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whatifyoulivelikethat · 4 years ago

Text

semicolon, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: He knew you. You knew him. Or rather, you both had an idea of the other, only to find that perhaps you connected on a much more carnal, animalistic level. It only took a hotel bar, New Year’s Eve, and the words, “Nice tattoo.”

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; alludes to attempted suicide; intense smut (fem reader, BDSM themes, semi-public exposure, restraints, nipple play, tit slapping, m-receiving oral, pussy spanking, doggy); non-idol!AU; rich heir, dom!Yoongi x tattooed, sub!reader; shifts back and forth between Yoongi’s POV and your POV

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He was sure it was you.

You had tattoos now. A geometric lotus in your right inner forearm and a filled-in circle with a four-sided starburst around it on your inner left forearm. He observed you turning your head and there was a semicolon tattoo under your left ear. You moved your hair to cover it and nursed your rum and coke, alone. The tight black dress you were wearing was sinful at best. Closer to positively illegal with the way it clung to your breasts and squeezed them together. No one was approaching your table in this hotel bar. It was impossible to approach you when you looked that good.

You tapped at your phone, frowning.

He picked up his glass of whiskey and glided to you.

“Nice tattoo.”

You froze. Your eyes followed his finger, to your left forearm.

“It’s the symbol of the Sith Order,” you replied coolly.

“Star Wars?”

You lifted your head, raising an eyebrow. Beautiful makeup. Smokey eyes, red lips, your beauty marks visible. You hadn’t hidden them with foundation. He appreciated that.

“Yes.”

He set his glass on your table and slid into a chair. “Aren’t the Sith evil?”

You didn’t respond to that. Merely smiled at him, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Do I know you?” you asked, tapping your nails on your glass. Matte black. Interesting.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure. You had attended to the same university. He could guess why you had the semicolon tattoo, because he had been in the hallway, witnessing the event when the ambulance took you to the hospital. He had been sleeping with a girl on your dorm floor.

Admittedly, not one of his proudest moments.

He cocked his chin to your right forearm. “And the lotus tattoo?”

You shrugged. “Just a recommendation from my tattoo artist.”

He took a slow, even sip of his whiskey. “Any more?”

You rested your chin on your fingers, placing your elbow on the table.

“You’d have to take me home to find out.”

Somehow, he did not think you were referring to your under-ear tattoo. He raised an eyebrow. “A woman like you, unclaimed? I can’t imagine why.”

You chuckled, lowering your hand to sip your rum and coke. “Perhaps it’s just personal preference.” You frowned, wincing, as if you remembered something unpleasant. “And perhaps it’s society who doesn’t like women who have their tattoos exposed.”

He thought about his fair skin. The many times he had thought about getting inked, but chickening out because he couldn’t think of committing to one specific image or words for that long. Perhaps he was fickle in that sense.

“Min Yoongi.”

He didn’t extend his hand, just stated his name. You paused, holding your glass over your cleavage, blocking it from his view. A moment of silence, a beat passing between your eyes. And then you gave him your name. Yes, it was you. The name had seen in the school newspaper the next day. The name that left the school, disappearing after the incident. He often wondered if you were okay. You seemed okay, looking at him with discerning eyes.

“You are the son of the owner of this hotel.”

Yoongi paused. He placed his glass on the table.

“Something like that.”

You raised a brow and placed your drink on your table. Expression pensive for a moment before you spoke again, tone light and playful.

“Well, perhaps you’ll be interested to know I just had a very unsatisfying one-night stand on the fifteenth floor, so I’ve come to drink the memory away.”

His lips curled into an entertained smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You sighed and licked your teeth sharply. “On New Year’s Eve, too, no less.” You tapped your cheek with your index finger. “I suppose that means this year is off to a bad start.”

He looked at his Rolex watch. And then at you and your cleavage, breasts violently pushed together by your tight black dress. His eyes flickered back to yours. You were watching him carefully, aware of his traveling gaze. He smirked.

“There’s still time to remedy that.”

There was something about those eyes that haunted you.

You weren’t sure why, because you were quite sure you had never meant this man before. But maybe in a haze, in a dream? You tilted your head. Black hair, half-pushed back to reveal his forehead, dark eyes, pale skin. The kind of handsome that reminded you of midnights and moonlight, with a raspy voice to match. Expensive black suit with ironed lapels, black silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, patterned with the logo of a high-end fashion designer. Crisp white dress shirt, with a platinum tie clip on his slim black tie.

Well-dressed. Sophisticated. Dangerous.

You did not know Min Yoongi, but it felt like you knew him.

The entire time he was talking, you were watching his movements. For some reason, the heir to this hotel chain was speaking to you. You weren’t that special. That’s how you wanted it. The more anonymous you were, the less people questioned your actions. There’s no way Min Yoongi would know you. And why wasn’t he in the hotel club instead of this quieter, more low-profile hotel bar? Most people wanted to party on New Year’s Eve. The hotel was hosting a huge one at the moment.

You?

You just wanted a good fuck, honestly.

So when he offered, it surprised you. A lot of people would tell you that it was dangerous to have sex with a stranger. A rich man, no less.

But you were also the one with the Sith Order symbol tattooed to your arm.

Your lips curved to match his smirk.

“You got a room?”

He licked his lips.

“They’re all my rooms.”

It started the instant the two of you stepped into the elevator. Your long black fur coat was around your arms, shoulders exposed. No purse, because you had sewed pockets into the coat for your belongings. Less to lose this way. Yoongi had taken you to the back of the hotel, through dark hallways and shadows.

“Service elevator. Less people.”

You cocked your head as he pressed the up button, speaking again.

“Less paparazzi.”

You shrugged. “Someone has probably already caught you and posted it on Twitter.”

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. You stepped inside and he shoved you into the wall, pressing his expensive suit into your body as the doors slid closed. Eyes on yours, hot breath in your face.

“No cameras,” he growled softly.

The numbers were climbing up, up.

Your tongue slid out as you tilted your head. You pressed it against his lower lip. His eyes were so dark they looked black in this lighting. So close to him that you were breathing in his exhale mixed with his pine-scented cologne.

“What are you waiting for?” you whispered. “Give me a taste of your power.”

Should you have provoked Min Yoongi? Maybe not, because his kiss sucked your breath away, his large hands coming up and holding you in place as he teased your lips, nipping at the thin skin, making you gasp into his mouth. He had you pressed into the metal wall of the elevator, one of his legs slipping between yours, thigh pressed into the hem of your short dress. Lips to lips, working you, teasing you with his tongue, not giving it to you.

He backed up a little, breathing down on you and your panting mouth.

“You bought this dress for someone else to take off, hm?” he purred, lips dark pink from kissing you.

“I brought it for the sole purpose of being taken off.” Your chest was heaving, ribcage constricted by the boning of your dress. “It’s not attached to a particular person.”

His hands slid down your head, trailing on your bare shoulders. Sliding into the fur, staring at your face the entire time. Drumming against the slinky fabric of your tight dress as if you were the grand piano and he was the pianist.

“It could be.”

Yoongi tilted his head, lips brushing against yours.

“It could be for me.”

One by one, his fingertips hooked under the hem of your dress, nails pressed against your bare thighs. His hands were cold, sending tingling shivers all over your nerves. Eyes half-lidded, smokey orbs locked with yours. Your lips curved into a succubus’s smile.

“It’s yours now.”

He chuckled, yanking the hem up and over your ass. Chilled air rushed to your naked thighs, your black lace, French-cut panties out in the open. He looked down at your quivering legs and then his eyes immediately fixated onto it. Another tattoo. You watched as Yoongi took it in, able to see it because the boldly printed script was on the space were your right leg and crotch connected, that dip of flesh right above your pussy. His eyes flickered back to you.

He raised his eyebrows.

“’Good luck’, huh?”

You grinned.

“Good luck.”

The elevator dinged.

A housekeeping worker with their cart craned above the supplies to look at you two and then immediately looked away, closing their eyes. Unmoving like a statue. Didn’t try to roll the cart into the elevator, didn’t say anything. They knew exactly who Yoongi was and it seemed like they knew exactly why you were there.

“Come.”

He didn’t take your hand. He simply removed his heat from you and glided through the doors like an elegant ghost. You followed, heels clicking on the floor before touching the carpet. Like your dress, your slim heels were the slightest bit uncomfortable. It kept you at attention and highly aware of your surroundings, even though you had a few drinks.

Your eyes traveled over the lavish wallpaper, the plush red carpet. Over-the-top intricate and extravagant that bordered on gaudy. This was the top floor. The penthouse. You didn’t have to go far. The entire wing was the room.

You wondered why he took you here just for a simple fuck.

Yoongi unlocked the door.

“There’s only one stipulation.”

“Tell me.”

You held up the condoms from your pocket.

Yoongi smiled.

He was going to tie you up.

You watched as he pressed a button and the metal bar descended from the ceiling, complete with leather straps. You raised your eyebrows. Yoongi watched your expression carefully. The bedroom was dark, only lit by moody red LED lights from behind the bed and low sconces. The color reflected off his pale skin, casting half of his face in shadow.

The button had been behind a locked panel. He was probably the sole owner of that key.

“You are welcome to leave at any time.”

He said the words without emotion. You removed your fur coat, placing it on the oversized black velvet armchair. Everything in the room was in various shades of black and navy, in plush fabrics or luxurious leather.

“You spend a lot on your hobbies,” you commented.

Yoongi smirked.

“Sex is a performance.”

Your eyes connected. He removed his blazer. Like all of his movements, it was a swift and practiced manner, with two fingers hooked around the collar as he walked towards you. He tossed it on top of your coat. Now Yoongi was right next to you, your black dress still bunched around your waist. He did not have a particularly oppressive presence, but it was more like the company of the ocean. Expansive with unreachable depth, strikingly beautiful, and would have absolutely no qualms in drowning you.

Yoongi made sure your eyes were on him.

His long fingers deftly removed his cufflinks, sliding them into his pants pocket before slowly rolling up his sleeves. He was wearing multiple silver bracelets on each wrist, no rings. He folded the crisp white fabric up to his elbows, revealing his lean forearms. He had nice hands. Pampered ones.

“Scared?” he asked casually.

You reached up to the hook-and-eyes at the front of your dress. His eyes followed your movement. One. Two. Your words complimenting the removal of each one. Your breasts slowly relaxed from their prison, held in place by your free hand holding the top of your dress so you could travel downwards.

“Fear is natural,” you whispered quietly. “It is merely a tool in the realm of the strong.”

Yoongi’s lips curved into a slow smile. “Do you intend to speak like that the entire time?”

You chuckled as the last one was undone. “No. I’m only informing you I’m a bit of a masochist.”

And then you released your hand holding up the dress, causing it to unfurl and slide down, stopping at your hips and flaring out like a flower.

Yoongi wondered if you did this all the time.

He wondered if this was a product of your life experiences or your instinctual nature. He watched as you slid the dress down your thighs, letting it fall to the floor. You stepped out of it, only in your heels and panties. His teeth sunk into his lower lip.

Yoongi had taken a lot of people to this room. All strangers. Never one he knew from the past, no matter how insignificant. That made you the exception, even if you didn’t remember. His memory was still so vivid to this day.

He let his eyes roam over your body. As he predicted, you had great tits. The dress accentuated them after all. There was another tattoo. Script on the left side of your ribcage. You noticed him looking and turned slightly so he could read it. He had to think. It was in English, like your crotch tattoo, although that one was easier to translate.

“’The world is quiet here’?” he echoed.

the world was written so it was only visible from the front, is visible from the side, and quiet here visible from the back. Printed a typewriter’s font, no punctuation, the placement deliberate and thought-out.

You smiled. “Book quote.”

Yoongi liked it when you smiled. He reminded him of his own, a little hesitant but self-aware of your own quiet confidence. He lifted his hand and placed it behind your head, guiding you to him.

“You are very interesting,” he murmured into your mouth before he kissed you again. Tasting like rum and coke mixed with oceanic blackberry. He had smelled that scent before, although not on skin. He recalled the counter of cologne, the glass bottles with the unisex design. High-end.

On your skin, it smelled like sex itself.

He slid his tongue in between your soft lips, running it over your teeth. Drinking in your gasps, taking it all. He liked it when you breathed into his mouth too. You let it out like smoke, drifting into him. Your hands came up to hold onto his upper arms, steadying yourself. He liked the feeling of your hands as well, the way each finger curled around to grip him tightly. His thrust his tongue in and out, slowly, each moan chaining to the last. His hands in your hair, tangling it up, making a mess.

Yoongi opened his eyes just a crack. They landed on the tattoo in your left forearm, the filled-in circle with the four-sided starburst.

What had made you get a symbol like that tattooed to you?

He pulled you along, still kissing you, towards the metal bar. Turned you around, kissing down your jaw to the back of your neck. His hands slid down your hair, tracing your spine. Fuck. Such a beautiful back, with a lovely curve, so perfect to bend over. He dug his nails into it and you whined under him.

Yoongi didn’t bother asking you if you wanted it. You had a mouth; you could use it.

And you were grinding your ass into his crotch so, clearly, he didn’t have to ask.

He folded your arms behind you, forearm above forearm, tying you to the metal bar with the leather straps. One on each of your wrists, one tucked in the inside your elbows, binding them to each other and then all to the metal. He did not want to cover your tattoos but he had to. The position had you bent over, ass sticking out, tits hanging down, back slightly arched.

“Do I need to secure your waist or can you hold it?”

You turned your head back and raised an eyebrow. The curve of your profile, so perfect against the red light.

“What you need to do is fuck me already.”

He grinned.

Yoongi pulled up a chair and sat down right in the front of you.

You gave him a slightly annoyed expression. He smirked at you, placing his fingers on your chin, lifting it slightly.

“I thought you wanted a satisfying fuck?” he drawled.

“And yet nothing is happening.”

“Foreplay is just as important as pounding your pussy.”

You suddenly felt his other hand ghost under your nipple, palm barely grazing it. You tried to drop your body into it but were stopped by your restraints. Yoongi cocked an eyebrow amusedly. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“What are you waiting for?”

His thumb slid up your chin. He pressed it into your lips, forcing it open, rubbing your tongue with the pad of his finger. You made a disgruntled noise, saliva collecting where he touched you. You tried to close your lips but he held your jaw down, grip strong and immovable. Spit was trickling down your chin, covering his fingers and dripping onto the floor.

“Waiting for you to give in to me,” Yoongi murmured huskily.

Your heartrate accelerated disconcertingly in your chest. His dark eyes on yours, consuming you, keeping you in this slightly uncomfortable position. And you wanted it. You could feel it, the heat inside you, stroked from embers to full-blown fire, because somehow Min Yoongi could see right through you and knew you wanted what he was composing.

This midnight was his.

He seemed to know that you came to this conclusion. Maybe your pupils were dilated. Maybe it was your shallowed breathing. Maybe it was your trembling body, shaking at his touch. He removed his wet finger and slid it down your collarbones, smearing your own spit on you, before cupping your breast, squeezing it. You sucked in a breath, moaning his name softly as his other hand matched the first, kneading your breasts, rubbing your nipples with his palms.

“Y-Yoongi…”

You gasped as you felt his wrists slide up and the chains of his bracelets scrape your sensitive nipples, blooming pinpricks of pain over your chest. His palms came back, soothing you, his dark eyes intensely focused on your face, not looking away. His fingers pressed into your skin and he closed them in on your nipples, pinching them hard enough so that you could feel it, but not so hard that it was unbearable. He held you there like that. Seconds ticked past. Long, grueling seconds that felt like hours.

Yoongi was very calm about it as you slowly unraveled in his hands.

You body began to move involuntarily, raising your chest so his fingers pulled on your nipples a little. He still did not move his hands. You couldn’t go far with the metal bar digging into your back. He watched you try different things to get more stimulation, fingers motionless. If you moved too much, you were afraid he was going to let go and not give you more. You craved more. Needed it.

“Yoongi, please… Harder…”

His dark eyes were hypnotizing you.

The position of his fingers changed. He clamped your nipples between the joints of his index and middle fingers. You yelped, back banging against the metal. He pressed his thumbs against the hardened nubs, rubbing them harshly. Expression unchanging, forever on you.

“I thought you wanted it harder.”

His voice was deep, calm, with a hint of raspy delight. The sensation was a stark contrast to what he was doing before, shooting sparks of pleasure through your body. You shuddered, bucking into it, knees collapsing a bit as he stimulated your nipples.

“Hold.”

A single command and your knees locked to obey, entire body shaking. Yoongi pulled your nipples towards him, pushing your breasts together as he did so. Your back had to curve abruptly against the cold metal bar at his action. He lowered his head, trailing kisses along your collarbone. You whined, his touch hard and lips soft, eyelids fluttering as your nipples slipped out from his fingers. His large hands quickly twisted to cup your tits, keeping them up and pushed together as he kissed down the curve, nipping sharply at your skin. Leaving small red marks all over, sucking at some points to bruise you.

He didn’t need to speak. His lips told you everything, travelling all over your breasts hungrily, your swollen and abused nipples waiting, patterning your skin before his tongue snaked out.

“F-fuck, Yoongi…”

The pink tip pressed against the inflamed nub, pushing it around delicately. Strands of black hair framed his sculpted brows and those dark eyes were on you again. He closed his lips around it. Your eyelids slid closed, feeling the softness of his mouth and his tongue swiping all over, swift circles.

Then he sucked, hard.

Your eyes flew open, jutting your chest into his face. Yoongi chuckled in his throat and continued to suck, pulsating around your nipple, scraping his teeth against it. One of his hands came up and matched the rhythm of his mouth, tweaking and assaulting your other nipple forcefully. Your core throbbed with need, soaking your panties so much that they stuck to your folds. The scent of your arousal was getting stronger and stronger, a heavy sweetness.

He released your nipples abruptly and you gasped, feeling him lick a fat stripe possessively over your tits. Saliva dripping down, coating them all over. He removed his hand. You panted, trying to catch your breath.

“What’s my name?” he whispered quietly.

You lifted your trembling head, hair covering half your face. Your knees felt like jelly.

“Y-Yoongi.”

He slapped your tits.

You yelped, his open palm creating hot friction on your abused nipples. It wasn’t a hard hit, but an expansive one that covered a lot of surface area. It was obvious he knew what he was doing. Pain trickled throughout your body, pussy throbbing with need.

“Again.”

“Yoongi.”

He slapped you again, from the other side. You shuddered, sucking in your stomach at the sudden pain that seemed to swallow you up, but somehow it didn’t really hurt, instantly morphing into tinges of arousal. It was probably the way he was looking at you. His appearance was bored, but his eyes were trained onto your body, ink-black pupils shimmering with power in his dark brown irises.

“Again.”

Your eyes dropped down. He spread his legs. It was like he knew what you wanted. His erection strained against his tailored black slacks. It was impossible to hide with how closely fitted they were to his body. Your eyes went back up to his face. His expression was still unbothered.

“Yoongi,” you breathed, the clearest you’ve sounded yet.

Smack! You whined at the force, back against the cold metal. Smack! A half-moan, a half-sob as you felt his bracelets scrape against your skin. Smack! Your breasts banged together, softness against stinging softness, and it just felt so good as the pain crawled through your nervous system, devastating you. Your head was arched back, staring at the ceiling, mouth open and panting.

Yoongi reached up and pushed your head back down. He used his other hand to trace your lips, smeared with lipstick and saliva.

“I’m going to fuck this hole now.”

There was a short silence. He was waiting for you to say no.

You didn’t say anything.

Yoongi stood up and unbuttoned his pants right in front of your face. Your eyes followed his fingers as he unzipped them. The flaps opened and his cock fought against the smooth fabric of his boxer briefs, swelling as it was released from the confines of his pants. He pressed it into your nose and you inhaled his scent, oppressive and erotic, making you moan hotly against it.

You wanted it in you so bad that your juices were leaking down your thighs.

