

She can still do it. Just one stab downwards and she can end it.

But even pushing down with both hands doesn’t overwhelm his strength. He still glares and scowls, infuriated.

She tries again, putting her entire body’s weight down on the weapon, limbs shaking with the effort.

He doesn’t budge.

He flips them instead, and the kunai is suddenly in his hands, pressed against her throat.

“There are easier ways to kill me,” he mutters. If his blood is boiling at her trespass, nothing in his bored, thin voice betrays composure. “You could be more creative.”

Tears prickle her eyes. Her hands press desperately against his, trying to push the cold blade away from her skin. But he keeps it there. Even the smallest movement will slice the flesh.

“Remember that you are the one at my mercy. I could kill you and every Senju in this camp any time I wish.”

“You’re horrible,” she seethes, breath shallow in anger. "I hate you.”

“I’m aware. Yet you continue to share my bed night after night. You still think you’ll gain anything from it?”

The words sting her pride, split her open to let the doubts and faults and fruitless depravities spill in.

“You do nothing but shame yourself. Look at you. Spreading your legs for me like a dutiful whore, thinking it will somehow save you and your people. It’s pathetic—"

She slaps him, hard.

Though his cheek burns with redness, he’s otherwise unfazed by pain. He scowls and slams her arm down to prevent any more of her rage.

“You may think you have control over me,” she says in a seething whisper. Even with the kunai pressed against her jugular, the expression on her face is nothing short of brazen. A lofty, defeated brazen that comes across as scorn. “But you don’t, and you never will. There’s only one man I’ve ever loved. When you’re on top of me I think of him and only him. It makes it bearable. You’ll never be half the man that he is.”

He scowls at her, his eyes like burning, silent daggers. She knows she might have sealed her fate right then and there. But so be it. Let her last moments of life be spent spiting him.

Her body relaxes, unconcerned with fighting whatever comes next.

She doesn’t expect him to laugh.

“Tell yourself that, if you must,” he says, with a sadistic, grim smirk. “But you know very well the power I have over you.”

His eyes turn crimson and she gasps, but by the time she makes to look away, it’s too late.

In the illusion, Tobirama is frowning at her, eyes wide, a sneer of disgust on his face.

She doesn’t understand why, at first. Why does he look so gloomy? She feels only joy to see him. Joy and unbearable relief.

She tries to run to him. But burning hands at her throat summon her back. Despite no voice, face, or body to accompany the unforgiving grip, she knows it’s Madara who impedes her by the ferocious strength alone.

“Whore.”

It’s not Madara’s voice, but Tobirama’s. It carries over to her, like they’re separated by a valley despite his being only yards away. If she could reach out to him, touch him, feel his embrace—

“Uchiha whore,” he barks at her again, scowling now.

“No,” she pleads, eyes stinging with tears. She tries to pull the grip from her neck away and escape, but Madara locks her arms down to her sides, rendering her utterly trapped.

“Tobirama,” she begs for his sanctity, for his forgiveness. But he’s backing away from her now.

She cries and cries desperately, screeching in frustration when Madara’s grip tightens to a visceral degree, until she feels like her skin is alight with flames.

She looks down, and sees that they are. And the skin which these flames scorch dies off to corrupted, pink flesh as it travels up her arm in a slow crawl. An agonizing, horrible, slow crawl.

Hours elapse as she endures the torture. Hours of raw, inhuman pain and her husband slurring his vile insults at her. The sheer destruction it pillages on her mind and body makes her feel small, makes the flames which take their time in exploring her skin burn brighter and hotter until finally she feels like nothing but ash.

The last of her willpower billows away with that ash, as she watches Tobirama’s form start to disappear on some horizon that defies logic.

She still wants to touch him. Still wants to be held by him. She still wants him, despite how clearly he doesn’t want her.

His obscenities circle her thoughts, all-encompassing, completely and finally defeating her.

Whore. Slut. Traitor. Weakling.

She cries a voiceless cry when Tobirama disappears, and Madara takes the illusion away shortly after.

She blinks for clarity, eyes adjusting back to a reality no less harrowing than the previous artifice.

He leers down at her, takes in her anguish and her seedy frame with gluttonous cruelty in his gaze.

Numb, teary eyes stare up at him as they slowly read his form. Realizing her predicament, she starts to hyperventilate, and tears run down her face.

She shuts her eyes in one last attempt of modesty, forcing the stream of salt to sluice more violently down her cheeks.

“Tobirama,” she pleads weakly, the only thing that she can think of in her hazy pain.

It angers Madara.

“He doesn’t want you. Now look at me.”

She refuses.

His hand twists into her hair and snaps her head back so hard that she almost sees stars behind her eyelids.

“I said look at me.”