You felt his palm caress your head, smoothing your hair. He rocked his hips into your face, humping your open mouth. You pressed your tongue against his clothed cock, whimpering at how close it was and yet so far. His words drifted down to you in a low growl, teasing and domineering.

“Good luck.”

He removed his hardness from your face. Your eyes flickered up to him, a smirk on your lips. Yoongi matched your devious expression, pushing down his underwear. His cock sprung up into your vision, overtaking it. Oh, fuck. The head already dark red, leaking pre-cum. Veins standing out along the length, waiting to be stroked by your tongue. It was the hottest image you had ever seen, Yoongi’s smug face above you, his stiff cock so close to your lips that you could feel the heat. And fuck, he smelled so good, as if his pine cologne, his skin, and his arousal made an unholy pheromone combination that made you open your mouth, exhaling hotly over the glistening head.

Yoongi shoved it into your lips with one swift stroke.

You reeled, expanding your throat as he buried himself into it, sucking in a tight breath. It was a skillful, deliberate movement, one that didn’t jar your gag reflex immediately. You had plenty of practice from former encounters to not gag at first instinct, but Yoongi also seemed practiced, as if he had shoved his dick down many throats before.

His large hand fitted around the back of your head. Not moving.

His taste overwhelmed your mouth. Your tongue slid around expertly, running down the length, moaning around him. His eyes were closed but you could see his pink lips curve upward. You closed your own eyes, squeezing him in your throat as your tongue rubbed along the veins, pressing him into the roof of your mouth.

“You do not disappoint,” Yoongi sighed in satisfaction.

He pulled out a little and your tongue instantly went to the head, licking slow circles all over, teasing the opening with your tongue, spreading it out before sliding under to stimulate the thin skin between the head and length. Yoongi moaned above you, your name finally falling from his lips. You did not realize it would have such an effect on you until he said it. It made your thighs clench and pussy throb, agonizingly forced to wait until he was done with your mouth.

He began to thrust into your face, slow but forceful, tipping your head back a little so the head stroked against the roof of your mouth before hitting the back of your throat. You took it, helpless, bent over, knees aching as he fucked your mouth, almost lazily. His hand had a firm grip on your head, pushing himself in over and over.

“Keep it tight for me,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

You closed your lips around him, meeting the base of his cock, your cries muffled and vibrating along his hard length, adding stimulation. You looked up, seeing his tensed jaw, pleasure painting his features, eyes closed. Yoongi wasn’t trying to get off fast; he was trying to build it to a crescendo, and your mouth was his tool to do it. In, out, in, out, each time a little rougher, a little more force. Rubbing your throat raw, jaw aching, but you were so focused on the soft pants coming from his lips that you didn’t notice.

“Your mouth is so perfect,” Yoongi gritted out, rocking his hips a little faster. “So soft and tight.”

His eyes opened halfway and he noticed you staring at him as he fucked your mouth. He inhaled sharply at the sight.

“So fucking sexy,” he mumbled. “You want to swallow me?”

You hummed needily in response, gazing imploringly at him. He smirked.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He rolled his hips, faster, harder. You noticed the muscles in his neck tense, his hand gripping you tighter as he chased his release, fingers digging into your scalp, his cock trembling in your wetness as you sucked your cheeks in. Yoongi clenched his jaw, eyes closing again. His hips smacked into your face repeatedly, your name a low hiss as he thrust particularly roughly into your throat, the head being choked by your wet vise.

“Fuck...”

Sudden, jerking strings of cum shot down your throat, painting it white, pumping straight into your mouth. You swallowed hard, barely able to take a breath before his cock violently shuddered, filling you up with more of his salty, thick taste. He held your head as you gulped around him, groaning as he felt your throat close in on the sensitive head continually.

“That’s it…”

His fingers curled into your hair, lifting it away from your neck and collecting it behind you so he could look down at you drinking his orgasm.

“What a pretty picture and all for me.”

His eyes honed in on the semicolon tattoo under your left ear.

It flexed and moved as you swallowed, flickering in and out of vision as the small dangling black gems on your ear hid it. His eyes slid back to your fucked-out face, struggling for breath but being denied by his hold on you.

You might have a personal preference when it came to being single, but Yoongi was a rapacious man, and he wanted to own your mouth. He doubted he could buy it with money, but perhaps he could make you addicted to him. He pulled out of your lips and you whined deliciously.

Inwardly, he grinned like a devil.

Yoongi leaned down and lifted your head, kissing your swollen lips. You kissed him back, starved and hungry for his softness, his gentle touches that were matched by his roughness. Did you always look this good? He wanted you beside him so he could study you, so he could push you to your knees whenever he wanted, so you could resist him and so he could teach you a lesson.

But you deserved the fuck you had asked for. He could smell how turned on you were and he had promised after all. His tongue slid into your mouth and he tasted himself, a familiar taste that somehow tasted better when it was mixed with your saliva.

Yoongi did not think he was going to invite any more strangers into this room after this.

He broke the kiss. Your eyes on him, burning him to the core. He removed his shoes and socks, standing up. Stepped out of his pants, still wearing his shirt and tie. He kept them on as a sign of his power over you. You looked so perfectly submissive, just like this. He had to move out of your line of vision.

There was no way you knew what he was thinking, but he still didn’t trust himself. He did not want to get carried away. He had a job to do.

And that was to fuck you.

He moved around to your quivering legs, seeing your soaked panties. Not commenting, but his cock twitched seeing it, knowing it was him that made you this way. His fingers closed in on the top of them, yanking up. You jerked you head back, moaning hotly at the action. The black lace dug into your skin, seeping into your slick folds. He kept his voice measured despite his desperate need to shove himself into you right now.

“Count to four.”

He dug your panties into you as he spoke and made you whine as he pulled from side to side. The delicate fabric was ripping a little.

“One.”

He spanked your pussy with his large palm. The sound was loud and wet, traveling throughout the entire wing, along with your scream of pleasure. Yoongi was getting hard already listening to you. Even in the low light, he could tell your pussy lips were becoming puffy, reddening. His hand was smeared with your juices and he resisted the urge to lick it.

“Keep going,” he nudged gently.

He heard you panting. “Two.”

Smack! The sound, the sound, it turned him on so much as the lustful moan was torn out of you, your raw throat turning it almost feral. He twisted your panties in your slit, watching the fabric tear slowly against your inflamed skin, drinking in your squeals and whines as he tortured you.

“T-three.”

Slap! His fingers were coated in slickness, watching the wetness splatter between your legs as he hit you. Your ass was backing up into your panties, trying to get more, stopped by the metal bar. If you wanted him to stop, you wouldn’t have uttered the final number, gasping it out hurriedly.

“Four.”

Smack! Yoongi slapped the hardest yet and your knees buckled, almost sobbing. He shoved your kneecaps with his, locking them back in place. Your legs were shuddering hard, barely holding up, but your mouth was telling him a different story, choked gasps of pleasure.

“Fuck, Yoongi, yes…”

He pulled your panties down. They were practically ruined by his grip. That was too bad; they were quite beautiful. He intended on buying you new ones. Perhaps he could come with you to select them.

He paused for a moment to grab a condom, holding it in his hand before returning to you.

“Yoongi, p-please fuck me…”

You craned your head to look at him, the perfect profile. He raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck me with your pretty cock, p-please…”

He stared down at your gorgeous back, the peeks of your tattoos in his restraints, your ass stuck up in the air, pussy lips swollen and leaking from his spanking. He couldn’t see it right now, but he knew the ‘GOOD LUCK’ tattoo was there, right next to your pussy. Yoongi wondered who the artist was.

Perhaps they had been lucky like him.

He felt a surge of annoyance.

Yoongi stepped up to your ass, lifting his cock and pressing the length against your wetness. You started, almost moving away.

“It’s not in you.” He kept his voice even. “You will know if it was in you.”

He exhaled quietly as he rubbed his length and his balls against your wet slit, keeping the head away from you. You were warm, soft, and so, so slick. He was semi-hard, but he could feel himself getting harder as he pressed your ass around his cock, fucking the crevice between your cheeks. He knew it would be better inside you, but for some reason he needed to punish you a little. Needed to let you know that he was irate that there were others before him, that somehow fate cheated him by not having your paths cross sooner.

There was nothing you could do about that, but Yoongi didn’t care.

You were moaning under him, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, your pussy smacking his balls, coating them with your lubrication. He closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy it. Fuck, you had a nice ass, malleable and lush in his hands. He wanted to own this ass too. You mouth, your tits, your ass.

He knew he would want your pussy too once he was in it.

“Yoongi, please…”

He pressed his fingers into your skin, sliding them inward. Held his cock carefully so it wouldn’t leak on you as he retreated.

“Ah, you’re right,” he purred. “You’ve earned it.”

He opened the condom, sliding it on. His cock jerked in his hands, already desperate for what was to come. He was the kind of man who lived under so much discipline that he knew nothing else. Although life could not be controlled, he could control himself and his emotions.

Yoongi pressed the head against your entrance. Sucked in a breath.

Sank in slowly.

Oh.

God.

Yoongi was not religious, but he swore he saw glimpses of heaven the second his cock was fully enveloped by your pussy. It was tight, it was soft, and each ridge clenched around him, roughly stimulating the head after he had mildly edged himself with your ass moments earlier. You pulsed around him, constricting him inside you as the base of his crotch touched your abused pussy lips.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He needed to own this pussy.

Yoongi pulled back and shoved himself back in, gasping at the tightness. It was not because you weren’t turned on. It was because you were clenching around him, pressing your walls inward to choke his cock and, if possible, his cock became harder knowing this, harder as he heard you cry out in satisfaction.

“Yes, Yoongi, yes…”

He began to fuck you, rolling his hips into yours, trying to keep it slow and steady to drive you crazy, but to be honest, he was done for, because Yoongi had never experienced such power, never had a body fuck him back with such force, never heard such delicious, desperate mewls of need as he thrusted into you, slamming your hips together with loud squelches. It was probably a lot, his cock hitting you deep and your pussy already sensitive from his spanking, and yet you told him to hold you tighter, fuck you harder.

“Use me, Yoongi,” you gasped. “You feel so good, fuck, Yoongi, your cock is so fucking good…”

How did you know all the words that made him weak? How did you know exactly how to sound to make him want you more? And you took it all despite your shivering legs, despite your tits violently bouncing with every thrust, despite him pressing down on your lower back to hit you deeper. He watched you throw your head back, a long sinful wail slipping from your lips, hair flaring out like fire and you came all over his cock, pussy spasming and clenching around him.

Yoongi’s eyes widened, hips ramming into you. The head smacked against your tightest spot and he saw stars, the pleasure hitting its peak and plummeting into him, taking his breath away. He shot aggressively into the condom, pumped out by your pussy clamping down around his length, sucking it all out. His eyes rolled back into his head with how good it felt. This had never happened to him before. The moans of his name rang in his ears, encompassing him as his cock twitched inside you, the perfect combination of sound and sensation.

If Yoongi ever heard your voice again, it would be synesthetic experience for him, because he would remember this sound and this feeling for the rest of his life.

Outside, the clock stuck midnight, and fireworks overtook the sky in thundering booms.

“Was that a satisfying fuck?”

“Very.”

Yoongi reached over and tucked a spare strand of hair behind your left ear. You sat in his lap, in the armchair with the windows wide open, revealing a perfect view of all the fireworks overtaking the moonlight. It was a bit wasteful for your taste. Not that good for the environment. Yoongi informed you that he would look into more sustainable alternatives.

He pressed his lips into your neck.

“The next time you want to stay at one of my hotels, I will make myself available.”

You chuckled. “Can you afford a pause in your schedule?”

You could feel him sucking a red mark into your skin.

“What else can I do when a member of the Sith Order visits?”

You laughed and he smirked against your newly-made hickey.

same au as exclamation mark !

punctuation au dom!myg and jjk | period . | comma , | question mark ? | apostrophe ‘

masterpost

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi smut #bts smut #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi smut

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seijch · 4 years ago

Photo

futakuchi kenji + gender neutral!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

superhero au, action/fluff with a bit of angst

content warning !! (nongraphic) descriptions of violence, mention of alcohol

14.2k

recommended listening

BY DAY, you attend classes and sling drinks at the campus cafe. By night, you’re known as the Harbinger, an individual with the Gift of shadow and darkness. Your two jobs have never had any reason to collide...not until the appearance of a fellow Gifted by the name of Ace, anyway.

"Your next job is an assassination," says the informant. He's tall, with blond hair going a little unruly in the wind. The real attention grabber, though, is the unblinking third eye that rests on his forehead. You feel his fingers probing at your brain, prying it open to tell you everything you need to know about your next target. This was a commonplace interaction between you; there were eyes and ears everywhere. The landscape of your mind was the safest place for secrets and information.

This time, it's some bigshot CEO allied with the Seijoh Conglomerate. He's trying to curry favor with the much smaller Johzenji Incorporated.

Negotiations are on Saturday, Three-Eyes (you'd never learned his name, not even his alias, and he'd never provided one) tells you. I've given you the location. You should know how to get there.

"Got it," you reply as his grip on your brain recedes. "Anything else?" The young man shrugs.

"The usual. Fly high. Don't fuck up. It'll look bad on all of Karasuno if you did." With that, his figure goes blurry and blips out of sight. Left standing alone at the rendezvous point, you sigh and slip into the darkness, riding the shadows all the way home.

"Let me guess," Futakuchi says, shifting his gaze from his notepad to you, "a carbonara, extra cheese?"

"You know it." Say what you will about the simple dish, but it's been your favorite ever since the restaurant opened down the street before your first semester of university two years ago. Your eyes trace the brick walls of the small establishment, flit over Futakuchi's back as he enters the kitchen.

Due to its proximity to campus (and more recently, your apartment), you've been a regular patron since its opening. Despite this, though, it was your friendship with Futakuchi (and his employee discount) that kept a broke college student like you coming back for more.

(It started with an economics class you'd both taken in your first semester to raise your respective GPAs. You knew vaguely of each other, never having any reason to interact.

It continued the next semester with a group project for your communications class, once again shared with one Futakuchi Kenji. "Do you want to work together?" had spilled from your lips before you could think it through. You weren't friends. You were barely acquaintances. He was just the only one in the class you felt familiar enough with to ask.

"Sure," he responded. "Let's meet at the cafe close to the quad.")

"Here you go," Futakuchi says, taking you back to the present. "Without you, I'm sure this old place would've gone under months ago," he chuckles, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. He's thanking you, in his own roundabout way.

As always, you play along. "Aw, you'd miss me if I stopped showing up, wouldn't you?" He narrows his eyes at the grin you throw his way. You're sure he's about to hurl some sort of curse your way when an elderly couple walks past.

Schooling his features into something more refined, he gives you (and them) the smile of a saint. "Oh, please," he grits under his breath, "I give you three days tops before you come running back." You're left gaping at him like a fish, scrambling for a response, but nothing comes. His grin widens: he's won this one.

(After weeks' worth of research and countless cups of coffee consumed between you, the project was complete. You'd learned a lot about him — he was an electrical engineering major, played volleyball in high school, thought that Disney's Tangled was nothing short of a cinematic masterpiece — and the easy camaraderie you two had fallen into made your heart skip a beat.

Not that you'd ever admit it to him. He didn't need his ego to grow even bigger, lest his head get too swollen to keep upright. Whenever he walked into the cafe, the very same one you had your first meeting as partners at, to order his stupid chai tea latte, you would be forced to give it to him with a bright smile and held tongue.

You might've swallowed your feelings, but they've always been there, like a flower that had not yet met the right conditions to bloom.)

Saturday comes quickly. The venue is the most opulent hotel in the city, the crown jewel of the entertainment district. The whole place reeks of cigarette smoke, a result of the casino located on the first floor. You wrinkle your nose at the smell, darting between shadows to reach the room you're looking for.

Three-Eyes needs to work on his navigational skills, you think. The penthouse suite could've been better reached by taking to the skies and landing on the roof. (Plus, you've always liked the feeling of twisting the thin, watery darkness into wings with which to take flight.) You chalk it up to needing to exercise the utmost caution, and for good reason: there are two armed guards stationed at the door. No way around it.

From around the corner, you send your shadow to strangle one of the guards, sinking incorporeal fingers into his throat. He gargles as his body falls, and you curse as it thuds on the marble floor. The other guard's on full alert now, his gun locked and loaded. He tries to move, to look for the assailant, but he can't: you've pinned his shadow where it stands.

Inky black tendrils make their way to the guard, his eyes widening. You wonder, dimly, what he must think. The thoughts people have before their lives end at your hands has always been a point of speculation for you.

Not that you ever give them much time to think; it's a small mercy, to kill someone swiftly. You may be a criminal, but you’re far from a sadist.

You crack the door open, catch a glimpse of the scene inside.

The target's running his mouth, his glass of red wine coming close to spilling with each flourish of his hands. They're decorated with gaudy rings, each outfitted with a flashy gem. A small staffing of guards watches the scene, all stone-faced and no doubt better trained than the goons you took out less than two minutes ago.

The room's nice, furnishing sleek and minimalist. It's also well-lit, bringing a frown to your face. You were at your most effective when it was dark as pitch, but the cogs turn in your head as you formulate a plan.

What intrigues you the most, however, is the young man standing behind your target. His mask covers his eyes, as though he were attending a masquerade ball and not overseeing a critical business deal. It's outfitted with...card suits. One side the spade, the other the heart, with the club and diamond in the middle. His stance is relaxed, bored, even. You're not sure who he is; Three-Eyes didn't tell you about this. He must be a new addition, you think. He's not armed. Is he Gifted, like you?

Doesn't matter. The modern chandelier above does well to light the room, but you find purchase in the shadow of a stool on the kitchen island. You leap into it, molding yourself to the darkness as you lie in wait.

"Those are the terms and conditions of our deal," the CEO from Seijoh finishes, lacing his fingers together as he leans back in his chair. "Do you have any questions?" The Johzenji representative opens his mouth, but you're only half aware of his response.

Fact: When you're assuming the form of another shadow, you can't send your own to do your bidding.

Fact: Making this quick and easy isn't possible.

Fact: Confrontation is inevitable.

Fact: You have a bad feeling about the man in the mask.

That being said, you wouldn't have gotten this far in Karasuno if you were afraid to get your hands dirty, whether you liked it or not.

In a single instant, you emerge from hiding and trap the masked man's shadow before he can spring into action. All eyes are on you, but before the CEO can sputter commands, you send an appendage of darkness to pierce his chest. He gurgles, blood spilling from his mouth, before he slumps into the chair. The red wine spills all over the plush carpet, seeping in to stain.

The guards launch into action, forming a protective circle around the Johzenji representative. They're all aiming for you.

Perfect.

Before they open fire, you lock yourself in a barrier. The shots, as you predicted, ricochet and knock out some of the lights from the chandelier. Once the roar of gunfire ceases, you force the barrier outward to skewer your attackers.

They choke, last cries strained as their bodies fall to the ground. You scan the room, all shattered glass and bleeding bodies. Well. I should clean this up a little before I leave. You don’t dwell on the thought for too long, though; there’s still one person left on the floor.

The masked man's stayed perfectly still and silent throughout this whole encounter. (Of course he would; he wouldn't be able to move, even if he tried.) "You're good," he remarks as you close in on him. "It's just a shame," he tuts, sidestepping—sidestepping?—your attack, "that I'm better." He's broken from your hold, somehow, and is out the window (when did it open?) before you can get a hold of him.

"Don't take it personally," he calls after you. "You were just unlucky." You curse under your breath; Three-Eyes is not gonna like this. You shackle the Johzenji representative to the ground, looking down at him as he quivers in fear.

"Well then," you sigh, cutting your losses, "why don't you tell me all about this deal Johzenji is making with Seijoh, hm?"

There was a young man with the Seijoh CEO, you tell Three-Eyes, though you know he's long since sifted through your memories of last night to know. I don't know if he was Gifted or not.