“No,” she cries weakly, though she obeys, regardless. Her bloodshot, desperate eyes feed his sadistic vengeance. Then she’s turning her head away from him. Meager defiance. “Please—”

Satisfied with the short admission of her defeat, he takes her face and forces her look at him.

“Try anything like that again and I’ll make sure you spend an eternity in a nightmare of my making. Do you understand?”

She has no energy to respond.

“Answer me.”

All she can offer is a weak nod, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

In a moment of triumphant vindictiveness, his fingers press harshly against the burn under her breast, bringing to life a reminiscent pain, a crushing reminder of what he’s done to her.

He pushes her face away and she curls into herself, thinking of Tobirama.

In these makeshift quarters he’ll find no sleep; his mind is a mess of anger, desperation, and confusion. He needed to hurt her, didn’t he? She had defied him again. What other choice did he have?

Another moment spent in her presence is another pin of irrational emotion nudged into his chest. He needs to leave.

He catches her glaring at him when he climbs off and starts to dress. It’s a look full of pure, searing hatred.

But he says nothing. He’s extracted enough triumph from her.

His silence is in victory; hers in defeat.

⤰

She feels less alive each passing day.

She doesn’t see him very often, not since the incident in the night when she’d failed to take swift revenge.

Occasionally she hears him on the other side of the door, inquiring the guards who stand watch outside about her disposition. Rarely does he enter and see for himself.

When he does, they exchange no words. He examines the room for any plotting demonstration of escape or sabotage, disguising his observation of her underneath these sweeping inspections.

However, sometimes he gives up on the pretense and simply stares, studying her, trying to decide how he feels.

His actions are regrettable, of that he’s sure and self-condemned, but there’s still a glimmer of insolence in her eyes when he catches her gaze: one which rekindles the spite within him, fans vengeful flames and reminds him that she brought this upon herself.

She would see no pity from him.

Any words of apology on his tongue fizzle away then, and his visits conclude as silently as they begin.

⤰

The fight in her dwindles helplessly, and as it dwindles, so too does all sense of reservation.

The prodigious determination there once had been to contend Madara and his Uchiha conspirators is all but spent. What good does it do her now? She’s broken, subjugated, and without leverage.

Her body, which had once enabled her to use its seductions to the advantage of her people, is now depleted and only a shell. A shell for the hollow, cold heap of defeat that she now is.

How deluded was she to think she could save all the people here? How had she ever thought that she alone could protect the hostages from the evil at their door?

And Tobirama, whose embrace was denied to her even in dreadful illusions—what would he think of her? Madara was right. What else was she now but an Uchiha whore? Obsolete, ruined, soiled.

Tobirama won’t want her. Not now. Not ever again.

What more is there for her?

As the weeks go by, Madara’s distrust ebbs away. Suspicions of subterfuge die with her audacity; the times he does happen upon her, she’s nothing but a husk of the sharp woman she had made herself out to be.

House arrest soon becomes a superfluous precaution, and even when the guards leave their posts, she makes few attempts to leave her home. And when she does, she wanders aimlessly, meanders without direction and without purpose.

She’s pitiful, Madara decides. Pitiful and crushed. He has nothing to fear or suspect from her. Her fire is gone.

What he doesn’t expect is that the last ember of that fire holds one desperate dredge of scorn. One which she won’t allow to be extinguished.

When she wanders into the Uchiha war tent that day, she isn’t stopped.

She’s given no second-glance by any of the Uchiha shinobi. Even if they were to give her careful inspection, they would never know of the kunai in her pocket, the steel icy and begging to be utilized for one final, desperate fight.

Madara isn’t there. Instead, she finds Izuna.

“Where is he?” she asks weakly.

Izuna pays her so limited attention these days, regards her as little else except the harlot his brother broke in and conquered, that her presence has nothing more than a fleeting impasse on his patience. Like a gnat buzzing around his head.

“My brother? Who knows.”

When he accords her his attention he sees that she’s looking lifeless as ever. Sometimes he ponders the nature of the unkind things his brother has done to her, with a fraction of a fraction of pity. Then he’s reminded of the trespasses she’s made, and the pity is gone.

“What?” he mocks. “If you’re hoping to charm some leniency out of him, you’ll get nowhere looking like that.” He tsks, a sneer marring his lips as he pulls his eyes over her form, like it’s a harrowing task to complete. “You’re better off groveling on your knees... save him the displeasure of looking at your face, at the least.”

Although she doesn’t react, he sees humiliation simmering underneath the hardened, broken surface of her expression. He would have favored a more promising response to his taunts, but he’s satisfied to see her tamed of her previous unruliness, nevertheless.

He turns his back to her. Her misery is pleasant only for so long; the more he looks, the more unsightly it becomes.

The Uchiha sigil stares back at her, stitched proudly and delicately onto the back of his garb.

It mocks her, does more to incite her than any of his degrading condescension can.

Unthinking, she moves to him.

Hearing her approach he turns to meet her, the same bored sneer on his face.

The melancholy is still in full bloom on her features, but there’s something else there, too. Something that tells him she’s struggling to express a grievance on her tongue.

He scoffs.

“What is it, woman?”

He’s not Madara, she decides, but he’ll do.

Aimlessly, she yanks the kunai from her pocket, then brings it down on his neck, not caring for whatever consequences will follow.

⤰

She wondered why Izuna didn’t kill her the moment he wrangled the kunai from her grip.

Blood spills from his neck; thick crimson pours in rivulets down his shirt, down the hand that presses against his wound.

It may not be fatal but it’s certainly critical. Sharingan had worked in his favor. An inch more of the dagger’s descent studied without the activation of his doujutsu might have guaranteed his death. He inched away just in time.

She doesn’t have time to lament her failure.

He did throw her to the floor in his anger, but nothing else comes. If he hadn’t been so occupied with sealing his wound, she imagines his ire would prove much worse, if not terminal.

She doesn’t bother pushing up from her place on the floor when another Uchiha, hearing the din of Izuna’s angry hollers, barges in, sees the chaos, and sprints away after taking orders from Izuna. She doesn’t hear the essence of these orders, numb to the world as she is.

Had the kunai been in her hand, she would slit her own throat in defiance. Death would have been preferable to what comes next.

When Madara storms in, she’s still a pile of hapless defeat on the floor.

He says not a word, but the pure rage boiling behind his gaze says all it needs to: She made a grievous mistake.

She gasps when he grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her to her feet. She screws her eyes shut, unwilling to look at him. He doesn’t seem to care whether she does or doesn’t.

She’s certain that he rips hair right from the roots when he whips her around, shoves her forward with enough force to break every bone in her body. A bookcase greets her as she barrels into it. That’s when her eyes open in pained shock, a rushed gasp escaping her as she struggles to regain the air thrown out of her lungs.

She wants to collapse, but a hand clasps around her neck and keeps her standing. Then the fingers tighten around her throat. She chokes pitifully for oxygen.

“I told you that if you ever tried something like that again that you would regret it.” His voice is cold with anger. “But to make an attempt on my brother’s life?”

She doesn't answer. Apparently, he doesn’t expect her to.

He shoves her back to the ground. It knocks the wind out of her, and when she pushes herself up on shaky limbs, a heavy boot in her back sends her to the floor again.

She yelps as he digs his heel into sensitive muscle. A burst of hot and red pain spreads through her back. Her kidneys, maybe? She doesn’t know. But he’s damaged something internally, and she wishes she were dead.

Her breaths are pitiful and scant when he finally takes his foot away. She says nothing. Thinks of nothing.

“Get up,” he demands, in a rigid, thin voice devoid of anything except fury.

Even if she wanted to obey, her body refuses.

“Get up,” he snaps, and the unforgiving hand returns to twist into her hair, sending webs of pan across her scalp as he hauls her to her knees.

He crouches in front of her, a hand still fisted in her hair. Now he wants her to look. His other hand takes her face and squeezes, so hard she’s half-convinced he plans to crush her skull.

“Open your eyes and look at me.”

Desperately, she tries. But it’s a task to keep her eyes open without nausea seeping into her gut. Her eyelids force themselves to shut in an effort to quell dizziness.

But then he jostles her around by the grip in her hair, so hard and so viciously that her entire world blacks out momentarily. The motion sends her mind reeling and her vision swimming.

“Open your eyes.”

Adrenaline shoots through her and demands her to obey.

She isn’t surprised when the red of sharingan is there to greet her.

Everything goes black in the world of his making. She almost expects to see Tobirama there, for him to shout at her and degrade her again.

Instead, she feels pain. The worst pain she’s ever felt. So painful she can’t breathe, can’t think. The only thing that exists is the hot, searing flame of anguish that stings every inch of her skin, every gap of her insides, down to the very organs.

A hundred kunai stab into her head. She hears them slicing flesh to ribbons and digging fractures into her skull. Her blood curdles until it’s set aflame. That too, she hears, bubbling underneath the surface of her skin like thick, boiling water.

Everything hurts. Everything is endless agony.

When air finally fills her lungs, she wails.

So loud, so violently, so wretchedly, that it’s almost itself anguish to hear.

Then he takes it all away.

The relief is heavenly. She crumples into a ball.

She hates it. She hates the weakness. If Tobirama could see her…

Then the pain comes again. She screams in tandem, then bites her tongue so hard it bleeds.

The cruel routine goes on, for what to her deluded, frenetic mind seems like hours, but is in reality passed in mere minutes.

Izuna watches as his wound is tended to, his expression as devoid of any mercy or sympathy as his brother’s.

⤰

Two weeks later, when her body and mind make the slow, pitiful climb back to equilibrium, she notices the change.