We have no record of him. When we meet tomorrow, I'll give you a supplement that will let you temporarily see who around you is Gifted. Take it before your next mission.

You make the mistake of letting your mind wander, and curse his stupid psychic Gift when he adds, tone bone-dry, No, not a suppository. Supplements are taken orally. He releases his hold on you and you swear you see him shake his head at your train of thought.

(Really, it's not your fault the two words were so closely related; as much as you've given to this second job of yours, you weren't ready to insert anything odd into your most personal crevices.)

"Meet in the usual place tomorrow. I'll also be giving you the details of your next mission." That's all he says before teleporting away. You glance at your phone, color rushing out of your face in record time.

"Fuck!" You fling open the service door of the campus cafe, retying your apron as you rush in. Cramming the cash from Three-Eyes into your bag, you rejoin your boss on the floor. He's chewing you out, and just as well: you've extended your fifteen-minute break to something akin to a twenty-five.

You're only half listening. Instead, you're replaying the events of last night, the man in the mask the only thing on your mind.

No one’s ever broken free before. You’re staring at your hands, clenching and unclenching them in the motion to trap a shadow. How did he do it?

"You in for a long night?" you ask Futakuchi, setting his chai latte on the table. He's come during dinner hours, rendering the cafe mostly empty.

"Yeah. The professors in my department have been working us to the bone." He stops to take a sip, nodding in appreciation. "I mean, I get it. Top five engineering school and all. But shit," he huffs as you wipe down a nearby table, "I feel like I can't catch my breath." You clean the store as he rolls his shoulders, a brief break before his fingers fly over the keys of his laptop. It's companionable, the lo-fi tunes from the speakers the only real sound.

(You were no stranger to all-nighters with Futakuchi by your side. In fact, that was the only way your project could have ever reached completion.

"College is not what I expected it to be," he'd groaned one night, the two of you holed up in a corner of the library. It was getting late: you're sure the staff was going to kick you out any second now. You looked up from your laptop to see him with his head in his hands, tablet pen still between his fingers.

In truth, you'd also been hoping for more of an opportunity to let loose. This was supposed to be the time of your life, the transitory period between what remained of your youth and true adulthood. Instead, you'd spent all your time at work, in lecture, or working with Futakuchi on this damn presentation.

None of those things were inherently bad, but they certainly weren't in line with the more...entertaining college lifestyle you'd envisioned yourself leading. To sympathize, you'd told him as much, garnering a laugh as he agreed with you.

"Well,“ he’d looked at you then, eyes hooded with drowsiness, “at least we're in it together."

Your heart leaped to your throat, and you fumbled over your reply. "Who said I was going to stick around?" It sounded less like a verbal jab and more of a stab in the dark.

"And here I thought you enjoyed the mutually beneficial relationship we had," he lamented, a hand on his chest in mock hurt. "Never again will I let you use my employee discount." You'd kicked his shin under the table and told him to get back to work.

When you'd gotten home that night, those seven words had kept you awake, tossing and turning. You were brought together out of necessity, after all; who's to say that he'd stick around once the shackles of obligation were broken?)

The amount of light pollution in the city has never done your powers good, rendering the sky almost starless, but you'll be damned if it doesn't look amazing from above. You land at the top of the old clock tower, the building standing only because of its history. It's a relic in a city bustling with modernity, and you find solace in the low ticks and tocks as the seconds pass into minutes.

You watch cars race by, blips of color moving in the cityscape. You'd met with Three-Eyes earlier to receive the supplement (he'd reminded you once more to take it orally) and the location of your next mission. Your head still buzzes when you shake it, his influence not so easily forgotten.

Your wings drip with liquid shadow; when you'd first come into your Gift, you had been surprised at the almost milky texture of the dark. You're stretching them out, practicing your control, when you're interrupted.

"Huh," he says. "I wasn't expecting to see you here." Before he finishes his sentence, you've bound him from the neck down in an uncomfortable sort of straitjacket. You tighten your hold; he's not getting away this time.

"Good evening to you too," he grins. "How rude of myself to not even properly introduce myself," he barrels on before you can get a word in edgewise. "They call me Ace." His voice is casual, like he's meeting with a friend and not tied up in front of someone who wants to kill him.

You've turned the wings at your back into razor-sharp edges that itch to skewer his poor body. One of them grazes his Adam's apple, and he tilts his head up in defiance, looking down on you. "So you're Gifted?" It's barely a question, but one you figure you should ask regardless. As much as you’d love to skip to the part where he lies motionless on the floor, the idea of never scratching that itch, never getting the answers you’ve been wanting since you first met leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

"What do you think?" he asks, placid smile pasted on his lips. In the blink of an eye, he's wriggled out of your binding—how? "Pretty good, if I do say so myself," he preens at his accomplishment. You make to end him once and for all, answers be damned, but he dodges every spike that comes his way. He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth in disapproval, leaping out of the way of a particularly nasty advance that pierces the floor. "I introduce myself, act nothing but cordial, and this is the thanks I get?" He lets loose a long-suffering sigh that only pisses you off.

"Not like it matters. I already know who you are." You try to close the distance, but he's quick to widen the gap. "The Harbinger...did you come up with that one yourself? It's a nice name, for sure. A bit vague, if anything, but oh so frightening." He's overcome with fake emotion, the end of his sentence condescending. He has the nerve to talk down to you, and you return it by pinning his shadow before he can run away again.

You're almost there. He's within reach, but your foot gets stuck in the hole you'd made trying to get to him. You curse, the sound guttural as it comes from the back of your throat. "Darn," he simpers, throwing in a pitying snap as you yank your foot out. "You almost got me there too. Unfortunately for you," he shrugs, once again free from your grip on his shadow, "I'm getting bored. Do better.” If being such an insufferable asshole was a real Gift, you’re sure Ace would be among the first to manifest it.

"Well,” he says, voice closing the door on the interaction, “'til next time, Harbinger." Before you can even try to get to him again, he's gotten a running start. Your eyes widen as he jumps from what must be a terminal height to the nearest building—and lands it.

Ace? Three-Eyes asks, once again in your head. Do you know what his Gift is? He's rewatching your encounter with him, and you ignore his snide comments about how easily he managed to wipe the floor with you.

No clue. He didn't attack me. The admission causes Three-Eyes' eyebrows to raise as he plays the encounter over again, looking at it through a new lens. Frankly, you're getting tired of seeing your ass get kicked. Definitely a slippery bastard. He's probably working for Seijoh.

We'll send an agent to do recon on their Gifted. This could just be an independent. Seijoh was fond of attracting Gifted to their cause, promising wealth in exchange for power. Three-Eyes seems satisfied with what he's seen, and you shiver as he returns your mind to you. No matter how many times he does it, you don't think you'll ever get used to the feeling.

"At any rate," he throws over his shoulder, "don't fuck up tonight."

Seijoh is awfully fond of glitz and glamor, and it shows: the charity banquet is decorated to the nines. A part of you longs to participate, but you're here to gather information, to play the part of the fly on the wall. The waitstaff glides across the floor in a dance of service, offering champagne and hors d'oeurves alike to the chattering elite.

Take the tablet thirty minutes before you enter, Three-Eyes had told you. Once it kicks in, any Gifted should glow orange at the edges. A memory through the eyes of a stranger had entered your mind then, and in it you saw Three-Eyes outlined in neon orange, the edges softly blurred.

Sneaking in is much easier this time, a shadow creeping far enough past the door that you can slip in without a hitch. You're prepared to assess whatever shady deals Seijoh is setting up this time, but you see a man near the door stiffen. He's glowing orange at the edges, and you swallow. The man is big, with a shock of white hair. Leaning against the wall next to him is Ace, the orange outline bleeding in the space between the two Gifted.

"Harbinger," the unfamiliar face says, voice deep. You blanch, holding your breath as he turns to face you. He's fast for his size, head whipping in the direction you move to, taking the form of a different shadow. The guard detail tonight, armed to the teeth, focuses their aim where you hide.

This is bad. Gunfire claws against your ears, and you leap out of the shadow to put up a barrier before they tear you apart. Glass shatters. A lightbulb goes off in your head, feeling deja vu tug at the corners of your brain. You break into a sprint.

The security detail picks up on your plan, aiming one step ahead of you as you run to the now broken window. From the corner of your eye, you see one such bullet speeding towards you.

It feels like the world around you slows down, like you can see each detail of the dusky yellow metal as it hurtles to the point of impact.

This is it, isn’t it?

The bullet will lodge itself (or worse, pass through) your midsection. This opulent room will be where you meet your end. They’ll clean up your body, mop up the blood. The cleaning staff is going to have their work cut out for them, you think.

You wonder if time slows for each of your victims before you take them out. You regret not being quicker about it; you thought you were doing them a service, but this? This is nothing but agony.

All you can do is keep moving. Your feet are heavy as one moves in front of the other.

The world returns to its normal pace.

Your momentum carries you forward. The bullet is off by what must be millimetres, grazing your back. You leap out of the window.

The last thing you see as you fly away is Ace's eyes on yours, heart hammering against your ribcage.

Three-Eyes has never been the most expressive nor the most emotional, so to feel the fury rolling off him in waves stuns you silent. "You failed the mission?" he asks. It's a rhetorical question, of course; he's seen your memories. Multiple times. "You had a job to do, and you...what?" His voice stays even, but the eye that rests at the center of his forehead trembles slightly.

He exhales. His third eye stills once again.

"Look," he reasons. "I know you're pretty new around here, but the higher-ups demand results. You cannot fail. Keep that in mind next time we meet."

Your informant leaves after that, phasing out of your sight. Your failure probably reflects poorly on him, too; you've never met the higher-ups, the head honchos of Karasuno, but you figure they must be forces of nature. Shame washes over you as you return home.

For the first time since you joined Karasuno, you don't return home with an envelope of cash.

“I feel like I’m seeing more of you these days.” Futakuchi sighs when you call him out, raising his hands in surrender.

“There’s a paper due at the end of the month. My GPA can’t take it if I fall behind, so I asked them to cut my hours at the restaurant.” He’s had impeccable grades since the day you met, but you figure they weren’t entirely borne of natural aptitude. You, on the other hand, have been taking on more shifts in an attempt to offset the cost of failing your last mission.

One paycheck from Karasuno was almost twice as much as you made at your day job. You close your eyes, see rent’s due date glaring at you. Three-Eyes was right. There can’t be any more fuck ups; you literally cannot afford it.

“Well,” you hand him his latte (he’d only admitted it once, but you were the one who made his order the best), “you’ve come to the right place.”

It's been getting colder recently. The chilly night air nips at your skin, sends goosebumps up your arms.

"I get it, this is a nice lookout spot," Ace says, jolting you out of your reverie. "But really? Once was bad enough. Imagine if I found you here while I was on the clock." You don't immediately move to kill him, so he stands a respectable distance away.

"On the clock? For Seijoh?"

"Who's to say?" he deflects.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It can mean whatever you want it to. Just because I'm seen with Seijoh doesn't have to mean I'm working with them." He says that, but his presence alongside some of Seijoh's bigwigs begs to differ. "At the end of the day, I'm just some guy with a mask on, right?"

"No."

He laughs, incredulous. "No? Are you denying it?" He taps his mask, the ornamentation of the spade shifting beneath his touch. "The evidence is right there, isn't it?"

"I meant that you're not just some guy." When you swallow, it's heavy. You've started having nightmares about that day, ones where you don't make it out alive. You were so sure the bullet would connect...until it didn't hit at all.

More than anything, you remember the look he gave you as you ran away. It's that gaze that makes an appearance behind your eyelids every night. You've given up on trying to piece it together by now.

"Aww." Ace tilts his head, pursing his lips in sarcastic affection. "You sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?" You (once again) start to wish you'd killed him where he stood.

Instead, you say, "What did you do?" He gives you yet another look you can't decipher, another thing to mull over alone in your room under cover of darkness.

"Who knows?" he shrugs, avoiding a straight answer once again. "Maybe you just got lucky. Why do you assume I had something to do with it?"

(He has a point; all you have to go off of is a look and a feeling. You hate that he's right.)

The only noise at this point is the steady tick-tock of the clock tower and the breeze passing by, a gentle tap on your shoulder, a kiss on your cheek. You don't respond, soaking in his words. He could be lying. He could also be telling the truth.

You're not sure which you'd like to hear more.

"You said you were off the clock," you say after the silence has set in long enough to change the topic. He nods, gaze focused on the few cars on the road below. "I take it whatever...arrangement you have with Seijoh isn't permanent."

"Is work all you talk about? Man, I hope you're not this much of a stick in the mud behind the mask."

That hits a nerve. "I'll have you know I am very pleasant beneath the mask," you defend. He smirks, casting a sideways glance in your direction.

"I'll believe it when I see it, Harbinger."

“Okay, be honest,” you begin, shutting the menu with a snap (as if you even read it). “Am I...uptight?”

Kenji inhales sharply, taking your menu with careful fingers. You’re well aware you’ve just dropped him in a minefield, but you watch him squirm with serious eyes. Ace’s words from the night before ring in your ears, and you’re itching to prove him wrong.

Poorly equipped to answer the question at hand, Kenji instead asks, “...You sure you want me to be honest?” He yelps when you aim to whack him with a roll of complimentary bread. “You were the one who asked!”

“You’re supposed to be a good friend!” you hiss between bites of another dinner roll.

“You asked me to be honest! What was I supposed to do?” he sputters. “Lie?” Kenji confiscates the roll of bread, uttering a mocking hum when you whine.

“Yes!” He doesn’t bother replying, muttering under his breath as he takes your order—and your makeshift weapon—to the kitchen.

You'd think that a business conglomerate with its fingers deep in the city's underbelly would do a better job at hiding confidential files. You guess Seijoh's got bigger fish to fry. Not that you're complaining, of course; this only makes your job easier.

(We've done extensive recon on this location, Three-Eyes had informed you. He was still tense with the knowledge of your last fuck-up, but you were given a mission regardless. It's where they keep their records of the Gifted in their system, hired or not.)

The job, for once, is simple. Get in. Collect the files Three-Eyes had drilled into your brain. Get the fuck out.

(Just watch out. They have this guy running point on their security. In your memory was the image of a man, hair dyed blond save for the twin black stripes running parallel lines around his head.

He...kinda looks like a bumblebee, you'd thought, hoping to draw a laugh from your informant. It didn't work. His jaw had hardened, and his eyes—unfortunately, not the third one—had rolled.

They call him the Mad Dog. If you see him, do not engage. His Gift—if you can call it that—is the ability to break bones and pop blood vessels with a single touch. Okay, yikes. You'd breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of examples Three-Eyes had given; he was often very thorough, but you were grateful he'd refrained from providing a visual this time.)

To his credit, Three-Eyes' navigation skills are getting better. Getting to the archives poses no problem, the office completely dark. If you got into a fight, you were almost certain you’d come out on top.

The only catch is the dozens of the drawers you'll have to open to find the files you're looking for. With a sigh, you fish out the small flashlight given to you by Three-Eyes the last time you were tasked with recon.

(I should also warn you, Three-Eyes said, that you might be terminated if you fail this mission. We won't kill you or anything like that, he'd assured you when you'd flinched. At least, I don't think so. But your memories of this time will be erased entirely from your mind.

His gaze was devoid of any levity, any mercy. I can put things in your head no problem, but I make no promises to be gentle if I have to take them away.)

You're thumbing through the files of the independents Seijoh has hired when you see not one, but two faces you recognize.

The first is the large man with the white hair that had managed to sniff you out from the shadows. His real name is redacted, the same as every other report, but you catch a glimpse of his designation. Bloodhound Unit 1-A. Fitting. You'd already collected the files of other members of Seijoh's bloodhounds; this was the last one on your list.

They all possessed similar enough Gifts, in the end: the ability to locate Gifted whenever they used their powers.

The second file you recognize is Ace, pictured in all his masked glory with a shit-eating grin. You stop to read this one; it’s not every day you learn the ins and outs of the biggest pain in your ass to date.

Gifted #1110 has the ability to manipulate the probability of events (moderate effect), the classification reads. This makes him uniquely suited to an escort position for negotiations with other companies.

That explains why you've only seen him around officials. You trace your encounters back to the beginning, to all his comments about luck. He'd escaped you because he'd willed it, forced the hands of fate in his favor.

This casts the events of your last mission under a different light: he let you live.

Why?

You take both reports, the last two files needed, and make your escape.

It’s midnight. The clock tower rings out behind you to welcome the new hour, but you’re not paying much attention. Bouncing around in your mind like an old computer’s screensaver is the project due at the end of the month and the need to confront Ace about what exactly happened the night of your last mission.

You're about to call it a night and leave the clock tower when he appears. "Why is it that every time I come here to think, you show up?"

"I wasn't aware you were capable of cognizant thought," you fire back.

"Wow. Okay. Low blow." You manage an indignant laugh from him. "And especially rich, might I add, considering I'm the one who's come out on top every time we've crossed paths."

You don’t bother beating around the bush; you’ve waited too long to engage in his verbal sparring matches. "You really are a lucky bastard, aren't you?" It's not a question. He grins in response, as if you’ve passed a test.

"Took you long enough to notice. I was beginning to worry I'd have to spell it out for you."

Your meetings at the clock tower become routine. Ace shows up at midnight, you notice, fond of startling you as the tower rings.

("Are you stalking me or something?" you'd asked at the start. "Is your friend with the white hair sniffing me out so you can work up the courage to ask me out on a proper date?"

He laughed at that longer than was really appropriate, long enough for you to wonder what could possibly be so bad about posing yourself as a dating prospect. Second occupation aside, you were a catch and a half, and you were about to let him know when he caught his breath enough to reply. "Don't flatter yourself, Harbinger," he wheezed. "If anything," he'd sniffed, now nonchalant, "I should be asking you that question."

"What was it you just said?" You tapped your chin, coming to a realization, "Oh. Don't flatter yourself," you replied flatly. At this point, he was standing next to you. You'd turned to look at him, then. Not to look in the way you'd done several times before, but to really look at your...enemy?

You didn't know what to call him. Live saver might have been accurate, but you would rather have taken the bullet than call him that to his face. You weren't friends, nor were you enemies—not right now, anyway.

You didn't know what to make of this in-between you've found yourselves in, this space between hate and friendship.)

To throw a wrench into things even further, you find that he looks...handsome in the low light. You add the thought to the growing list of things you'd be quicker to take to your grave than admit to him.

(There was truth to the statement, though. You couldn't make out all of his face, of course, but the slicked back hair paired with a strong jaw looked promising enough. It's not like he was spindly either, body all lean muscle. You'd been staring for much longer than was considered socially acceptable, and he'd noticed. "Like what you see?"

"Not at all," you'd lied.

The worst part had been the fact that checking Ace out—sizing him up—wasn't on your list of regrets. What it was on was your laundry list of things regarding Ace that you couldn't wrap your head around.)

You learn things about him, things you'd sooner learn about a normal person instead of someone you seek to kill half the time.

He likes dogs.

(“I had one back in junior high. When I move out of the city and into a real house, I think I’ll adopt one of the same breed.” He’d shuddered before continuing. “I could never get one of those small dogs, though. All bark and no bite.”

“I think they’re a perfect fit for you,” you told him.

“Oh, ha ha. Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one on a losing streak.”)

He spends an inordinate amount of money on candy.

("You should see my pantry," he laughed. "I used to really like those like…” he was talking with his hands, gesturing in the air, “sour gummy worms back in high school. I guess the habit of buying them never wore off."

"I’m surprised you don’t have cavities."

"Please. My dentist loves me.")

He refuses to admit to crying when Mufasa died in The Lion King.

("So what if I was five?" he'd huffed, crossing his arms. "That's no excuse.")

It's humanizing.

It's concerning.

Now, when you look at Ace, you no longer see an unexpected roadblock, the joker being put into play. You begin to agree with what he told you weeks ago: he really was just some guy in a mask.

You begin to wonder when you became so quick to agree with him.

Your fork twirls around the pasta, you and Kenji sitting cross-legged on your carpet as a Marvel movie plays.

You'd been the one to suggest a celebration, having made it out of midterms alive. He'd agreed, bringing over some of your favorites from the restaurant after his shift.

The movie is good (though Kenji's uncanny ability to chime in during emotional scenes makes your eye twitch, just a little), the food even better. Before you know it, both of you are blinking bleary eyes awake in the morning light.

"What time is it?" you mutter, hand slapping the surface of the coffee table you'd fallen asleep on in an attempt to find your phone. Kenji rolls his head around in a circle, trying to ease the crick in his neck.

"Too early. Maybe around eight," he yawns, trying to once again make himself comfortable on the couch and go back to sleep.

You, on the other hand, have never been more awake in your life. When you find your phone, you find that he's right—it's almost eight. Your shift starts at nine. At this time of day, it takes half an hour to get to work.

"Shit," you curse, forcing your half-asleep body to move and do as much damage control as you can manage. "I have work in an hour. You can leave now if you want, but you gotta be out when I am."

"Nah, I'll give you a ride. My place is in that direction anyway." There's something about the way he says it, his voice a touch deeper with the morning and the way it rolls off his tongue like he's said it a million times, that makes your heart clench. There's not enough time to dwell on it, so you let him stay while you get ready for the day.

(Somewhere, deep in the pit of your stomach, that same seed of infatuation you'd swallowed months ago threatens to sprout.)

The name Ace, as it turns out, is one he came up with himself.

"You really couldn't have come up with anything better?" you ask. "It's a nice name. A bit vague, sure," you parrot the words from your first meeting as Ace narrows his eyes at you, unimpressed, "but oh so frightening." Emboldened by his confession and greedy in the light of your victory, you tilt his chin to meet your gaze head on.

The touch is electrifying, like a spark igniting for the first time in a brilliant flame. You force it to fizzle out as quick as it came, hand drawing back in shock.

These midnight meetings have changed your dynamic with Ace. It's delicate, like a house of cards that stacks higher and higher with each encounter. You worry that the slightest deviation from what's been established might send the whole thing crashing down.

"The people at Karasuno were the ones who named me," you fumble, trying to defuse the tension. "They saw me flying when I was still learning what I was and offered to take me in."

Almost a year ago, you'd been discovered by two boys. It was embarrassing, in hindsight: you crashed into the taller one, leading to the other doubled over in laughter.

You learned that their names were Kageyama and Hinata, and they were pretty new to this whole Gifted thing, too. You haven’t seen much of them recently; once you three “graduated,” for lack of a better term, into full-time operatives, you often found yourself flying solo.

"So what?" Ace asks. "You just joined a criminal organization?"

"I didn't know it was Karasuno at first," you snap. "Not until it was too late. But I'm here now. Money is money."

"You could've just..." he lets the words hang in the air, trying to find the best response. "I don't know." Instead, he asks a different question: "Would you have joined Seijoh or done something else if not for Karasuno?"

"What difference does it make?" you ask. "When you break it down, we're the same. Our Gift manifested, so we joined the first organization willing to pay us enough in exchange for being the ones to do their dirty work. Besides," you huff, head tilted to try and find any hint of starlight in the night sky, "I'd be doing exactly what I do now if I was with Seijoh."

"...You don't sound very pleased about that."

"Yeah?" Your laugh is humorless as you chew on your bottom lip. "I wouldn't be doing this at all if I could afford it. This all started because I wanted to get in touch with my Gift and learn more about it." You bring up a web of darkness, warping it into different shapes in a show of control. "Just so happens they help me with my rent enough that I don't have to live paycheck to paycheck."

He's pensive, nodding along with your words. "You know, we should bring drinks up here sometime. I think we both need a break. You from your rent, me from my tuition deadlines. How 'bout it?"

Despite yourself, you reply, "Yeah. I'd like that."

(Even worse is the fact that you don't think you want this to be an empty promise.)

You're at the clock tower again. The routine's stabilized into a weekly affair; it's unspoken between you two to meet on Friday nights, right as the day rolls over into Saturday morning. "Do you remember our last conversation?" Ace asks.

"About how you still owe me drinks?" Your legs are dangling over the edge of the tower, knocking against Ace's feet as the world whizzes below you.

"I thought it would be a potluck-style affair. We did establish that we're both broke, right? Why are you making me buy everything?"

"Wasn't my idea to get drunk with someone I've tried to kill," you offer. "Multiple times. I figured Seijoh's dirty money would be more than enough to afford a pack of shitty beer."

"If I'm going to drink with someone that's tried to kill me," for your benefit, he tacks on, "multiple times, I'm going to make it good. But that wasn't the part of the conversation I was talking about."

"Then what was?"

His shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly. You wouldn't catch it if you weren't sitting next to him. "Do you ever wonder..." He's reticent with his next words, as though they're better unspoken, "what would've happened if we worked together?"

"If this is some ploy to get me to join your so-called good side," you drawl, throwing up some jazz hands, "I'm afraid it won't work. We've been over this: it wouldn't make any difference."

"No," he says. He's not looking at you, but rather at the full moon that smiles at you from above. "I mean like...a world where it's always like this." He bumps his shoulder against yours, and you become hyperaware of the lack of space between you.

(When did it lessen? You could layer your hand over his, if you so pleased. Are his fingers calloused, are they warm?)

You force the thoughts back into the dark corner of your mind from which they came. "Don't go falling for me," you warn. (You're not sure who you're warning, exactly, but it's a warning nonetheless.) "You should know by now I won't be around to catch you."

His gaze is somewhere far away when he says, "I know."

There's a warm mug in your hands and a show you're barely watching on TV. You're alone, bundled in your comfiest blankets. You and Kenji had scheduled a movie night, but you had cancelled on him, citing your neverending pile of assignments as an excuse.

Somehow, seeing him hours after being with Ace feels wrong.

You take the day to unpack everything about Ace you normally save for the wee hours of the night, when your heart still races as you return home from the clock tower. Your eyes are glazed over as you analyze his every word, every action, try your best to read between the lines.

Then it hits you.

Why bother reading so much into it? Why expend so much energy into trying to figure him out?

It's not like—

Oh.

The realization of your feelings for your sort-of enemy isn't a loud affair, not at all like glass shattering or the freefall felt after leaping out of broken windows. It's quiet, almost unnervingly so.

Taking a sip of your drink, you step into this newfound truth as though it were your favorite pair of pants.

Here's the problem with this new truth: you're pretty sure that being in love with a member of Seijoh is off-limits.

"You'd think that in a city this big, we wouldn't be seeing so much of each other," he quips. Why is he always where you want to be? It had been annoying (until it wasn't), but on this fine Wednesday night, you’d wanted anything but to see him.

"And here I was, trying to find someplace new." Instead of the clock tower you'd both made your unspoken rendezvous point, you've come across Ace atop a skyscraper.

"Aww, I thought we were friends." Is that what he thinks? You're not sure if that's a testament to the change in your relationship or a confession just shy of what you really want.

(But is this what you want? A life of secrecy and hidden eyes?)

Ace pats the space next to him, motioning for you to come sit. You don't move. You worry that if you do, all the things you’re keeping hidden will come tumbling out unbidden.

(Would it be so bad if it did?)

"I'm fine here," you squeak. Your voice is meek, only serving to raise suspicion.

"...Are you okay?"

(What are you supposed to say to that? That you think you're in love with him when you barely know him, don't even know what he looks like? Are you supposed to tell him that even though you're on opposing sides, his eyes are the ones that haunt your dreams? How do you convey that all you could ever want is for things to stay like this, the city cloaked in perpetual night with Ace at your side and in your heart?)

There aren't any words in the English language that could get the point across.

He draws closer, as if magnetized to you. If words can't do it, maybe actions can.

You don’t think. You don’t speak.

All you do is yank the collar of his shirt towards you, crashing your lips against his. The house of cards you two had so delicately put together is lit aflame, but in this single selfish moment, you have no regrets.

You pour gasoline all over everything you know, tilting your head to take as much of Ace as he's willing to give.

(He pulls you flush against him, and later on you'll try to puzzle out how much of his reaction was instinct and how much of him was wanting for this, for you. For now, you're more than content to burn against him, with him. You take his bottom lip between your teeth and pull.)

“I think I did something stupid,” you groan, head in your hands as Kenji scrawls your order onto his notepad. You’re his last customer, but he doesn’t bother pulling out his finest Food Service Voice for you, not when you’re like this.

“What happened this time?” His question only elicits another drawn-out groan as you drag your hands down the sides of your face. “Yikes. That bad?” Returning to his notepad, he mumbles, “Extra cheese,” adding it to your order.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Kenji, to his credit, doesn’t push the issue.

The food is good, as always. It distracts you a bit from the crippling weight of what you’d done not even twenty-four hours ago. You even find it in yourself to give a heftier tip than usual.

And somehow, that’s enough.

For now.

Your next meeting with Ace is awkward, to say the least.

The haze of desire that plagued your mind that night has cleared, and you're left to face the consequences of your actions. The stars above twinkle and titter in equal parts at your embarrassment.

He's waiting for you at the clock tower. A change of pace, considering midnight is a ways off.

"Fancy seeing you here." You're trying for normalcy, but it comes out forced.

"What can I say?" There's no wind tonight, and that only serves to charge the energy between you further. "I guess we're just drawn to each other." The accuracy of that statement sinks in, and you gnaw at the inside of your cheek as you roll it around in your head.

"About last night—" comes out of your mouth at the same time as "Listen, what happened—" comes out of his.

Nobody speaks. You're reminded of one of the first nights you spent with him here, the silence almost companionable. Tonight, it's oppressive, suffocating you with its iron grip.

"So...are you okay?"

"Am I?"

"I mean, I guess not. You didn't answer the question last time."

"I did answer it," you defend hotly, stiffening as the words spill from your mouth. Way to go, you grimace. You've done a bang-up job bringing up the one thing you were trying to avoid. Ace shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Do we...wanna talk about it?" he asks, giving a tentative poke at the elephant in the room.

"Good question." You're looking at the ground, eyes catching against the hole from your very first meeting here. "You seem to be full of those lately."

"Thank you," he replies, on autopilot. For a moment, it's like nothing's changed, the house of cards still standing. "I try my best." There’s another lull in the conversation. You’re not even looking at him anymore, instead finding much to observe about the hole you’d made a month ago.

Fuck it. You've already dug yourself six feet under—you might as well force yourself all the way to rock bottom. "You know that this," you gesture between you, "can't happen, right? You don't even know who I am."

"You seem to neglect the fact that I might want to." Not for the first time, you curse his ability to parry even your worst remarks. Right. Your heart flutters, a betrayal of the highest order.

"You seem to neglect the fact that when you're on the clock, we're at each other's throats."

He grins. "Maybe."

"Are you always this irritating underneath the mask?"

At some point in the conversation, he's come to stand one breath away. "Why don't you find out?" he whispers against your lips as he closes the distance once more.

You're seething, knuckles gone white as you clench your fists at your sides. You're not the only one pissed: Three-Eyes is about to pop a blood vessel, a vein bulging on his forehead. Whatever you think you're doing needs to stop. He plays your exchanges with Ace over, sneers when he sees you kiss like it were gum caught beneath his shoe. There are more important things than...this.

You might have the worst informant in all of Karasuno, forced to watch as he skims through the month of private memories you'd tried to keep under lock and key. This was supposed to be a quick meeting to receive the details of your next job, but it seems he had caught wind of what you had been so eager to hide.

What you're doing endangers not only Karasuno, but you especially. There are fates worse than termination and much worse than death, he reminds you. There’s an undercurrent to his words, both a warning and a threat. See to it that you change your behavior before your next job.

"For the record," he says, quick to leave your mind, disgusted by what he's seen, "I kinda liked you. Shame you won't remember that if I have to wipe your memory clean."

He's gone before you can respond.

"You look like you just got broken up with," Kenji remarks as you shovel pasta in your mouth. When your only response is a withering glare, his voice softens. "Alright, what's going on?

"It's nothing," you lie. You're at the restaurant to eat your sorrows away, but the reason why is a can of worms you can't exactly afford to be forthcoming about. Explaining exactly what mess landed you halfway to sobbing with each bite you take to Kenji of all people would only end with you behind bars for all you've done. "I'll be okay, I just...really needed some pasta."

He doesn't look like he buys it, but he backs off. It's a half victory you're more than willing to take. "If you do need help, you know who to call." You nod, unable to respond with your mouth full.

When it's time for you to pay, Kenji emerges from the kitchen to tell you that just this once, your meal is on him.

Kenji's taking his break, sitting right across from you as if he hadn't been waiting your table less than five minutes ago. (His manager had shouted for him to take his break in the back, but Kenji, it seems, has long since mastered the art of selective hearing.) He doesn't say much, scrolling through his Instagram feed while you eat. You continue in relative silence, the only real noise being the sound of your fork against your plate.

You're more than halfway done with your meal when he pipes up. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

He rolls his eyes at you, locking his phone and putting it down. "Ha ha. Very funny. I'll be in the front row of all your stand-up comedy shows," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Thank you," you reply with a smile. "Anything for my number one fan." He pulls a face. "What did you want to talk about?"

Despite being the one to start the conversation, he's clamming up. "Forget it," he says, eyes focused on the people passing by outside rather than on you. "It's not important, anyway. Just some relationship troubles," he lets slip.

"Oh?" you ask. You're in much of the same boat, though you suspect that Kenji, at least, has met someone that he can reasonably be with. "What's wrong?"

"I'm with someone right now," he blurts before he can think it through. "Or I mean...sorta with someone."

"What does 'sorta with someone' mean?"

"I mean...we see each other every now and again, but our relationship's never been clearly defined. I know the feeling is mutual, but there are some," he gestures with his hands, "obstacles stopping us from being together."

"Like?" Kenji's never come to you with anything like this before, but he's being rather secretive about this whole affair.

"We're not...meant to be together?" He doesn't sound sure of that answer himself, considering his wince. "That's not right. There are just...a lot of factors stopping us from being together, that's all."

You twist your straw between your fingers before you take a sip. "Sometimes, timing is a big factor," you tell him. "Maybe you're not meant to be together right now? In that case, it might be better to end things before they go too far." Kenji nods, soaking your words in.

"At the end of the day, Romeo,” you remind, "the only person you have to please is yourself. What do you want?"

"The only person you have to please is yourself," he repeats. Louder, he says, "I know what I want. Don’t really know what I’m gonna do about it, but..." he rises, his break over, "you know. Thanks, I guess.”

You do, in fact, know. "Anytime."

Pocketing his phone, Kenji whisks away your empty dishes and returns to the kitchen.

Solving his relationship problems had been so easy. You only wish untangling the mess that was your own was that simple.

>> (11:08 AM) kenji: are you free after your shift today

>> (11:13 AM) you: yeah

>> (11:13 AM) you: why?

>> (11:14 AM) kenji: no reason

Sure enough, when the bell fixed to the door signals a customer's entrance towards the end of your shift, it's Kenji you come face to face with. "The usual."

"No please?" you ask, typing in his final total.

"Sorry, we haven't reached that level of friendship yet.” He pays with his phone, the screen displaying a blue check before he pockets it. "Ask me again in a few months."

"My bad. I seem to have mistaken our months of companionship and movie nights for something other than close friendship," you say, scribbling the name Coochie-kins on the side of his cup. "How will I ever make it up to you?" Your voice is monotone as you pass his order to your coworker. A quick glance to your watch tells you that Kenji is your last customer. Untying your apron with practiced ease, you clock out.

When you emerge from the back, now dressed in casual clothes, you approach Kenji. "Well? Not studying today?"

"Nah. I needed a break. Mind joining me?"

Before you know it, you're at an arcade. It's one of those modern ones, revamped for all ages and teeming with all sorts of bells and whistles. You stop at the entrance, peering into the glass where a large stuffed turtle calls to you. "You want it?" Kenji asks.

Right now, you're not sure if you've ever wanted anything more. After a quick stop to load up a card with enough credits to make your wallet ache, you return to the crane game. "Hit me," you tell him, and he swipes the card for you, looking amused.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You're a fucking supervilain working for one of the most prolific criminal organizations in the city. This stupid crane game doesn't stand a chance.

...is what you told yourself three attempts ago. The turtle slides out of the crane's grip once more, taunting you. You resist the primal urge to bash your head against the glass, instead opting for a drawn-out groan. "Is it even worth it?" you mumble.

"Let me try," Kenji says, hip bumping against yours as he nudges you to the side. "Watch and learn." He cracks his knuckles as he grips the joystick, fingers feather-light as they rest on the buttons to engage the crane. The setup looks exactly the same as your previous tries, and you scoff as he presses the button.

The turtle goes up. Big deal, you think. It'll come down before it goes through the chute. The game is rigged, anyway.

Or not.

The turtle lands neatly in the pickup zone.

"What'd I tell you?" he asks, like it was nothing. "Sometimes it just needs that magic touch." He wiggles his fingers for good measure.

"Wh-" you sputter. "How?"

"It's like that episode of Spongebob," he explains, handing you the turtle. "Be the crane."

You resolve to beat him at something, the competitive side of you flaring up.

(It's the start of a losing battle. Kenji hands your ass to you in every game, be it skeeball or basketball or even those awful ones that demand a button pressed at just the right time. The arcade staff double, triple check the amount of points your card's accumulated.

It's kind of ridiculous, really, but you leave with a Nintendo Switch you claim joint custody over, so it's not like you're complaining.)

"Why did you call me out, anyway?" you ask, the turtle you've named Chichi (after the Dragon Ball character and not Kenji, thank you very much) in your lap. He glances at you before returning his eyes to the road, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

"I said it earlier, didn’t I? We needed a break. I also wanted to thank you for last time." It’s been a couple of weeks since that day; you don’t think you would’ve remembered if not for how out of the blue it’d been. You’re kind of surprised he’d been thinking about it, really.

"What did you do about it?"

"Turns out, I didn't have to do anything," he exhales. His voice is bitter when he says, "I got ghosted."

You wince, sucking in a sharp breath through your mouth. "Ouch. Sorry to hear that.”

"Don't worry," he says. "Not like you had anything to do with it."

Your next job goes off without issue

You don't see Ace at all.

It's been almost a month since that night. Does he still shows up at the old clock tower at midnight in search of your silhouette? You would’ve done more, would’ve said a proper goodbye, but you’ve got bills to pay. Drawing Three-Eyes’ ire is the last thing on your to-do list.

You count the cash given to you by Three-Eyes, toss it onto your nightstand. Unfortunately, this isn’t some fairy tale where you can have your cake and eat it too.

(But was it so bad to long for that bit of fantasy?)

You trade your view of the city at the dead of night for pasta and movie nights on Mondays.

Weeks bleed into months, and you draw closer and closer to Kenji. When he asks if he can kiss you, fumbles with the words a bit before you leave his car, you let him.

He leans over the center console, one breath away, giving you one last out if you need it. You let him close the gap.

You like Kenji, you do.

But when your lips meet his for the first time, it's not the same. Ace might not be dead, but you're chasing after his ghost all the same, seeking him out in everything and everyone. What was once explosive, electrifying, even, barely manages to simmer in the pit of your stomach. It's not enough to boil over.

You'll take it.

(With your eyes closed and fingers tangled in his hair, you can almost taste the night winds on your tongue, hear the clock tower tick with each passing second. You tell yourself that maybe this is good for you, that the day will come where you see Kenji instead of longing for Ace.)

In the end, being with Kenji isn't at all what you expected. It's not at all what you wanted, either.

It's like coming home and finding out the hard way that all the furniture's moved three inches to the left: not immediately apparent...until you stop to wonder why you keep stubbing your toe on the coffee table.

"Kenji," you pant, pulling away. This is how your movie nights tend to end as of late, your hands in his hair and you situated on his lap. "What-" He's not in the mood to talk tonight, it seems, instead peppering kisses along the junction between your shoulder and collarbone. "What are we doing?”