It’s unlike one she’s felt before, but not entirely unrelated to an irksome nausea: a queasiness in her stomach that neither food nor rest alleviates; something new, like an aura, that swathes her and accompanies her every second of the day; an extra weight added to the burden of her body.

Then comes the fearful ascent of logic.

Amidst her turmoil, she’s forgotten about missing her monthly bleed. Its absence could be blamed on the toll her body has taken, but she knows better.

The revelation brings her into a spiral of hectic anxiety, of despairing conflict.

It’s not long before she finds herself sneaking into one of the medical tents, decision already made on how best to deal with the new predicament.

She shuffles through the stock of vials and herbs which the Uchiha medics keep at the back of the tent, finds what she’s looking for and almost escapes as covertly as she had infiltrated, when she’s stopped.

“What is that you have?”

She pauses a foot away from the tent’s exit, her body in a mode of panic.

“Some herbs for my wounds,” she mutters.

An elder Uchiha woman, a medic, turns her around and inspects the filched items in her grasp.

“That is ginger root,” the medic observes warily. “If you need something for the pain, I would suggest dried poppy.”

The young woman stares fretfully at the old woman; the old woman stares back.

“Thank you,” the younger stutters blankly, unable to make a step in either direction; play along and heed the advice to go search for the proper herbs, or flee and risk suspicion?

“You look ill,” the old woman says, eyeing her, putting a hand to her forehead.

She backs away. “I just need rest.”

“Let me examine you. I can help you find the right medicines.”

“No,” she says. Any medic will be able to feel the life inside of her, given the chance. “I’ll be alright.”

She tries to leave then, but the old woman doesn’t let her.

⤰

When Madara answers the request for his presence at one of the medic huts, he’s surprised to find her there, sitting on a cot, hunched over and distressingly quiet. Two Uchiha men stand at her sides, supervising her.

“What is the meaning of this?” Madara asks.

Recently, he’s appreciated any reason to stay away from her. The sight of her makes him sick, makes a conflict of rage and confusion and culpability dance angrily in his head.

The old woman offers him the ginger root, and a small vial of clear liquid. “She was after these.”

Madara takes them into examination. “Am I supposed to know what this is?” His patience, already thin, dwindles considerably for the roundabout elucidations.

“A toxic mixture,” the old woman explains plainly. “Boiled with regular tea and these will certainly destroy whatever grows inside a womb.”

With subdued bafflement, Madara looks at the woman on the cot, understanding all at once.

She doesn’t dare meet his eyes. Even now her body trembles with frustration, with fear, with defeat.

Izuna, who had accompanied his brother, scoffs, incredulously loud. “So either you managed to put one in her, brother, or it’s the Senju’s.”

“Can it be determined?” Madara asks the medic, ignoring his brother, and never taking his eyes off the frail form on the cot.

“In a month’s time the chakra should be durable enough for us to sense.”

“Kill it,” Izuna insists, coming to stand next to his brother, a voice of frustrated reason. “If it’s a Senju, better off unborn. And if it’s an Uchiha... you would pass on the clan’s power to halfling filth.”

Unperturbed, Madara stares in silence. Finally she meets his gaze, unsettled by the look of dark concentration in his eyes.

“Why attempt to destroy the life inside of you unless it’s a burden to you?” he ponders out loud.

She realizes his train of logic: it must be his, for her to be so adamant in her pursuit to terminate it.

“If it was my husband’s,” she says, “and it is, I would do the same. You would kill my child the moment I bring it into this world. Why let life grow that is destined to be murdered in cold blood?”

“And if it were mine?”

“It isn’t."

Madara scowls.

“And if it were,” she goes on dangerously. “All the more reason to destroy it.”

That visibly infuriates him.

“Give her the herbs,” Izuna asserts again. “Let her solve the problem. Either way she’s doing you a favor.”

Madara doesn’t speak for a long time.

His careful inspection of her lasts long enough to make her doubts rise afresh, make her feet fidget uncomfortably and her heart pound in desperation.

“She stays here tonight,” he decides ultimately, looking to the Uchiha guards at her side. “She doesn’t leave.”

Izuna looks muddled, and somewhat irritated by the decision.

She just looks afraid.

⤰

He doesn't return for many days, but his absence can’t be appreciated as much of a reprieve at all; her mind is a mess of anxiety and denial the entire time.

This can’t be happening, she tells herself countless times. She can’t be pregnant. And worse, can’t be ignorant to the father. There’s no possible way. It can’t be happening.

Part of her reasons for the better: it must be Tobirama’s. No more than three months have passed since the Uchiha first conquered and occupied the land, no more than three months since she’s been with her husband.