For a minute, you think he hasn't heard you. "What do you want it to be?" He's leaning back on your shitty couch, eyes hooded and hazy. His face is framed by the low light of the action movie behind you, his chest rising and falling. You know that if you pull him back in now, you can safely bury the topic, cover it completely with your lips on his.

They say ignorance is bliss, after all.

But your toe's been stubbed to the point of bleeding; there's no ignoring that.

You've spent countless nights examining your feelings. You've held them up to the light, ghosted your fingers along the hairline cracks that run down the sides. And despite all your introspection, the best you can come up with is "I don't know." Even as the words come out of your mouth, they feel like the wrong answer.

The three words hang in the air between you, cruel fingers of guilt and indecision digging into your skin, kissing invisible bruises that bloom purple. For once, Kenji is at a loss for words. The clarity's returning to him, you think, bloodflow returning to his brain. He goes through several emotions you can't place nor process in a matter of seconds.

It's then that you ask yourself the question: What is this to him? Some part, selfish as selfish can be, hopes that you're just as much of a distraction to him as he is to you. It's much better than the alternative; better to set each other alight instead of stoking a fire for someone else.

"Right." The word comes out in a single, stunned breath. "Well," he says, moving enough to force you onto the couch, "call me when you think you've figured it out."

You don't get a chance to reply before he's out the door. The movie you hadn't been watching seems louder now, brought to the foreground of your misery.

You tune it out.

If Three-Eyes is put off by the look in your eyes, the anger that's taken root, he doesn't show it. A tactful move on his part, really; you're just about ready to tear someone's head off if they so much as breathe the wrong way

He has no reason to stick around. "You know what to do. Good luck." he says, waving a hand around in noncommittance before vanishing.

He's here. Of course he'd be; Three-Eyes had told you as much. Under the darkness of the new moon, you set out to strike a decisive blow to Seijoh's throat.

Tonight, you're aiming for Seijoh's headquarters, where their current leader—a man known only as the Grand King—happens to be holding a very important meeting.

Security here is no joke, and you find yourself creeping around above the shadows rather than within them. The Grand King's spared no expense, his bloodhounds roaming the halls. If you slip up, even a little, you're sure to meet your untimely demise.

The Grand King himself is younger than you expected. He's maybe a year or two older than you; much too young to be running a business conglomerate rife with seedy dealings and the law enforcement on its payroll. (He's also kind of cute, but this is neither the time nor place to dwell on that thought. You shiver when you remember Three-Eyes will no doubt catch this remark when he reviews your performance.)

Standing to his right is another man you've only heard about: the Grand King's most faithful Knight, at his side at all times. Nobody that's ever learned his power has come out alive. Not even Three-Eyes had any clue. His file wasn't with the others when you'd been sent to their archives, leaving you completely in the dark.

To the Grand King's left is Ace; you guess even the mightiest king needs a trick or two up his sleeve. You’re slinking at the doorway, body pressed against the wall, when a voice calls out.

"Welcome, Harbinger," the Grand King greets, a cheerful smile on his face. "We've been expecting you."

Shit. How did he know? You're about to make a break for it, to cut your losses, when strong arms hold yours in place. When you wriggle around enough to see who's got you pinned, you see the same bloodhound from last time, white hair and all.

"You're here to kill me, aren't you?" the Grand King asks, though there's no question about it. You grit your teeth, reach out for his shadow with your own. Your shadow wraps its fingers around his throat without remorse.

Then the Grand King snaps his fingers, and you're forced to squeeze your eyes shut.

It's bright, like he's turned the intensity of the sun itself on you and then some. You barely have anything to work with, light at all angles doing well to chase away the darkness. The Grand King walks toward you, and your mouth curls in a snarl.

He takes two fingers and tips your chin up to meet his gaze. "You're all they sent?" His brow furrows. "I was expecting more of a fight." Whatever he sees in your eyes causes him to lose interest rather quickly, his fingers dropping. He wipes them on the fabric of his pants as though you were a speck of dirt. "You're just a rookie. I was hoping Karasuno would send their biggest and baddest after me," he sighs, palm pressed to his forehead in woe.

The Grand King has mastered the art of dramatic timing, whether he knows it or not.

There's a deafening boom that rattles your being at an atomic level. It's from the ground floor, but you can feel it shake the furniture at the penthouse all the same. You exhale, shaky and suppressing a grin.

The plan is going off without a hitch.

You've never worked with the other Gifted in Karasuno, so when Three-Eyes told you you'd be joined by two familiar faces, you knew you couldn't pass up the opportunity.

Hinata bounds in, a smile on his face. Between the taller, more intimidating men in the room, he doesn't look like much—until he bends the white-haired bloodhound to his will. The larger man's grip loosens until he lets you go, eyes unable to leave Hinata's.

The temperature drops, goosebumps snaking up your skin. Not far behind Hinata is Kageyama, eyes dark with purpose as he walks towards the Grand King. A swirling storm of snow and hail orbits him, and you feel your fingers go numb when he passes you by.

"Oikawa," he says. The Grand King's Knight moves to stop the Karasuno operative, but Oikawa holds up a hand, orders him to stand down. Despite the fact that the Grand King isn't much taller than Kageyama, he manages to look down on him nonetheless.

"Tobio." Wait, what?

You don't get to see what happens next, your attention stolen away by Ace right as Kageyama attacks. His hailstorm takes out much of the lights with it, giving you the opening you need.

"Remember me?" he asks, smile mirthless. "I was wondering where you went. So much for getting drinks together, huh?" His jaw is clenched as he dodges the spears of shadow you fling his way. You try to catch him, to lock him in place, but he evades you every time.

"Bastard," you spit, growing more frenzied with each second that passes.

“Oh, I just got lucky," he says with a thin smile, taking off. You know he's trying to distract you, to stop you from joining the fray. You know that he knows you're drawn to him, even now.

He's running out onto the roof of the building, but you finally get a hold of his shadow. Yanking it harshly in your direction, you force him to the ground.

Your feet hit the concrete, each step inching closer and closer to the decisive ending. Ace has done nothing but hopelessly entangle you in an impossible knot; the only way out, you think, elongating your fingers into sharp points, is to cut through.

Fact: When Ace makes contact with the ground, his mask clatters, having fallen from his face.

Fact: Your eyes are wide, so wide they feel like they might fall out of their sockets.

"Well?" Ace asks, only it's not Ace.

Fact: Ace is Kenji.

It's Kenji, and he's spitting blood, rubbing the spot where his jaw connected with the floor.

It's Kenji, with nothing but malice in his glare.

"What are you waiting for, Harbinger?"

It would be so easy. One move, performed with surgical precision. You've done it countless times before. You know how to make it quick. You know how to make it painless.

But Kenji is the one behind the mask. And slowly, all the pieces begin to fall into place.

("Read it and weep," he teased, showing off his grades. "How does it feel, knowing that you're talking to the future Albert Einstein?" You knew he was baiting you into either a battle you wouldn’t win or compliments he’d refuse to let you live down. You played into it all the same.

"What the fuck," you exhaled. "Have you ever gotten a borderline grade?"

"Nope." He pops the p sound, grin on his face growing wider. "Guess I'm just that lucky.")

("Tell me about yourself," you told him, yawning with the late hour. Classes had been taking their toll on you, so you’d flown up to the clock tower to take a break. What you hadn’t expected was to see Ace there, wind displacing his hair ever so slightly.

"What, so you can rat me out to your murder of crows? No, thank you."

"What's your favorite color?" you asked, as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He’d given you a look, but responded anyway, seeing no harm in such an innocent question. At the time, you hadn’t, either. "...Believe it or not, it's actually pine green.”

"Really?" You turned your head to look at him. You were expecting maybe black or navy blue, but green? "Why?"

"I don't know. They were my high school's colors. I guess I saw enough of it around and on me all the time that I ended up liking it.")

(Sometimes, in the right light, you always thought Kenji looked like Ace. You dismissed it whenever it came up. You thought you just had a type. In a way, you suppose you do.)

You swallow in a poor attempt to rid yourself of the lump in your throat. Your mouth opens to respond, but no words come out. What is there to say? There's no way you can unmask yourself right now, reveal to him that his enemy and almost-lover (two different times, to boot) are one and the same.

So you don't.

Your mouth closes, sets itself into a hard line.

And you run.

Your hold on his shadow fades before vanishing entirely once you get far enough, but you don't care. You take a leap of faith off the roof, relying on your wings to come together before you hit the ground.

You're at the clock tower for the first time in what feels like forever. It hasn't changed. You’d flown here on instinct after fleeing Seijoh’s HQ. That’s not surprising, of course; you’ve been longing to feel the wind from up here for almost two months now.

"Why did you let me go?" Ace—Kenji—asks. You don't turn around, and you don't run away. In retrospect, you're not surprised to see him here, either. He must have known that this would be the first place you'd go. "You've never been the type to hold back. Why now?" You turn your head just enough to see his folded arms, his sharp glare.

"I'm just returning the favor from last time. We're even now."

"Last time, I wasn't the one trying to kill you."

"Does it matter?" You can't do this right now. Knowing who's behind the mask is too much for you to take, and you haven't even thought about the implications yet. "Leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" Kenji's raising his voice, but you can't look at him. You watch the hands of the clock above move instead, counting the seconds in your head. "Like you left me alone the second things got too real for you? Was this all just some twisted game you tried to play to get in my head?" He's accusatory, poison dripping from each word. Beneath it, the question he's too scared to ask: You threw me away so easily. Did I mean nothing to you?

"I did what I had to do." He's about to lash out with some scathing retort, but you cut him off. "It wasn't my choice.

"Oh, like Karasuno wasn't your choice? It's always about what you have to do," he growls, coming so close that you berate yourself for never knowing that Kenji and Ace were one and the same. "Maybe you should start living based on what you want instead." It’s a cruel echo of the advice you’d given to Kenji, your own words twisted and thrown back into your face.

But that's the thing, isn't it? "I don't know what I want." You’re lying.

You’re lying, and he knows it.

He's reaching out for you, meaning to come closer as you aim to pull away, his hand colliding with the edge of your mask. The momentum of two opposing forces end with your mask caught between his fingers as it lifts off your face.

(You know what they say: an eye for an eye makes the world go blind.)

Kenji—Ace—goes still. His shoulders slump, anger leaving him instantly. Behind you, the clock ticks and tocks, steady despite the metaphorical rug being pulled from underneath you both. He's incredulous, whispering your name as he struggles to process the same realization you'd only come to hours before.

The fire in his eyes has gone ice cold. You barely catch your mask when he tosses it to you.

And then he's gone.

>> (12:08 AM) you: kenji i'm sorry

>> (12:08 AM) you: ididn't know i swear

>> (12:11 AM) you: can we please talk about this

>> (12:12 AM) you: please say something

>> (1:29 AM) you: i'll be here

>> (2:17 AM) you: good night

The next few nights are sleepless. You've (once again) done a bang-up job cutting both (can you call it that?) Ace and Kenji from your life. The first thing you do when you wake up in the morning is roll over, unlock your phone in the hopes that the ache that's settled in your chest can find relief.

It never does. What greets you each morning, after each good night sent, is a one-sided conversation with two little words tucked at the bottom: Read yesterday.

After almost a full week of this, of mornings on your phone and midnights hanging around the tower, your phone vibrates.

>> (2:32 PM) kenji: meet me at the clock tower tonight

He's already there when you touch down, wings disappearing as soon as your feet kiss solid ground. He's staring up at the clock: ten minutes til midnight. "How long did you know?

"I didn't. Not until your mask came off."

"I see." Then: "Did you like Ace more?"

"No." He scoffs, but you barrel on. You might as well show your hand, lay the cards on the table. "You remember back in our second semester, when we had that project? Believe it or not, I..." It’s hard to admit, even if it had been years ago. “I liked you, back then. Kenji you, not-” you’re fumbling with your words, but he gets the hint. The truth of it is enough to bring him to face you.

This isn’t a conversation between Ace and the Harbinger, this is a conversation between you and Kenji, masks nowhere in sight. The sight of Kenji set against the clock tower makes your stomach flip, his eyes boring into your own.

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Took me a while to get over it. But then Ace came, and I liked him too. I guess I have a type." You're trying for humor, a shot in the dark. To your surprise, it works, drawing a chuckle from him. "And uh," you add, "sorry for...ghosting you." Kenji quirks an eyebrow. "They threatened to wipe my memories if I didn't stop. Maybe worse. I didn't wanna find out. Sorry," you tack on.

"Yeah. I get it. You did what you have to do," he says, and this time, there is no malice to be found.

There's one thing left to apologize for, but your attempts at it layer over each other.

"What are you apologizing for?" you ask.

"What are you apologizing for?" he fires back.

"I, uh." You're at your most eloquent tonight, it seems. "About the past couple of months..."

"Yeah. I have to ask...were you using me to get over," he pauses, realizes how absurd the question sounds, "me?"

"Will you be mad if I say yes?"

"No. I was," he gestures with both palms, "doing the same thing. Trying to get over getting ghosted...with the person who dropped me in the first place. Just my luck, huh?" You snort.

"Sounds like the plot of a bad romcom."

It all connects then, ridiculousness and all. When two sets of unhidden eyes meet, they crinkle into crescents, you and Kenji breaking into laughter. When your stomach hurts and you wipe tears from your eyes, you ask, "Do you...want to start over?" It's hesitant. You two aren't perfect. There's a good chance you're going to fuck up somehow.

But you know what you want, and it's Kenji—with the mask and without.

Kenji holds out his hand. "Hi. I'm Kenji. When I need to pay for tuition, I'm Ace. What's your name?"

The clock chimes then, twelve times with the coming of midnight. You take his hand.

The nights are better with Kenji at your side, leaned against his shoulder. The clock tower's pleasant as always, city alight below. It's been a long time since you've felt the need to wear a mask up here. You find that you see more of the view nowadays, anyway. "Whatever happened to getting drinks and coming up here?"

"We're both still broke," Kenji replies. "We could go and get some, but..." he wraps an arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer, "I'm not in the mood to move."

"You and me both."

"Next time?"

"Next time."

("I hate to say it," you mused, "but I guess you can be kinda charming when you want to be." Before his ego got too swollen, you added, "Sometimes."

"You're not so bad yourself," he murmured. There was a smile playing at your lips as you drew closer and closer to him, now a breath away. "Tell me, Harbinger," and this time, when your name came from his lips, there was no trace of anger or pain underneath, "am I going to get lucky tonight?"

"Why don't we find out?")

Three-Eyes stops your memory of that night rather early, and you're not sure if you're imagining it, but the tips of his ears are distinctly red. "All's well that ends well, right?" you ask with a cheerful clap of your hands. The corners of your mouth are curved in a smirk that your informant only responds to with a stern glare.

"I'll let it slide, but in the future, I'd recommend not...fraternizing with the enemy." His tone is clipped, which only serves to widen your grin.

"Oh, but he's not the enemy anymore, is he?"

Your informant—you've since learned that his name is Tsukishima, but you’ve grown fond of the moniker—can only sigh. "I guess not."

(After you'd left to pursue Ace, you'd only narrowly managed to avoid the wrath of Tsukishima and Karasuno's admins. Kageyama and Hinata had done such a good job without you that it didn't even matter, and for that you were grateful, even if it had meant acting as a decoy. With Oikawa under Karasuno's thumb, Kenji had come to work under Karasuno, drawn to the money—and you.

And so, you'd gained a partner—in both senses of the word—in Kenji. The once treacherous seed of infatuation had been nurtured with the soil of communication, watered with care until it blossomed into what you might even be ready to call love.)

Kenji’s waiting for you, hands in his pockets and a look that mirrors your own in his eyes. “Did he get mad again?”

“No,” you reply, holding your hand out until he interlaces his fingers with yours, “just embarrassed. It’s kinda cute.”

“First, you try to kill me, and now you’re calling other guys cute?” he asks, shaking his head. “I think it’s high time I get back on Tinder.” Your shadow, lingering behind you both, yanks at the collar of Kenji’s button-up. He chokes, a strangled noise as you grip his hand a bit tighter in response. “And you’re trying to kill me again.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Your question is answered as you trip over your own feet, almost landing face first on the pavement. When you right your balance, Kenji is laughing openly. It’s contagious, pure joy blooming in your chest.

(Out of a million outcomes, you've found yourself in one of the best ones; maybe, you think, this is what they call the luck of the draw.)

dedicated, ultimately, to @wackatoshi: winter, i know at the time this goes up, you’re currently ia but it was your kenji fics that really kickstarted the love i have for him........

#futakuchi x reader #futakuchi kenji #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu scenarios

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softbiker · 5 years ago

Text

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: some strong language, mention of super soldier butts

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Steve Rogers takes a coffee break. It’s good to try new things.

A/N: This is a continuation of Extra Whip - so I recommend reading that first in order to be familiar with who the reader is! It takes place in the same universe as @kentuckybarnes Agent 28 and @nacho-bucky Agent 41, with permission from both :) At the moment, my plan for these two is a series of one shots; connected by characters and certain events, but not a strong overarching plot. Let’s keep it fun okay? (Can’t believe I’m posting this before I’ve had my coffee but hey, I’m excited). Enjoy!

A month goes by.

In missions, gunpowder grit beneath his fingernails; in Stark Foundation fundraisers, his bowtie digging too tight at his neck; in karaoke nights - and avoiding karaoke nights, sneaking up to the roof with Bucky for a smoke. Somehow the habit crept back in, between the two of them. Deeper than muscle, it’s a bone memory - shoulders pressed together on a fire escape, nostalgic for nicotine and other things that won’t roll into cigarette papers. No one knows about their little habit, except for maybe Nat - who cares less about their upstanding reputations than everyone else, and she’ll even share a pack every once in a while. Steve marvels at cigarettes now, the way he marvels at everything that should’ve killed him before he became a miracle.

So February passes. He eases up on Health Food Reform, satisfied that the good habits seem to mostly stick. 41 continues to slurp on her spinach milkshakes during briefings, and it brings out his big brother smile every time. Every time he wonders who might have made it for her.

March blusters in with excessive force, with the wind whipping storms on every front and a crisis on every continent. For the first two weeks of the month, Steve doesn’t set foot at the compound, shuffling between safe houses and sleeping on the quinjet, his neck aching in complaint. The team forgoes their long-anticipated weekend retreat to Tony’s cabin in Aspen in favor of a terror attack in Johannesburg.

“Man, I was not made for this kind of heat,” Sam mutters, tugging at the harnesses of his uniform as sweat streams down his neck and into his shirt.

“You would’ve been in the hot tub in Aspen, anyway,” Clint teases, taking stock of his quiver, his words slurred by the bubblegum in his mouth.

“Yeah, with a couple of snow bunnies, that’s for damn sure,” Sam bites back, shoving his goggles into a side pocket on his tac pants.

“Focus, Sam,” Steve sighs over the comm. He’s got eyes on them - opposite rooftop, approximately 100 feet above the epicenter of the chaos. “The sooner we wrap this up, the sooner you can sit in a jacuzzi with your rabbits.”

Tony’s laughter over the comm line is so loud, Nat has to remove her earpiece for a full minute.

“What?” Steve turns to Nat, bewildered. She’s got a white streak of dust in her hair. “What? What did I say?”

She just shakes her head, taming the curl of her lips with a click of her tongue.

“Nobody tell him,” Tony insists, his voice still a wheeze. “Jesus, I am gonna hold onto that for weeks. That’s going in the digital scrapbook - F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Already saved the audio file, boss.”

Steve just hangs his head, resigned. No chance of living that one down.