The other part of her, downtrodden and beaten into pessimistic depravity, knows that with the chaos Madara brought, so too came a negligence to her normal routines: was she taking the contraceptive herbs as diligently as she needed to, given their intimacies? Amidst the turbulence he caused, had she remembered each and every time they were together to make sure nothing was conceived from their depraved liaisons? How could she not, when the way he touched her and took her made her sick?

But then, doubt: leading her astray, reminding her that everything horrible and miserable that could happen already had, so what was a bit more to the mountain of suffering she already endured? What was stopping fate from deciding that the life inside her womb belonged not to her loving husband, but to her unforgiving captor?

Thinking about it drives her to depressive insanity. By the time Madara comes to see her, she’s depleted almost all of her brain power.

“Leave us,” he commands the guards who have been assigned to watch her.

They obey, and the pair are left in silence.

Her mind pleads with her to run, to attack, to simply scream—anything. Anything that will quell the distress of the pause in the air, the distress of not knowing his intent.

When he takes a step forward she inches back. Noticing this, he’s dissuaded from approaching any closer.

“So long as the child is inside of you, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Her heart pounds so furiously in her chest that she’s sure it’s audible in the quiet of the room.

The statement angers her, scares her, and much to her shame, relieves her.

“It’s not yours,” she claims.

“Unless I’m miscalculating, the Senju host left a week before my arrival. And not long after that, a fortnight at most for the sake of assumptions, this child might have been conceived. Between us.”

Bile rises in her throat and she wants to protest, but he goes on, badgering her with the logic she’s thus far refused to entertain.

“If it were his, you would be farther along. Visibly, for one. And more than likely, I would be able to sense the chakra, deduce which clan it belongs to.”

By now she’s trembling quietly with her fear, fighting the urge to deny him, to preserve the hope that the reality he speaks of is in fact skewed.

“The child inside of you is an Uchiha,” he says determinedly.

She shakes her head.

“You know I’m right.”

“You’re not,” she argues. “You said yourself there's no way of knowing. Not yet.”

He cocks his head. “Then you really have no idea, do you? No idea who it belongs to? Normally mothers can read the chakra within them at this stage. Can you not?”

She won’t grant him an answer, instead stares down at her feet as they dig into the ground, as if in a desperate attempt to escape underneath.

Madara watches her with careful scrutiny. “I suppose we’ll have to see, then. But somewhere in that head of yours, you know I’m right.”

You’re not right, she repeats in her mind. You’re not. You’re not.

Just as he makes to leave, he stops.

“And let me be clear,” he says, menacingly. “If you make any attempt to destroy what grows inside of you, you won’t be the one suffering the consequences.”

The glare he gives her speaks volumes: The Senju hostages. The violence that would ensue. The atrocities he might commit if she disobeyed.

He leaves her. She clutches her stomach, letting the first, long-suppressed tear roll down her cheek. A warm, wet trail is left in its wake.

In the turmoil she finds evidence for and against his claims when she lets her thoughts run away with logic. A wash of anxious desperation enlivens her, makes her conscience grab for a reprieve to her doubts. But even that is denied by the crushing reality of her situation.

The life inside of her might belong to the enemy, to the Uchiha.

And still, it might not.

She stumbles between one acceptance and the next, each clouding her ever more until the tears are spilling in streams down her cheeks.

When she puts every morsel of her ability into sensing the life within her, she can’t tell if the faint trace of Senju chakra she feels is authentic, or a desperate manifestation of her mind’s making.

#madara #madara uchiha #naruto imagines

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radiosandrecordings · 4 years ago

Note

Ace fic request if ya feel: Jmart taking a bath together at Upton, w some nonsexual nudity/intimacy? Thank u!!

“Ahaha, I’ll ask for some ace fic prompts and do drabbles for it!” I said, naively. 3K words later. Thank you Gwyn for reading over this and fixing my typos because it is. now coming up to 5am because I decided to write 3K in one sitting

CWs for talk of nudity but no one ever gets full nakey. Jon also has a brief panic about not being able to protect Martin without the Eye.

Ao3 version too

They’d probably been awake for an hour or so by the time the feeling of grime coating his skin became intolerable.

It felt wrong, really, the juxtaposition of the soft, clean cotton under his head and the greasy knots his hair had woven itself into over the course of their journey. Like it was insulting to the pillow, the case of which, Jon guessed absently, was worth more than his entire bed back in his flat, if it was still standing.

And wasn’t that something? To have to guess that and not just be aware. As it normally was, the Beholding would inform him that that wasn’t quite true, as while the sheets on this bed were certainly nice they were more chosen for display purposes than with the intent of anyone truly sleeping in them. The house was a museum. The curators had not supposed upon the current scenario.

The current scenario being that there were two men lying in it, half asleep, lying still and just staring at each other with an eye-watering fondness. They had spoken, when they first awoke. Got out all the words they wanted to say. The “Where are we” and the “How long were we asleep?” and the “Is it finally safe to rest?” and the “I love you so, so much.”