Hours later, they pile into the quinjet in beleaguered pairs, Clint propped on Sam’s arm, 28 with Natasha - both dusty and bruised but no major injuries, followed by Wanda and 41, with Tony bringing up the rear. Steve takes stock with a keen gaze as they trudge up the ramp into the jet, Buck slouched in the seat beside him, his flesh fingers blackened with gunpowder. More than 10 hours on the ground, with thousands of safe civilian lives to show for it - but no arrests had been made, no suspects found, no bad guys to put away. Not today. A stalemate, which Steve hates. He loathes the ambiguity, the loose ends of this job, the way the world can just never stay safe.

A knee jostles against his own, and he looks over at Bucky; he’s got one eye cracked open, narrow window on a sky blue gaze peering back at Steve.

“You good, Rogers?” he mutters, lazily rolling his jaw.

“Me? Yeah, Buck, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh. Well quit grindin’ your teeth like that.” Bucky sighs and lets his eyes slip closed again. “The one thing your ma never had to fix, those damn perfect teeth.”

It draws a dull, tired smile, just like he intended, and Steve elbows Bucky in the ribs - the two of them exchanging a couple of tired blows, before settling into their seats, pressed against each other shoulder to knee, like they’re still trying to fit in a foxhole. Steve takes a little of Bucky’s weight as he leans over to let 28 pass them and settle into a seat across the aisle, buckling herself in and sending a tired smile their way.

He accepts a Starkpad from Tony as he passes by on his way to the cockpit. A swipe of the screen reveals a face - a white man, late 40’s, dark hair with white streaks at the front. Nothing noticeable about him otherwise. Beneath the face is a name: Israel Hayes. He stands and stalks his way up the aisle of the jet, careful not to disturb any of his sleeping teammates as he follows Tony. The Iron Man suit dissolving back into the nanite housing unit on his chest, Tony is left only in a soft black shirt and pants - he looks vulnerable, small, when Steve leans into the cockpit, his shoulders crowding the space.

“This our guy?”

“Seems like it. F.R.I.D.A.Y. cross-referenced his known aliases with similar activities in Europe and Asia - but he’s good. Never shown his face good.”

“Not even on CCTV?” Steve quirks a brow.

Tony shakes his head, lips pursed. “Nope. My guess? He’s got some kind of algorithm like the one SHIELD instituted for our agents in the backseat. You know how we never know what a SHIELD agent looks like?” He gestures towards the passengers with his thumb and Steve nods. “Same thing. As soon as his face is captured on a camera, his server finds it and scrubs it clean.”

“That possible? For someone who’s not SHIELD?”

“If he’s got the connections it seems like he has? Then yeah.” Tony huffs out a breath. “Not that I’m worried - F.R.I.D.A.Y. has found smaller needles in bigger haystacks.”

Steve just nods, staring at the man’s picture on the tablet in his hands.

He stares at that tablet for days - at briefings, at the picture, at news headlines, at the picture, at a Buzzfeed article comparing his butt with Sam’s and Bucky’s (sent in a text attachment by Sam, accompanied only by the peach emoji), and once more at the picture.

He stares at it till he sees the man’s face behind his eyelids, till he could sketch it on a napkin without looking. And he does, actually, by accident - in the margins of his notes during a security briefing with Fury, he glances down to find his fingers tracing the deep set of the man’s eyes, the dark shadow of his brows. Algorithm or no, he won’t be able to hide forever.

It’s the algorithm he’s thinking of as he continues to take his notes in the meeting, the sketch staring up at him in stark blue pen; there’s another face he wanted to look for, more than once he’d decide to search the SHIELD records, before changing his mind - just opening his browser and poising his fingers to start the search has him feeling like a damn creep. Like the internet stalker in that show Wanda was obsessed with. His ma raised a gentleman - there’s no way he was gonna be that guy.

The next morning, Sam begs off on their run, and Bucky is mysteriously absent from his room when Steve knocks, so he goes for his run alone. It’s not so bad - he’s got a fancy pair of headphones that Tony made last Christmas, and he loves watching the sunrise over the city. He even turns and crosses the bridge into Brooklyn, making a lap through Prospect Park before looping back towards Manhattan. Not so bad. Good, even. Really, really good.

He slows down and stretches in front of the tower, propping his legs up on the bench out front and massaging his calves. There’s a little bit of a burn, but it melts at the pressure of his fingers, and the pleasant kind of soreness settles in. The kind he’s enjoyed and lived in since his body became sturdy and strong and decidedly anti-fragile - he’ll never say it out loud, but he still gets a little thrill when he manages to break a bone or dislocate a shoulder, goosebumps of pain shooting down his spine as he pops them back into place with a grunt of satisfaction.

Hand hovering over the biometric scanner, he’s about to go back inside, take the elevator up to his room and hit the showers, when he sees someone at the crosswalk just a block down.

Pink hoodie - huge, practically a dress - with a denim jacket tugged over it, bare legs trailing down into white combat boots, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She spares little more than a glance at the cars along the street before striding forward, nose turned up and arms crossed in a way that’s so New York it makes him do a double take. That early morning pout, tired eyes, like she’s not totally awake yet. Her steps firm and determined in those heavy boots, she makes a beeline for the green siren across the street, never once glancing his direction.

It’s the first glimpse he’s had of her in a month.

Not for lack of trying, but have you seen his schedule? He’s barely been stateside at all for nearly 3 weeks. Not to mention that one of Tony’s interns is always eager to volunteer for a coffee run, and he’s not sure what he would say, a good reason for him to insist to go by himself.

With a glance at his phone - not due for a meeting for 3 more hours - he takes a deep breath and marches down the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders tucked. Less threatening to the passersby, who notice him, but say nothing. They’re in his neighborhood after all.

A bell chimes above the door when he walks in, and the same “Welcome to Starbucks!” greets him, but he’s only half-listening as he scans the cafe. She’s at the register, chatting with the barista there who hands her a steaming white mug.

“Ugh, thanks Chase, you’re a lifesaver,” she sighs, taking a sip.

“Hey, it’s all part of the job,” the barista jokes back, adjusting the cap on his head. He’s noticed Steve hovering 3 feet back, waiting his turn, and his eyes switch between Steve and the girl in front of him rapidly.

Their conversation ends, and the girl - the agent - takes her coffee to sit at a small table by herself, close to the windows, far enough back in a corner that she has a view of the whole cafe. Which she scans now as she sits, noting the two regulars in the opposite corner enjoying their customary flat whites, and…Captain America.

Interesting.

She waits - he knows she’s waiting when he approaches the table, and she pretends not to know that he’s walking directly towards her, nose still tucked down towards her book, one hand poised at the handle of her coffee mug.

He clears his throat.

“Good morning,” she smiles when she looks up, the light from the window back-lighting her eyes, and the glow stuns him. “Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“Haven’t been around,” he shrugs. Are his cheeks hot? He gestures towards the chair across from her. “You mind if I sit?”

“Not at all,” she shakes her head. He slides into the seat and she replaces her bookmark, setting the book aside. Valley of the Dolls. He’s not familiar.

“Here for your morning Cappuccino?” She quirks her eyebrows as her smile stretches, just shy of goofy. Quite proud of herself.

“Ha ha. Never been a big fan.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “First thing in the morning? I like a dark roast. Something to really wake you up, you know?”

“Hm,” she muses. “Sure, I understand.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Your coffee, I mean. You, uh…like coffee?” Smooth, Rogers.

“Oh, yeah. Love coffee.” There’s a laugh behind her smile, and he wishes she wouldn’t hold it back. “Here lately, I’ve had a thing for tall blondes.”

The flush on his cheeks inches down his neck.

“Huh?”

“Tall blonde Americano to be specific - you should try the blonde espresso, it’s really good.” She takes a sip of hers, hiding her dimple behind the mug. “And I always add an extra shot. I like ‘em strong.”

God, even his ears are red, he knows it. The hell did he think he was gonna do when he came in here anyway, sweep her off her feet? He’s never been that good with dames, not even-

“I’m only joking-” she cracks up a little, giggling. “Sorry, the opportunity was too good, I just couldn’t resist.”

He sighs in relief, offers an embarrassed smile, and manages to relax a little in his chair.

“So…why are you here? Really?” she lifts an eyebrow, leaning one elbow on the table.

“Well…” and here it is, here goes nothing. “I thought - that is, I wondered, um, if you…might want to…get to know each other a little better.” Ouch. Thank God Bucky is nowhere near here.

“Get to know each other?”

“Yeah. Just, I mean, as friends.”

“Huh.”

Steve’s smile is sheepish, but it’s the one that always worked on his mother, and it seems to work on her. He can see the suspicion melt from her eyes, the interested quirk of her mouth as her fingers tap against the table.

“I’m flattered and all, really, but you should know that virtually everything you could want to ask me about…my past, my qualifications, my education, my current assignment-” she lifts her hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s all classified. Probably above even your clearance.”

“Classified?”

“There’s a reason why we never met, Captain.” He takes comfort in the fact that her smile is a little rueful.

“Oh.” He sits back in his chair, a thoughtful frown on his lips. Looks out the window at passing traffic as he thinks.

“Alright, then - how about a recommendation?” he turns back to her, eyes lit with curious confidence that catches her off guard.

“A recommendation?” she repeats, bemused.

“Coffee,” he grins, like it’s obvious, a wry quirk to his brows.

“Coffee,” she echoes again, chewing her lip as she returns his smile.

“Yeah - I always get the same thing,” he shrugs, eyes dancing. “Figured maybe I should branch out.”

Something she can tell him. Something they can share.

A quick glance at her watch - 20 minutes before she has to clock in.

“Alright then.” She stands from her seat, cracking her knuckles. “You wait here - I’m gonna pop behind the bar and make you something.”

He watches as she crosses the cafe, rounds the bar and gets to work whipping up…something. The steamer hisses as the milk is foamed, espresso grinding, and he can see her reach for some kind of syrup to pump into the cup. It only takes a minute or so before she’s done, returning with the cup presented triumphantly to him. The name “Cap” is scrawled on the front of the cup.

“What is it?”

“Just taste it first.”

The burst of caramel sweetness on his tongue nearly makes him gag - it’s a lot, whatever this drink is. It’s practically a dessert. Not bad, but he’s not sure how anyone could drink this in the morning. When he says so, she laughs out loud, head tipping back and mouth wide open.

“I make those for 41 all the time,” she grins. “It’s not an official menu drink - I invented it for her.”

“Yeah I can see this being her drink.”

“Oh, and when you go back to the tower, will you take her these?” She hands him a pastry bag. “I know they’re her favorite, and we had some that were about to expire.

He glances in the bag - two cookie dough cake pops and one birthday cake.

“I guess it’s not just Clint that spoils her, huh?”

Across the table, she just smiles and shrugs.

“I’m just here to make coffee.”

He takes another sip of the sugary concoction.

“Sure.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fic #steve rogers oneshot #steve x reader #steve x y/n

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ashleyswrittenwords · 5 years ago

Text

The Bitterness of Almost Making It

A ZeLink One-shot Two-shot

Premise: Zelda’s carriage has been ambush and she rushes through the night to escape certain death. (TP ZeLink)

Rating: T? There be blood.

Small Note: I wanted to make myself sad, so I’m dragging you with me.

Word Count: 2054

Part Two

—-

An ambush.

Her feet stumbled before she steadied herself to continue running. The simple silk flats of the queen had long proven inadequate and had either been lost in the scurry or purposefully thrown aside. Pale flesh hadn’t touched the muddied earth since she was a child. Stray rocks punctured into her soles, but the adrenaline staved the pain away. Even still, her side burned and despite the grasp she had over the torn skin, heat seeped through. Branches and stray twigs pulled at her skirts, leaving every sound behind her filling her with the sharp edge of fear that shock her bloodstream.

Voices, yells, screams of hearing her footsteps.

Hadn’t this trip to southern Hyrule been nothing but a tour? The Queen’s biannual trek across the country – an activity she would normally be looking forward to. Especially when a dear friend would be meeting with her in days’ time. An arrow cut through the air and passed her shoulder.

No, Zelda decided, she’d die by then.

How many had there been when they cut the throats to her guards? Ten, at least. Even if she still had the goddess’s blessing to wield light, it wouldn’t be much of use. Now even that was for naught since that power had long left her fingertips but a year after Ganondorf’s defeat. It would be seven years too late now.

The holdings of her hair slipped. The chill of Spring air made her lungs bleed as her body begged to stop. But she couldn’t. If she did, she would never have the chance to run again. Oh, Hylia. A sob was muffled by her lips. It had been so long since she feared death this palpably. She wanted to fight, scream, put up a last effort before they carried out her death or ransom. Even though, she spurred her legs onward in hopes that her head wouldn’t end on a pike.

An exposed root caught her foot, making her yelp.

“I hear her, boys!” A loud call, laughter. With a flurry of skirts, she scrambled upward. Their accent wasn’t from here. At least she could have solace that this wasn’t a usurping by her own country. Zelda cursed herself for giving into the recommendations to take the carriage. If she hadn’t, she would have been far better clothed for a situation like this. There were so many things she could have done to stop this. The lives already lost on the road could still be with her. The young guard that reminded her of him wouldn’t have had his neck slit just ten minutes after their seemingly mundane conversation.

Her vision shifted for a moment, nearly sending her into the bushes. “No!” she whispered vainly to herself. Zelda had been running for what seemed like ages and the boast of adrenaline was slowly wearing down. The arrow wound in her side pulsed vibrantly and it was clear that if they did not kill her now, she’d die in a ditch anyway. Would she see the morning one last time? A sunrise in Ordon was a sunrise worth suffering to see. Would it be possible she would see him again? Perhaps he would find her body.

“Link,” she breathed. A prayer on her lips. She had something desperate to tell him. She needed to tell him. Bitter tears sprung from her eyes. She wanted to ride across Hyrule Field with him one more time.

The sun had sunk low in the horizon, leaving room for the uncertainty that twilight created. It twisted the shadows and made a weary Zelda unsure if it were dawn or dusk. In the comforts of her bedroom, she had been scribbling notes down from a meeting with the council. Worry lines creased her forehead.

“I figured you’d be at dinner by now,” he said, making her whip around in her seat.

A rare smile bubbled onto her cheeks and she said wispily, “You’re back.” It made her nostalgic to see him garbed in green. This time his absence extended three months; one of his longer journeys. The queen stood in nothing but a slip and unmade chestnut hair. Neither of them cared for conservatism while each other’s presence.

Link removed the dirtied green tunic, leaving a thin linen shirt, and nimbly set it aside to cross the room. His embrace let the void he left fill, if not a little bit for she knew he would never truly be hers. They stood like that for several minutes, as if their departure left them equally as ragged and worn. He had new scars, but she didn’t want to ask how they came to be. Instead, she let them be a drop in the bucket of stories Link would later tell her in the late hours of the night when he would recount his tales with dramatized gestures and give her time to memorize his voice once more.

A cry tore through her throat as a branch brushed her side. Her eyesight blurred and burned. Before the ambush they were already closing in on Ordon, was there a chance?

Against all previous reason she shouted, “Link!” It came out weak and ragged. The men behind her seemed to yell back at the sound.

“Link!” It hurt to move. Goddesses, it hurt. But she did anyways, yanking her skirts high above her bleeding ankles. He loved the night and unlike herself, he still had his gifts.

Trees whipped past her. One more time with him. It was all she needed. One more night breathing the same breath he breathed to tell him they had a choice now. That he didn’t have to leave every morning for propriety’s sake. That he could stay in her bed forever if he so wanted to. It was almost ironic.

She screamed his name repeatedly until it only came out in a hoarse whisper. Her sight darkened for a horrifying moment until her knees buckled and her back hit a tree. Her body felt hot; a heat she had never known. Breathing seemed futile as it never felt like her lungs could supply enough air to her limbs. Zelda slipped to the ground, curling against the muddied dirt.

He stayed until the sun crested the valley in shadows that mirrored when it had left. His stay had been longer than was usual. As tired as Zelda was, she woke every hour for the fear of seeing an empty bedside. An inevitable disappointment she had relived countless times. Now the rays from the sunrise made his messy hair glow. Not sleeping as well, he had circles under his eyes as he watched her from the pillows. His clothes were elsewhere and his nakedness disappeared under the sheets. Zelda was in much of the same condition, her slip had been pulled from her body soon after their reunion. Link laid on his stomach with a strong arm around her waist, lazily blinking the sleep from his forlorn eyes.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. His grip on her tightened and he moved his head on the pillows to the side so he could properly speak.

“I am sorry,” he started, faltering slightly. “Know that there is nothing that could keep me from you for long.”

“Three months is long.”

“Not as long as it could have been.”

She fell silent. He studied her before pulling her close. Without words or pleads, they made love in the morning sun and he left just as quietly.

The faint calls of the men behind her and the forest filled her mind. An owl, crickets, and the sound of something else. Zelda hadn’t even the strength to tense when she heard the sound of an animal reach her. Some kind of fox, she supposed, nosed into her hair and sniffed loudly. She wasn’t sure if foxes ate dying women, but that would be preferable to being found alive by the band of murderers.

“Zelda?” Disbelief and fear were riddled in his voice.

She could barely open her eyes. The vision of him was wobbly and it almost made her feel nauseous, not that it extinguished the rush of relief. Link examined her in detail before stopping at her side where she gasped in grave pain. His hand come back up, coated in red. There was nothing but horror in his eyes.

He ripped his own shirt, wrapping it so tightly around her that she whimpered.

“I know. I know,” he mumbled, pulling her to a seat against him. Tears wetted his shoulder. “We have to go.”

“They’re already here,” her voice was odd. Weak and useless to her ears.

Confusion filled him until he heard them. His ears twitched at the sound, like a wolf. They were close, the light of torches making their presence obvious. He went to stand until she reached for his arm, it slipped and fell into his hand where he made the effort to hold it.

“Link,” she said gravelly, tears making it difficult. “I love you.”

Link’s face paled and his jaw slackened a bit. The queen’s words were expressed through actions, it was out of character for her to speak so fondly when they weren’t between the bedsheets.

His hands touched her dirtied cheeks and she saw the world in his eyes. “I will be right back. I need you to stay awake.” Then with a desperation she had never seen, “Please, Zelda, stay awake.”

And he was gone so quickly that without the makeshift bandage fashioned tightly around her waist, she would have thought he was a hallucination. Breathing shallowly now, she leaned against the tree and fought that overwhelming tiredness that washed over her. Screams echoed through the forest.

Zelda began counting her breaths to keep her mind off of whatever was behind her and to keep herself conscious. They were short and unsteady in her lungs. Clammy hands slipped from her knees and to the ground, unable to maintain her grip. Time went by in a strange way. Heavy eyelids dropped and the weak light swam in her vision. Her breaths filled her ears and she felt trapped in her own mind.

Then, he was heaving her into his arms, cradling her form close to him.

“Stay awake,” he was quivering with eyes of blue fire. “Stay awake. Look at me, stay awake. Tell… tell me what happened.”

Zelda breathed a shaking sigh against him, his warmth coaxing her into a gentle slumber. Her lips moved lazily, tripping on words she scarcely could grasp in her mind. She rambled, tears procuring in her eyes. “They killed everybody. Everybody. Even the horses,” a weak sob, “Link, I don’t want to die.”

His pace into the unknown quickened. Link’s face hardened, but his voice was full of emotion. “You won’t die. You won’t, you can’t die. Gods, don’t close your eyes. Zelda, stay awake for me.”

“The council motioned,” Zelda breathed a labored breath. “For their approval of you. It was ten to one.”

Link stared with wide eyes ahead. A tear traced down his cheek, Zelda realized he had been crying. “Really?” He sniffed with a hysterical laugh. The treetops above them fell away to open sky, they were scaling a hill.

“We’re almost home, Zelda,” he said her name repeatedly. She wanted to ask what was wrong. Her lips parted to question his tears, but the words never verbalized.

She didn’t want to give into sleep.

“We’re going to get married.” Link was in a steady jog – why? “We’re going to get married in that little chapel where your mom was born, remember?”

All she wanted was to see him and if she closed her eyes, she harbored a foreboding suspicion that they would never open again.