Now the thing to break the silence was the sound of Martin’s stomach making its discontent known. This, of course, sent them both into peals of laughter, because when was the last time they’d felt mundane hunger?

“Do you think they even have food here?” Martin asks, still buried up to his neck in duvet.

“Perhaps? Salesa surely has to eat, if we do.”

“Yeah, but Annabelle though,” Martin chews his lip in mock contemplation. “What if we go downstairs and open up all the cupboards and it’s just… Flies as far as the eye can see, all wrapped up for eating. There’s one in the fridge all done up on a platter like a Christmas ham. Cloves spiked into it and all.”

Jon winces. “I’d really rather not picture that right now, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah, course,” Martin says, looking slightly sheepish as they lapse into silence again. “Should probably go check though. Don’t exactly want to have gotten through all that just to starve. Though I’d happily let this be my death bed, honestly. Don’t think I’ve slept that well in… Ever.”

“Mmh, now that you mention it, I’m quite peckish as well… Odd, that. Had almost forgotten what it felt like.” Jon heaves himself into a sitting position, and takes stock of the door to his left. “Probably the bathroom. Ensuite. Very nice.”

“You want to get cleaned up before we go scavenging?” Martin asks, prying the duvet away like he’s pulling teeth. Jon feels bad that they can’t just stay in bed all day. He hadn’t been able to sleep, in the safe house, but Martin had chosen to dream. He might be biased, but Jon figures that that was probably worse. Martin seemed now to be relishing the opportunity to relax.

“I think we rather need it. Not keen to embarrass ourselves in front of our hosts a second time, so I’d rather not appear downstairs looking like something the cat dragged in.” Jon shoves the duvet away and gets, somewhat shakily, to his feet. Damn. No Beholding means the pain from- Where- The wound… His leg hurts. It means his leg hurts something fierce. He hopes he can stand in the shower.

When he makes his way over to the door and swings it open, it turns out not to be a concern. The bathroom, in the fashion of the rest of the house, has no shower. Instead, a comically beautiful bathtub sits against the opposing wall. It’s a clawfoot, gold varnish painted over its feet where porcelain turns to antique wood.

“You want to go first then?” Martin asks, slowly pulling the duvet around himself again.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ll go on ahead. You enjoy the extra time.”

Martin gives him a smug look and burrows down again. God, Jon really, really loves him. Which is why, when he puts his hand on the door handle to close it behind him, he freezes.

Statement readings aside, this will be the first time Martin has been out of his sight in… However you choose to categorize the indefinite amount of time they spent roaming the hellscape. And even then, Jon had his powers. If anything threatened Martin he’d be there to help him. To save him. The Eye offers no such comfort now. Jon doesn’t want to close the door. He doesn’t want Martin out of his line of sight. Not with Annabelle here. He won't leave him alone, not now.

“... Jon? You okay?”

Jon realises he’s been standing in the doorway for at least a minute now, hand frozen in indecision. He blinks a few times, trying to bring his eyes back into focus. He opens his mouth, and finds himself gaping slightly, looking for the words.

Martin shifts, sitting back up again. “Jon, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

It comes out like a croak. “I- I don’t Know.”

Martin’s tone is gentle, placating, two hands gently offered out in Jon’s direction. “You don’t know what’s wrong?”

“No, I don’t Know,” he can feel tears beading at the corners of his eyes and tries to push down the lump in his throat. He’s gone this long without crying, why does he have to go and do it now, ruin the peaceful moment that he’d watch Martin lapse into like a drowning man with air.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Martin hushes, sliding out of bed and walking round from his side. He brings his arms around Jon and just lets them stay there, not pulling him against his chest in a restrictive grasp, but just laying his hands against his back, letting him know he’s there.

Despite his best attempts, Jon lets out a hiccup. “And- And that should be a good thing. It should. I don’t want to Know. But it’s… I’ve spent so long with this constant presence at the back of my skull and now it feels… It’s raw and it’s vulnerable. Annabelle Cane could be a wall away and I’m vulnerable and that means you are too. If I’m in another room, I can’t Know if something is wrong, and more importantly, if something does go wrong I can’t save you.”

The right wrapped around to hold Jon’s left hip, Martin’s free hand has been tracing soothing patterns into his back through his shirt. It stills when Jon finishes. He takes a moment, before breathing out heavily through his nose. He leans back slightly so he can look down and match eye levels.

“Jon,” he says, and his voice is as soft as that duvet felt. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. I’m so sorry. I thought being free of the Eye would be a good thing, I didn’t even consider how it would feel for you. I can’t promise nothing will go wrong, because… Well, our track record speaks for itself. But I can try and ease your fears.” He brushes Jon’s fringe out of the way, and presses a quick kiss to his forehead. “Tub seems pretty big. How do you feel about taking a bath together?”

Jon feels his face, flushed from tears, pale. And oh what a relief, to feel a fear so comparatively… Mundane. To not be afraid of the cosmic monstrosity in the back of your brain, or the spiders with motives that scuttle across the ceiling, or the fact that you are responsible for the suffering of billions. Oh to be afraid of… Intimacy.

Martin must feel him tense, because the hand on his back drops away, and the one at his hip loosens its grip. “I’m sorry, if that’s too much, we can just-”

“No,” Jon cuts him off, and is surprised at his own voice. “No, I… I would like that. That sounds nice.”

He knows it’s from his earlier anxieties, but Martin must still be able to feel Jon trembling slightly under his hand, because he continues to give Jon a sceptical look.

“Forgive me for being blunt, but you really don’t seem up for that. If that’s not in your… Intimacy wheelhouse, I get it.”

“I’m just a little shaken, is all,” Jon says, but he knows there’s a truth to Martin’s words. He knows Martin respects him and his orientation, they’d had long discussions about it in the safe house, about boundaries and desires and how Jon wanted to spend his days glued to Martin’s side but he under no circumstances wished to have sex with him. He knows that this isn’t what that is, that Martin means it in the most innocent fashion imaginable, but there’s still something about the idea of close, physical proximity while naked that makes the hairs on his arm stand on end and his stomach churn.

It’s not that he was bashful about it. He’d seen Martin naked before, gotten changed in the same room most mornings and evenings in the safe house, but that was just a symptom of existing in the same space, never something actively done with the intent to exhibit. It had, predictably, stirred no feelings in him. The idea of them so close while not clothed… No, that wouldn’t be happening.

“I- Can I make one request, though?” Jon asks, tilting his no longer watery eyes up to meet Martin’s.

“Anything,” Martin replies, no hesitation to be found.

Jon feels his face flush again, and the rapid pooling and draining of blood from his face must be doing terrible things to his circulation. “Can- Can we keep our underwear on? Please? God, sorry, that must sound horribly childish-”

“No, no that’s okay. Whatever you need to feel comfortable,” Martin says and his voice is not so much laced with sincerity as built from bricks of it.

They break apart and Martin ambles through the doorway and over to the bath, turning the water on. It sputters, clearly struggling after years of disuse, but after a few seconds it flows clear. Martin waits for the brackish residue to be cleaned away before popping the plug into place.

Jon preoccupies himself with looking over the shelves. They were well stocked, likely by Salesa, as Jon has a hard time believing that plastic bottles full of opalescent purple liquid were considered period appropriate set dressing. He pops the lid open on one and is met by a strong whiff of lavender. He tucks it under his arm before swiping a shampoo and matching conditioner.

“Find something you like?” Martin asks, leaning against the edge of the tub. Jon hums a response before joining him. The tub was filling up quickly now, almost half way full and the water is pleasantly warm when he drags his fingers through it. Jon deposits two of the bottles where they can be grabbed when needed, before taking the lavender body wash and drawing swirls into the water until a layer of foam and bubbles begin to build on the surface.

When Jon turns back to face Martin, his fingers are twitching at the hem of his t-shirt. Whoever was responsible for transferring them from cold marble floor to warm bed had also seen to it that their shoes were removed, as well as their bags and coats, which Jon had seen folded and placed over a chair in the corner of the bedroom. They were both down to their now ripped, muddied and bloodied trousers, and two v-neck t-shirts from the same set, Jon’s of which was tucked into his jeans to disguise the fact that it was several sizes too large. What possible conclusion could be drawn from that?

Martin cleared his throat. “Do you mind, then, if I…?”

“Yes, of course, go ahead.”

Martin pulled his shirt over his head.

It’s not that Jon didn’t find him attractive. He did, very much so, just in the romantic sense. So seeing Martin shirtless was similar to seeing him in a particularly flattering outfit. It didn’t change the way he felt about him, just intensified it. He was very handsome and Jon enjoyed getting to look at him.

He pulls his own shirt over his head, before turning back to trail his hands through the water again, trying to gage the temperature and encourage more bubbles. When he turns back to face Martin again, he’s fiddling with his belt, eventually getting it undone and letting his trousers drop. Jon does the same. And then nothing more happens, and Jon breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not that he hadn’t trusted Martin to keep his word and not fully strip on him, it was just.. It was a relief.

“Shall we?” Martin asks, gesturing towards the water.

“Let’s,” Jon responds, hooking one leg over the edge before stepping fully into the bath, and letting himself sink below the water.

He’s just about acclimated when suddenly the water is rising slightly as Martin joins him, placing himself at the other end of the tub. There’s not enough room for his legs, so he ends up with his knees close to his chest, sticking out of the water. Jon’s just about fit, stretching down to the other end of the bath and bracketing each side of Martin’s hips.