“And-and we’ll have four kids,” he cursed, “Two girls and two boys because you don’t want them to be lonely. Zelda, open your eyes. Please I can’t-”

Still, it tugging at her consciousness and whispered sweet nothing to lull her towards it. And slowly, slowly she couldn’t stop it. The sounds around her fell to the background and all she could hear was the steady beat of his heart. His shouts were far away.

“I can’t do this without you!”

Like a feather with a gentle breeze, she floated down a dark well as Link pleaded for her to swim upward.

#i really want to make it a happy ending but i find it to be so poetic?#there's poetry in death #let me know what you think!!!!#zelink #twilight princess #fanfiction #zelink fanfiction #oneshot #ashleyswrittenwords #loz #legend of zelda #the bitterness of almost making it #STAY AWAKE

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aconstellationofmemories · 5 years ago

Text

The Three Phases of Goodbye

Miraxus Week 2020 Day 5: Farewell, Day 7: Future, Bonus Day 1: Fur Coat.

This oneshot is somewhat rushed as I'm on a time constraint (exams, why do thou torture me so?). I drew most of my inspiration from Kyuhyun's "I Don't Love You" and Ella Henderson's "Yours" for Part I and Part II respectively. Highly recommend that you give them a listen!

Also on AO3.

------------------------------------

PART I

The first time it happened, was also the first time he made her cry.

He recalled having fought with Gramps earlier that day. For what reason exactly, he couldn’t remember. Only the phrase, “You’re a Dreyar,” uttered in disgust and the wounded emotions stuck with him.

While the name was held in high regard among the public, to him, it was a burdensome, hefty weight to carry. One he never wanted to.

No matter how strong he grew to be, Gramps was always disappointed in him. From a young age, everyone had placed great expectations upon his tiny shoulders. His father desired him to be powerful. His grandfather wished him to make the family name proud. The world expected him to be the great Dreyar next in line.

Each of them had dreamt a vision of him which he never asked for. All he wanted to be was simply Laxus. Was that too much to ask for?

He could be the strongest mage in Fiore, and Gramps would still let out a long sigh when he glanced at his grandson. Despite his efforts, he would always fall short.

The thought enraged him.

Even more annoyingly, his chest ached a little bit. Why should it? The hell with what Gramps perceived of him.

Unable to stand the sight of the old man or the guild a second longer, he stormed out without a destination in mind.

He just needed to get out.

Later that evening, he sought for some elusive relief at a bar. He threw back a few shots of beer without hesitation. A girl, apparently interested in him, slid into the stool next to him. Her hand on his thigh was an unwelcome sensation, almost as if he was betraying someone. The notion itself was ridiculous. He wasn’t bound to anyone. He seized her up with a penetrating gaze. Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch under his hard stare.

“Are you looking to forget something?” she asked seductively. Her hand, so foreign on his thigh, crawled up higher. “I can make you forget better than that drink.”

He had to admit it, the young lass was pretty. Long, dark tresses framed a slender olive complexion with mesmerising hazel eyes and tempting crimson lips. Her husky voice beckoned him to have a taste of the precious good in front of him. She was an irresistible beauty for most men.

To him, however, she only served as a stark contrast to a certain someone.

Just like how he couldn’t live up to his Gramps’ expectations, this woman could never be compared to the likes of that person.

Before the ambitious hand could progress any further, he grabbed it away from him. “I’m telling you this only once,” he warned, glaring at her. Still confident, she opened her mouth to interrupt him, but he was faster. “Get the hell away from me.”

Sensing the hostility from him, she clammed her mouth shut and wisely withdrew to some other part of the bar.

Thanks to her, his head was filled with images of an ivory-haired woman. Great. As if his day couldn’t get any worse.

“I knew you’d be here.”

The familiar voice halted the ascent of his glass.

“I heard what happened with the Master.” The woman of his imaginations had materialised into the real world and occupied the seat on his right.

“Did the senile old man sent you to check that I wouldn’t cause problems?” he asked sarcastically, his gaze focused on the gold liquid in his glass.

“I was worried about you.”

“Why? Afraid you’d get on his bad book and be demoted?”

Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it wasn’t true. She wasn’t that sort of person. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from verbally hurting her.

“To other people, you’ve changed into someone else entirely–”

“That’s not wrong. I’m no longer the weak Laxus from before.”

“–but to me, deep down, you’re still the Laxus I knew.”

If he dared to believe it, she might even offer her heart to him.

The thought sent a slither of something eerily similar to fear down his spine.

Her gaze dropped to her hand. It rested upon his chest, directly on top of his heart. Unlike the woman from earlier, her touch didn’t felt repulsive.

“I know you’re not the bad person you make yourself to be. It’s just a defence mechanism to protect yourself. The Laxus I know is a man who cares for his family but doesn’t know how to show it. Because he was denied the love of his parents. He couldn’t show he was sad, because he was expected to be strong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The steadiness in his voice concealed the uneven rhythms of his his heartbeats. Never in his life would he admit that his heart was trembling. Her words had awakened a part of him it shouldn’t have.

He watched the golden liquid flow around the glass as he twirled it. “If you think I’m hiding my true self like a coward, you’re delusional. This is who I am. Take it or leave it,” he spat.

“You can fool everyone, Laxus, even Master,” she said softly, “but you can’t fool me.”

It was right, she knew him better than anyone else. Even the most hidden part of him.

But he was also acquainted with her darkest secrets and weaknesses, and he wasn’t above wielding his knowledge of them.

Even if using them felt like he was stabbing himself.

Cupping her cheek in his calloused hand, he smirked at her. “Sweet, idealistic Mira,” he said cynically. “I used to like playing with you because you were different.”

“Playing?” she asked softly, in disbelief.

“You were full of spunk and challenged me,” he began, getting closer to her face. “But you changed after Lisanna’s death, and started to poke your nose into my business. It’s bothersome and I’m tired of it.”

“You’re just saying that to hurt me,” she said, her chin quivering.

“Am I not right?” He pinned her a hard stare, merely inches away from her face.

“Is this what you really want, Laxus?” she said, her voice shaking a little.

“Do you not get what I’m saying?” he evaded, then gulped quickly. “Stop meddling in my business,” he snarled, reluctantly dropping his hand. It was the last time he could ever touch her.

A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. It might as well have dragged him down along with it.

She stared tearfully at him for the final time. Are you really doing this? her gaze asked.

I am, his serious ones returned.

She nodded, then took a deep breath. Glancing down, she turned her back on him and strode away.

Just like that, without a word, she left.

Instinctively, his foot stepped forward to chase after her. His mind stopped his body before he could make another move. Forcing himself to accept what he had done, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides.

Even Mirajane Strauss was disappointed in him now.

“No, this is not what I want at all,” he confessed.

For some reason, it hurt more than if she had insulted him or hit him. At least if she had done either, it meant she was angry at him. If she hated him, she wouldn’t be in despair because of him.

Overwhelmed by sensations he didn’t want to identify, he mock-laughed at himself.

In the end, even when he grew stronger and bigger, nothing had changed over the years.

He was always alone.

------------------------------------

PART II

The second time, it was him who sought her out.

The sky was painted with shades of apricot as the sun made its glorious descent. The purplish grey hues of dusk was quickly creeping in. He found her by the beach, strolling barefoot absent-mindedly along the sandy path with her sandals in her hands. Strands of ivory locks fluttered in the breeze around her. Her footsteps were slow, making it seem like she was contemplating on something.

What could she be thinking? Was she recalling the events of the day, when he had rebelled against them and attempted to seize control of the guild?

Or was she replaying that moment when he said those disgusting, hurtful words to her?

Words which he wished he could take back.

As much as he wanted, he couldn’t undo the damage they had inflicted. However, there was one thing he could try to redeem himself.

“Hey, Mira.”

That was to start over. He would begin with a greeting and, if she was willing to give him another chance, slowly make his way to becoming closer to her once more. This time, without abusing her trust and faith.

Her footsteps halted at the call of her name. He held his breath in suspense as he awaited her reaction. Would she refuse to acknowledge him? Scold him? Call him names?

As long as she was willing to look at him again, he would be contented with any harsh treatment if it meant he could see her again.

She pivoted on her heels and glanced at him in mild surprise. She tucked a stray lock behind her ears and, to his disbelief, smiled sincerely at him. Even after all he had done, she didn’t hold any hatred for him in her gaze.

“Hey, Laxus.”

Just like that, with merely two words, she had granted him another chance.

He wouldn’t mess it up this time.

“What are you doing here?” he asked softly.

“Just enjoying the sunset,” she responded.

A pregnant silence fell between them, both not giving voice to the words they wanted to say. With the stiff atmosphere surrounding the space between them, you would never guess that they used to be childhood friends. Perhaps even something more than friends.

This had been his doing. What the hell have I done?

“Are your injuries okay?” she inquired, somehow managing to feel concern for him. Typical Mira. Her care knew no limits. He had used that trait against her that night, but in reality it was one of the many things which drew him to her.

“They won’t kill me,” he said. His whole body hurt. He couldn’t move a muscle without experiencing a sharp pull. Not that he would ever admit that out loud. “How are you?” he asked gruffly. Those three words felt foreign on his tongue. But he needed to know regardless.

“Now that I’ve seen you again, I’m doing better.”

He blinked.

“You’re always a family, Laxus.”

“I’m no longer part of Fairy Tail,” he said with a woeful smile. “Gramps exiled me.”

“Even so,” she emphasised, “even after all that, you’ll always be family to us.”

He dropped his gaze. “I...to you...” he began. “The things I’ve said...” Damn it. The words which he wanted to say, words which he meant, why wouldn’t they come out?!

“I know, Laxus,” she said softly, comfortingly.

“No...” he shook his head.

“You don’t have to say them, Laxus. I know.” She gazed at him in understanding. You didn’t mean them, it said.

Not a single word.

It’s okay.

Only it wasn’t. Not to him. Because of his foolish greed, he had broken the already fractured comradeship with his fellow members. On top of that, he ruined the bond which he shared over the years with her.

No, none of it was okay at all.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, as if hearing his thoughts. “Since you’ve walked down the wrong path, from now on, you’ll only go the right one.”

He smiled sadly at her. He hoped that would be the case.

For a long moment, they just stared wordlessly at each other.

“Are you leaving for a long time?” she eventually asked.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. It was true. There wasn’t any fixed plan, only that he intended to train and do some soul-searching. He couldn’t hurt his loved ones because of his stupidity anymore.

She nodded, then smiled brighter than the blazing star in the sky. He took a photograph of the moment in his mind. The image would last him through the hard times.

“This is not goodbye, right?”

“Yeah. It isn’t.”

“Take care.”

He swallowed. “You too.”

Because he couldn’t bear to see her leave one more time, he took heavy footsteps away from her.

One, then another.

And another.

Until her light floral scent disappeared with the wind.

------------------------------------

PART III

One more hour.

Those were the words he repeated to himself.

Each time he said it, he vowed that he would muster the strength after one more hour.

That had been five hours ago.

Before he knew it, three hundred and seventeen minutes had elapsed since his first deal with himself. A fleeting nineteen thousand and twenty seconds which he hopelessly wished would last forever.

Just a little longer.

His eyes roamed over her features, memorising every little detail. Her loose fringe framing her forehead. The scrunch of her nose when she dreamt. The outline of her eyes. Her slightly parted lip. The sound of her breathing filled the silent morning.

Lying here like this, just watching her sleep, he could live this way forever.

Involuntarily accepting the reality, Laxus rustled slightly in bed and let out a quiet grunt to the silent room. He barely slept a wink the night before. Unlike the dawn which unveiled its dark drapes in anticipation to greet him, he wasn’t eager to commence his day. He moved carefully and as quietly as possible as to not wake her.

When he was dressed, he trudged back to the bed and gazed at her again for several long moments. No matter what, he just couldn’t get enough of her.

Carefully, he lifted his fur coat and covered her with it. It was her favourite. He was going to be away for a while, and it would accompany her in his place during his absence. Although the coat had grown to be an indispensable part of him over the years, he loved the sight of her being swallowed by it as she wrapped it around her body. Secretly, a part of him found satisfaction in seeing her wearing his clothes. It showed the world that she was his.

All his.

Just like how he was all hers.

Gently touching her soft porcelain cheek, he leaned in and placed a kiss on her fringe-covered forehead. Go, you idiot. It took every last ounce of strength for him to trudge away from her.

He was leaving her again.

But this time, when he returned, he would rewrite their story.

There would be no more goodbyes exchanged between them, only a hello to new beginnings. Together.

He would ask for that forever.

#miraxus #miraxus week 2020 #miraxus week #laxus x mirajane #fairy tail #day 5: farewell #day 7: future #bonus day 1: fur coat #angst #flangst #my fanfic

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bigskydreaming · 4 years ago

Text

Going through some old pages on the wiki I keep for my projects (can not more highly recommend building a private wiki site for yourself if you’re a writer with a ton of different or extensive projects. Soooo helpful at keeping me organized).

Anyway, came across this old short story I wrote set in the days of the Holy Wars from the Citadel ‘verse I was talking about a couple weeks ago, that was the original setting for what became By Lost Ways. Tossing it out there in case anyone wants a read. Its fairly short and is a glimpse at the future gods of Night and Day from that ‘verse, Adana and Reyus. *Shrugs*

Even Heaven Can Break

“God is dead.” Nerrick sighed and pulled off his glasses, mopping at them again with his now wrinkled shirt front. It wasn’t as though he held any great hopes that clearer vision might give him any further insight into the utterly inscrutable - and likely insane - young woman sitting across the table from him. He‘d already tested that theory and found it lacking. It simply gave him something to do. An ever so slight distraction from the roundabout circles they‘d been engaged in since - what was it now? Some six hours past?

“Yes,” he heaved, long past the point of trying to disguise his weariness. “You’ve said as much, multiple times. I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate?” The girl - and she was nothing more than a girl, no matter what foolish superstitions she’d inspired amongst the lower classes - smiled again that same enigmatic smile that half made him wish he was a man more inclined to act on violent urges.

“God is dead,” she repeated with a small, careless shrug. “It seems a fairly straightforward statement of fact. I’m confused as to what more you expect me to say on the matter, Sir Magistrate.” His back molars ground together audibly. His patience maintained only by the constant vigilance of his temper. Nerrick reminded himself, not for the first time that morning, that he was a man noted for his restraint, his even temperament and unemotional dedication to justice. He was not about to be bested in a contest of wills by some ignorant, backwoods child, in his own prison.

The small dank room stank of mildew and rot, not to say anything of the havoc the dim torchlight was wreaking upon his fragile eyesight. Only his own personal ethics kept him from abandoning the girl to a more permanent exile in the deeper catacombs, an option that grew more appealing by the moment.

But as long as the possibility remained that she was merely repeating some heretical pagan belief, unaware of the repercussions her words had upon more civilized folk, he could not in good conscience treat her as just another rabble-rouser. Or, the Citadel guard against, condemn her to a space in the asylums, no matter how mad she seemed. Sitting comfortably three levels below the surface of the great granite and steel prison as though she were some grand lady awaiting tea in her parlor. . “Perhaps you speak of another god unknown to me,” Nerrick conceded gracefully. The wooden chair, almost entirely rotted through, creaked ominously beneath him as he shifted his weight, but God above, even his ass was falling asleep. Still she remained poised, back ramrod straight and never shifting those dark, pupil-less eyes from his. He was a man of reason and science and knew the unnerving Berut eyes to be nothing more than an unfortunate physical trait of her people, but it was easy enough to see how they’d gained their reputation for witchcraft and beguilement. Only the sternest of wills kept his gaze locked with hers. “I admit to being unfamiliar with all the customs of your people, and perhaps we speak of two entirely separate entities. The God of my people is eternal. He created everything we know, and much else besides, and He will endure when all else has turned to dust. He can not die.” “No.” Still she smiled. “There is only one God. In this, my people believe much the same as you. But you speak of faith, things that you can not know but believe to be true. I speak of fact. God is dead. This I know.” He tried reason. “God is the creator of all, and has no peer. If you admit this to be true yourself, then how can God possibly die?” She shrugged again. “Perhaps he willed himself to die. One can imagine eternity might grow tiresome after a time.” Nerrick could almost agree with that sentiment, as for a moment, he entertained the blasphemous thought that even God could be moved to suicide after sufficient time spent with this wretched creature. He dispelled such thoughts with a shake of his head - down that road lay this girl’s particular stamp of madness, no doubt. He tried another tack. “God created the universe. If He is gone, how is it that we are not? Shouldn’t the creation end with the creator?” “Perhaps it is ending, and it just hasn’t finished yet. We can hardly expect the universe to work on the same timetable as ourselves.”

“Tell me then,” he finally indulged her. “What makes you so certain God is dead?” “I saw him.” He sketched disbelief with an aged ashen brow. “You saw God.” “We seem to find a language barrier between us again, Sir Magistrate. Is my Erudi not accomplished enough for our conversation? Among my people, I’m considered quite proficient in your tongue, but perhaps I’ve been misled.” Nerrick flushed. Her Erudi was quite fine - more than, in fact, if a bit stilted. Another minor detail that bothered him, though he could not say why. How did such a young representative of an infamously uneducated people come to speak his tongue with the skill of the most lettered gentry? He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How do you know that the man you saw was God?” “Wouldn’t you know God if you saw him?” “God is above humanity,” he rasped impatiently. “He doesn’t appear in human form. Should we see him, we’d hardly be capable of comprehending his glory.” Her lips moved in what he imagined to be an expression of pity. It was impossible to be sure, the way her eyes resisted any attempt to read emotion in them. They quivered like liquid night, reflecting the faint torchlight as unsteady flames alit on twin seas of oil. “You speak again of what you believe, because you have never known otherwise. I have known otherwise, and speak again of what I know.” “Enough!” His hand cracked down on the wooden table top, spearing his palm with splinters. His reddened face, already contorted in rage, barely registered the pain. Her face registered nothing at all - just the same painted mask of gentle amusement she’d worn since first escorted down here in the company of his guards. And it was a mask, he was sure of it now. She was too clever with her words to be either ignorant or insane. Whatever game she played at, he wanted no further part in it. “I have no more patience to waste indulging your heresy, and I refuse to subject more of my city’s people to it. You’ve caused nothing but disruption since you first arrived, inciting riots and restlessness among the lower classes, using their faith in service to your own twisted agenda, whatsoever that may be, and it ends here, girl.” She remained unmoved. A pale statue in a plain white dress, inky black curls spilling down both shoulders like curtains cut from the same cloth as those damnable eyes. Her lips twitched. “You may call me Adana.” Nerrick froze, save for where his chest heaved like the billows of a forge, grasping greedily at air to feed his exertions. The tinglings up and down his spine were more than just pinched nerves from too long sitting in one position. This girl, with her damn eyes and impenetrable nerves and heretical talk was more than just some insolent brat from the savage lands north of the city. He was no longer completely convinced there was nothing to the stories and legends of Berutian bewitchery. But those eyes held him now, and he didn’t think he could look away even if he willed it. “You resist giving me your name for these past several hours, and now offer it freely, without me even asking. Why?” “It no longer matters,” Adana told him, heaving a sigh of her own for the first time all morning. Nerrick almost felt that there was regret in that sigh, but her painted mask hid that as well as any other emotion, were it there at all. “For what it’s worth, it was never my aim to disrupt the peace of your city. Call it an unfortunate symptom…nothing more, nothing less.” “Then why?” “Everything you know is about to change,” she said gently. “Well, not for you, I suppose, but for them. They needed to know. It’s time for man to take charge of his own destiny, not spend the coming days huddled in shrines chanting desperate prayers to a deity dead and gone. They won‘t listen, not nearly enough of them at any rate, but some maybe.” Why not for me, Nerrick wondered, but instead he merely asked, “Why now? Why do you tell me all this now, when before it was just a game to you?” Adana laughed, a low throaty chuckle laced again with that hint of pity. “It no longer matters,” she said again. “You want to be here,” Nerrick intuited suddenly. “You evaded the guards for over a week, and then when they arrested you today, you hardly resisted. Like you wanted to go with them. Why? Why now, why here? What is it you want?” “To wait. Here with you.” And then, before he could ask for what, she continued. “There’s a mountain two day’s journey north of here by horseback. My people call it the Degatoi. Yours call it the Foothill, I believe. They say that’s where the Citadel rests, where God makes his home.” “That’s just a myth,” he frowned. “God doesn’t dwell amongst his creations, the Citadel exists in a realm untouchable by our own.” “Some myths are make believe. Others are facts that have since been forgotten. I believed it to be fact, as do my people. So I journeyed there, a pilgrimage of sorts. My…reasons are my own.” “And did you find the Citadel?” “No, it wasn’t there anymore. It moved. It does that, you know.” “Of course,” Nerrick snorted. “Why wouldn’t it?” “Why indeed,” Adana smile wryly. She smoothed her dress in her lap. “I did however, find God. He was lying at the base of the peak. Roughly your height, wearing unfamiliar clothes, though I suppose that’s only to be expected. His hair was strange, almost feathery, and he looked like no man I’d ever seen before. He was dead. And I looked into his wide, staring eyes and in them beheld the Abyss. And I knew then that he was God, and knew all the mysteries and secrets of the Universe that he’d known then at the last. My people can do that, you see.” Nerrick nodded, numbly. He had heard that, any schoolchild knew that myth of the Berut people, the legend that kept even the greatest sorcerers of the South from their doorstep lest it turn out to be true. They could see into a man’s soul with those strange eyes of theirs, see all the way into them into their deepest, darkest reaches and pull out every twisted secret and hidden truth for accounting. It was the kind of legend he’d always held up to be nonsense, but now, staring into those eyes of myth and reckoning, he knew it to be true. Knew all of it to be true.