If the bed was heaven, this is absolutely blissful. The warm water surrounds his aching joints, slowly massaging them as it laps around him. The water, just seconds earlier clean and pure, is already starting to take on a stale quality as the dirt begins to slough off of the two of them, but Jon can’t bring himself to care for relief that it’s no longer coating his skin. He thinks the lavender may have been a bad choice, because between it and the warmth he’s finding it hard not to fall asleep again.

“This okay?” Martin asks, because he’s still worried about Jon and his comfort and that makes his heart ache with affection, that someone would care that much about him and his boundaries.

“Far more than okay,” he responds, dragging one hand down the other arm in an attempt to get some stubborn filth off. Martin is doing the same, except he’s wisely taken a sponge from somewhere and is scrubbing at a spot on his ankle where his trouser and boot hadn’t quite met and the Buried had decided to leave a crusted circle in its wake.

They sit in silence for quite a while, each taking care of their own needs before Jon reaches one arm out of the bath to make a swipe at the bottle of shampoo.

“Here, let me,” Martin says, breaking the quiet. He shifts forward slightly, on instinct, before pausing and rocking back slightly. “If you want, that is. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you want me to do your hair? It’s just- It’s probably easier, y’know, than you trying to do it yourself.”

“And far more romantic,” Jon adds, smiling as he leans over to press a kiss to Martin’s freshly cleaned cheek.

“That too. Do you want to turn around?”

Jon answers wordlessly by shifting until he’s facing away from Martin. He’s surprised, but not unpleasantly so, when Martin’s arms wrap around him and gently pull him backwards until his back is just shy of flush with Martin’s chest. It’s very intimate. It’s very nice.

“That okay?” Martin asks again, and more than ‘I love you’, that’s a phrase Jon will never grow tired of hearing because it means Martin truly cares for his comfort.

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” Martin says, as he uncaps the shampoo and pours a small puddle of it into his hands. Even turned away, Jon can smell the wafts of artificial apple scenting in the stuff.

When Martin starts to gently drag his fingers against Jon’s scalp, he can feel himself almost melt under the touch. His spine loses all tension and he lets himself fall back entirely against Martin’s chest, and it’s only the knowledge that he needs to keep still for Martin to actually do his job that stops him from turning and burrowing his face there.

“I really hope that was a positive thing and you haven’t just fainted on me. Like, literally on me,” Martin says from behind him and this close, pressed up against him Jon can feel it reverberating in Martin’s chest.

“Still conscious, don’t worry. That’s just… Very nice.”

“Oh! Well… Good.”

This continues for a few minutes, Martin slowly making his way from the scalp down to the roots of Jon’s hair, untangling it with his fingers and then repeating the process with the conditioner until his hair ran smooth under Martin’s hands. Even when Jon knows he’s long finished any actual hair care, Martin continues to run his fingers through the hair, just because. Jon loved him for it.

Eventually, both of Martin’s hands come to rest against Jon’s torso. “This okay?”

“Yes. I don’t mind any of the touching, as long as it’s… Nowhere previously established to be out of bounds.”

“Gotcha,” Martin says, pressing a kiss to Jon’s shoulder that makes his brain fizzle like fireworks.

It takes Jon a minute to fully realise what Martin is doing. Two hands trace lines along his ribcage, one on each side, thumbs gently drawing and redrawing a pattern. His scars.

Then, the hands travel upwards. Again, two lines along his chest, traced with as much tender care, and Jon’s brain has gone a little fuzzy. He’s unused to such casual touching. There is nothing hurried about it, no urgency, no purpose other than to make him feel good. To make him feel loved and cherished, and if he’s being honest, it’s working. No ulterior motive. This isn’t the lead up to anything. It just exists on it’s own as an experience he gets to have without worrying about what comes after, because he knows the answer is nothing.

After, Martin shifts slightly, leaning forward. One hand cups Jon’s elbow, raising that arm out of the water as one by one, from shoulder to palm, Martin makes his way down pressing a soft kiss to each and every circular scar. He repeats the process with the other arm. As if to finish it off, he presses a slow, soft, close mouthed kiss to the line that stretches across the front of Jon’s neck.

He’s perfect. Martin Blackwood is perfect and Jon doesn’t know what he did to deserve… This. This quiet barrage of love, the consideration and care poured into it something Jon never thought he would be worthy of, let alone have become a reality.

Jon twists to lie sideways, pressed against Martin with his head tucked under Martin’s chin. Martin’s knees bracket his shoulders on either side and he feels safe. He is in the eye of the storm, a brief respite from the dreadful horrors that ravage the world outside their bubble, but with Martin Blackwood he is safe.

#My Post #The Magnus Archives #Jonmartin #Jonathan Sims #Martin Blackwood #My Writing #dickwheelie

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