He started to tremble, sweat dotting his brow, tracing salty rivers down the cracked parchment of his skin. The torchlight grew fainter and fainter and the air was dryer and thinner, harder to grasp at. Black flecks spotted his vision, and he took off his glasses again. Wiped them, though he suspected the problem was his eyes, not the spectacles. He’d heard these were all symptoms of a heart-death, but it was hard to worry about such things now. He had to know, had to wonder instead, what kind of things might one see in the eyes of a dead God? What kind of things might one know? “The same things we all know at the end,” Adana said softly. She looked at him in the rapidly regressing torchlight and he knew with the same certainty he knew everything now, that yes, her eyes held pity. For him. “You feel it now, don’t you? When it’s so close, that no reason, no logic, none of the games we play to convince ourselves we don’t know the things our soul senses - that little piece in each of us that’s the smallest sliver of divinity linking us to the rest of the universe - none of them can hide it anymore.” Nerrick shivered and licked chapped paper-dry lips. His voice came out a croak. “Why are you here?” “To wait.” “For what?” “The end.” And then, “I’m sorry.” The earth split with a roar, but to Nerrick, all seemed silent. He leapt back, knocking over his chair with a hoarse shout his ears could never possibly hear over the sound of walls crashing down, thunderous echoes reverberating throughout the small chamber. The stained slate floor rent with a crack right through the center of the room, and he stumbled, tried to right himself, stumbled again as the earth shook and danced and trembled like a living thing, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Dust stormed the air in gray, ominous clouds that twisted into his lungs with every breath he took. The sound and fury buffeted him on all sides, splinters and shards of broken rock bombarding his skin. Pricking, ripping, tearing and gouging.

His glasses cracked and fell, but before he the torches finally failed, he could still blurrily see the girl, Adana, seated serenely on the other side of the table, riding out the madness with perfect poise and watching him with those damned eyes. He fell himself finally and the ceiling split, raining clouds of dust and slate and broken rafters. One struck him full in the chest, pinning him to the floor. He felt ribs break, felt his terrified screams silenced by a shard of wood spearing him through one lung, all his breath going to granting him a few last gasps of air. Adana’s face filled his blurred vision then. In all the din, there was no chance of hearing her get up from the table and walk over to his side, but then there she was kneeling over him. She looked deep into his eyes. “You see? We all know things, even if we don’t know we know them,” she told him gently. “It’s because we’re all a little bit of God. Or maybe the Universe. Creation. I’m still figuring out where the line separating one from the other begins and ends. You were special, Sir Magistrate. Even if you didn’t know it. Take whatever comfort from that you can.” “Go with God.” Then her hand covered his mouth and nose, and she looked into his wide, staring eyes and beheld in them the Abyss, and all the secrets and mysteries of the Universe he had known at the end. ************* Adana rose with some difficulty, and drew the magistrate’s keys from his belt. She smoothed her dress - it would never be white again, she feared - and made her way to the door over a floor that still quivered and rattled, but only restlessly now. Much of its temper had been spent. The hallway beyond was relatively untouched. She quirked dry lips at divine providence, but perhaps it was more accurate to say she enjoyed the favor of the Universe at the moment. The torches were all spent and broken, save for where one had fallen upon the corpse of one guardsman and set his skin and hair aflame, lighting the gray hall fitfully with its macabre light. It was more than enough to see by. At least, more than enough for her eyes. She stepped over another body and ascended the small, tight stairwell at the end of the hall gracefully. Less so, when she almost ran into the blond, dirtied youth who came clattering down the stairs in the opposite direction. He reared back, startled, and she saw that she’d been accurate in her assessment: he was probably no younger than she herself, but his youth shone from his eyes and the sprightly smile that sprang to his face. She recognized him as one of the city-folk always to be found at her gatherings, listening intently to her words. Reyus, she thought his name was. She smiled. “Milady,” Reyus rasped out. The air was still thick and heavy with dust, and he had to stop and pant for breath before continuing. “We were just coming to rescue you!” He waved aimlessly behind himself with what she took for a stolen sword, perhaps looted from a guardsman dead in the earthquake. Coming down the stairs behind him were another young man and a slightly older woman, similarly ill-equipped. Adana favored them with a bemused smile. “How thoughtful.” Reyus blushed a rosy dawn and pressed his back to the wall to allow her passage by. He followed quickly at her heels as she passed the other two and continued up the stairs - rather like an eager but ill-trained pet, she contemplated with some amusement. “Well, there was a number of us - rather, we thought…we weren’t certain what the magistrate would do to you, and we were concerned…” “So I see,” she murmured as they alighted on the ground levels of the prison and found ten or so more men and women of varying ages and garb awaiting them with anxious expressions. They filled in silently behind them as Adana continued towards the front gates, kicking aside the outstretched limbs of the dead where they littered her path. “And are these all your enemies slain? What fearsome warriors have come to my aid here?” She suspected she might be needling Reyus just to see how much further his face could purple in shame and embarrassment. But it was the end of the world, after all. One should take one’s entertainment wherever they found it. The hues of his face performed admirably. “The rest of the guards fled when the earth shook. We never suspected - milady, what is happening? Is this your doing?” “God is dead,“ she said softly. “Such a thing is not without consequences.“ Adana stooped and unwrapped a relatively undamaged black cloak from one body, throwing it over her shoulders. “You’ll want one as well, I believe,” she told the boy.

His eyes held hers bravely, and he nodded. His was an interesting soul indeed. A cult had hardly been her intention. Gaining the attention of the magistrate had been her only real aim, and if she happened to seed her own mystery a bit early, and allow it more room to grow - well, that had hardly seemed at cross purposes either. But, she supposed, it was never too early to find one’s faithful. A boy like Reyus might come in handy, and who knew what secrets the others might hold? She nodded decisively, and raised her voice to address them all. “Everything you know is about to change.” “I have a long road to walk ahead of me,” she continued. “It is not for the faint of heart.” She turned and walked from the prison‘s gatehouse. All of them, she noted with some interest, followed close behind. They raised scattered cries and shouts of alarm as they beheld the vista outside, but she barely looked up. She already knew the sky overhead was a dark red as though aflame. Roiling purple thunderclouds collided and went to war, crimson lighting stabbing at one and then another underneath. A long black tear split the heavens, stretching from one horizon to the next. Consequences were to be expected. The streets ahead of them were filled with the ruins of buildings and the bodies of the fallen. Survivors milled about in small groups, suffocating in shock while scattered fires raged. Flames crackled hungrily, fitful tongues licking at the sky and spewing their venom of smoke and ash. She could hear, faintly, the desperate prayers for salvation and succor. She sighed, and would have told them to save their breath, but then, she’d already done so. Reyus spun about, lost for even a direction to point his horror. “Milady, what about them?” Adana shook her head without slowing. “They’ll follow, or they’ll die. This city is not long for this world. It’s too close to a Vein. Nothing more can be done, and the whole world will follow if we do not reach our destination.” “But where are we going?” She favored his persistence with another small smile and drew the hood of her cloak up over her head. “We‘re going to the Citadel. To seek divinity.” It began to rain, thick, heavy drops that were warm to the touch, quickly soaking them through and through. She was glad to have found a black cloak, as the imagery of her white dress stained by this unnatural downpour was not one she cared to contemplate - even if it would already never be white again. She reached out to raise Reyus’ hood for him when he remained too distracted to care. The blood staining his golden hair, still vibrant even beneath the dust of dungeons, was not an image she found herself caring much to contemplate either. His was a curious soul indeed. “Milady, I don’t understand. If God is dead, what divinity do we seek?” Adana laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that echoed through the ruins of the broken city. “Ours,” was all she said. They picked their way through the rubble as the skies continued to bleed.

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years ago

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anonymous asked: we know Claire usually just becomes more determined if someone tells her she isn't good enough to do something, but what if someone finally tells her something she's truly affected by? How do she and Jamie react / deal with it?

Modern Glasgow AU

Jamie turned off the screaming kettle and carefully poured hot water over a fresh teabag. Turning an idea over and over in his mind – how to pitch Lord John Grey’s three-book proposal to Rupert MacKenzie, his boss at Leoch Editions.

John was a nice enough guy. His family had more money than God, and rather than be yet another bored member of the aristocracy, he’d decided to become something of an amateur historian, focusing on daily life in Britain during the Second World War. Three books he wanted to write – one about the children sent into the countryside for their safety, one about women on the home front while their men fought in Italy and North Africa and the Pacific, and the last about day-to-day life and survival in the midst of the Blitz.

The man had fantastic ideas, to be sure – but his resume was terribly slim, just a few articles in cigar and hunting magazines. Jamie was convinced that John had what it took to focus and become a big-name writer. He just needed to convince Rupert.

Which was why he had stayed home today – needing the peace and quiet of the flat to just mull it over and concentrate. He had one shot to pitch John – to help the eager man gain a foothold in his future. And he had to do it right.

And with almost-two-year-old Faith and seven-month-old Bree dropped off at Murtagh’s flat for the day, Jamie and Claire’s flat was suspiciously quiet.

Jamie sat back down at the kitchen table, steaming mug of tea in hand –

- to watch his distraught wife crash through the front door, tears streaming down her face.

Within a breath he was beside her. Catching her as she collapsed into him.

“Claire! Are ye well? The bairn – ”

Protectively his hand cupped the small two-month swell of their third baby.

She shook her head against his neck, gripping him for dear life in the doorway.

Not the bairn, then. But what? She’d left extra early this morning…

“Did ye lose the patient, Claire?”

She stiffened and pulled back a bit, red-rimmed eyes – still so beautiful – meeting his.

“I made such a stupid mistake. Thank God I caught it myself – but everyone in the operating theater knew.”

Gently he stroked her cheek. Thumbed away her tears. “Well, that’s all right, then – isn’t it? It’s no’ like ye havena made mistakes before.”

She sniffed. “No – but not when Dr. Fentiman was in the room with me.”

Jamie bristled. Dr. Fentiman had the best reputation at the hospital – perhaps even in all of Glasgow – for his experience and skill with open-heart surgery. He had healed everyone, from common people all the way up to celebrities and members of the nobility. He was one of the reasons why Claire had elected to stay in her position at that hospital, after her medical training concluded.

The fact that he was almost unbearably misogynistic was the dirty secret that too many people seemed to happily sweep under the carpet.

Claire had taken it upon herself to begin a secret diary, writing down specific dates and times when she had personally heard – or other female doctors and nurses and staff had heard – the doctor say incredibly demeaning things about his female patients, his female colleagues – anybody female in general.

She cleared her throat. “I made an obvious but easily fixable mistake. I identified it right away, and announced it to the room. Along with my recommended course of action.”

Jamie waited. Squeezed her hands.

“He was coldly professional. And after I announced my recommendation, he just shrugged, and looked at me across the patient, and said, ‘Well, that must be what happens when “mommy brain” gets the best of you.”

Fire rose within Jamie’s heart and limbs.

“How dare he?” he hissed.

Claire swallowed. “I was so flabbergasted – but the other people in the operating theater, they just carried on like nothing had happened. I had to work so hard to control myself to focus, to not be distracted for the sake of the patient.” She closed her eyes. “How does he always know what to say, to cut someone right to the quick?”

“Are ye bringing up this nonsense again, Claire, about how ye fear ye canna be a good mother and work at the same time?” Jamie’s voice rose with passion. “Because if ye are telling me that that…ape of a man has brought all this crap back up again…”

“I can’t help that I think of the girls, and this new baby, all the time. They and you are what’s most important to me.” Her voice sounded so far away, eyes still shut tight against the world. “You know I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, with this new baby on the way. How to balance it all. Whether I should be spending so much time helping other people rather than being with my own children.”

Jamie set his jaw, wanting so badly to stop it – but patiently, silently, he let her speak.

“And you know how I feel I’ve become more absent-minded since Faith was born. Christ, Jamie, we both can’t sleep at night just worrying about all of them sometimes. And now with this one, we need to move, and how will we be able to afford everything, and what if the birth doesn’t go well this time, and – ”

“Are ye done beating yerself, Claire?”

She sighed deeply. Almost resigned.

“Will ye please look at me, mo nighean donn?”

She did.

He cupped her cheeks in his hands. Eyes boring into her.

“I understand why ye feel the way ye do. We wanted our bairns for so long, didn’t we?”

She hiccupped, and nodded.

“They are well. They are more than well. They have so much love and support from the two of us, and Murtagh, and Jenny and Ian and everyone else. We have so many people who want to help us be successful, Claire.”

“I know,” she sighed.

“And please don’t get on about being lacking as a mother. Those girls love you more than anything.” He pushed up her shirt and lay his hand on the bare skin of her belly. “And this bairn too – think of all the precautions you’ve already taken to make sure the bairn is safe.”

She swallowed. Eyes still bright with tears.

“Do not let that bastard ever make you doubt yourself or your abilities. Can ye just stop for one second and reflect on everything you’ve been able to accomplish?”

“I know. I know, Jamie. It’s hard to not get tunnel vision sometimes.”

“Oh, love, I know.” He gathered her close to him, hand still on her belly. “Never doubt yourself. It kills me to see you doubt yourself.”

“I love you,” she whispered against his skin.

“Christ, Claire, how I love you.” He squeezed her so tight. “May I take ye to bed now? Just to show you? And to help you just let it all out?”

She wrapped her legs around his middle.

He bolted the front door and carried her to their bedroom.

Sometime later they lay naked on their bed.

Claire had thrown her left arm over her eyes, wanting to shut out the world and just feel the aftershocks of the mad, passionate, affirming love they’d made.

Jamie had done yeoman’s work to help her let out all the anger and frustration and tension. Now he turned his head a bit and rested it on her hip, catching his breath, watching her body deliciously quiver and shake.

“Are ye sure you’re only nine weeks along? Your belly was a bit smaller at this point, the last two times.”

Feebly Claire groped with her other hand for an anchor on the bed – and she dug her fingers into Jamie’s hair, pushing him back. She felt his chuckle against her.

And finally, finally he – she – needed a wee rest. Jamie scooted up the mattress, kissed her belly, and rested his head beside hers on the pillow, watching her sleepily smile at him.

“Better?” he whispered.

She sighed, so happy. “I’m going to take my notebook to Personnel. Get his ass fired.”

Jamie grinned. “Good. You should.”

She rubbed her nose against his. “You make me feel so powerful.”

He shifted his body closer. Pressing his chest to hers. Darting a hand back between her legs as she threw one leg over his hips.

“It’s because you are powerful, Claire. You have so much power within you.” He kissed her long and deep.

“The power to heal.” Kiss.

“The power to forgive.” Kiss.

“The power to create life.” Kiss.

“The power to love.”

She laughed, and rolled him onto his back, and rose above him, and rejoiced.

#;mod gotham #modern glasgow au

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twinkledadwa · 5 years ago

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Twinkledad’s: The “I Got Ghosted” Episode

Today, my CoStar daily alert read like this:

“When you feel an impulse to control another person, use it as a prompt to remember that you can’t.”

Believing in the stars is kind of stupid. Rooting back in my high school naivety, though, I do believe everything happens for a reason. And if you believe in that, then what happens makes sense.

If you read this blog, I made it known there was supposed to be a Twinkledad’s interview.

If you’re reading this now, you’ll know it fell through.

Reddit PMs are not an efficient way to book plans, first of all. Doing it two months in advanced of a tour they announced morning of is boneheaded too. I recognized how ballsy of an idea it was, given the complete lack of professionalism. I have no professional experience, and honestly, there was no real reason to do the interview. Any money or “clout” ventures are stupid. It was just to have done it.

Yesterday, we agreed to do the interview after the show (through actual DMs). I went to buy merch, and during the interaction, told the initial point of contact who I was. From what I heard (I, a single perspective), the response was:

“Oh...good for you”.

And we exchanged names, which was kinda jarring. I had no idea where to build from, and ultimately didn’t. A friend and I waited until everything was shut off, gear packed, then left. We ate In N’ Out. During the time spent waiting, we delved into conversation that was in the moment. No talks of the future, only discussion that could have existed then.

I couldn’t have had a better finish to the night.

The common response is to fling shit at the walls when your favorite DIY twinkle-emo band doesn’t give you attention, and try to move forces against them. This situation feels inline to being ghosted by/ghosting a romantic interest.

I could have handled what led up to it much better. Perspectives differ. They’re a touring band, they don’t owe anything to me as just a fan. Anybody’s selfish, specifically mine in this case, shouldn’t matter to any other but yourself. Not even that statement right there. The night became less of holding onto that sliver of hope and more enjoying where I was at.

I discovered this band through a person whom my opinion of shouldn’t affect them, and vice versa. It’s nice to know how it has come full circle, ending with a 10 inch, a fleeting experience, and a shirt I’m still going to wear to brunch tomorrow. (EDIT: i also just remembered he didn’t give me my change back for the merch, which i was okay with at the time, but yeah that is kind of dodgy)

However, questions were sent in, and they don’t deserve to be ignored. Here are my answers, and you can imagine some quirky banter if everything went differently.

Dear Twinkledad,

Given everything I just said above, what music recommendations would you give?

Anonymous.

“So I’m leaving...

voooOOiiiiCCeeeemaaaiiiiiillllsssss”

Cloud District - Hamster Camp

Bug Bath - Unique Experience

Jawbreaker - Boxcar

Algae Bloom - Thornes

Kississippi - Cut Yr Teeth

Dear Twinkledad,

Things recently ended with a person I had been seeing. I hurt them, didn’t communicate my feelings properly, and I feel like garbage for it. I leave the continent for 5 months in a few weeks, and I want to reach out before I leave, but I also want to give her space? Should I wait and see if she reaches out? I’m a dumb stupid idiot.

Dumb, Stupid Idiot.

Dumb, Stupid Idiot,

This is tough. Even through a small paragraph, I could sense a lot of regret. And usually, waiting until they, as the offended party, responds is a smart move, but the continental move complicates it.

If you have genuine sorrow, please reach out as soon as what’s reasonable. The time you’ll be gone will impact how she approaches it, and five months is a lot of time to sit on a negative feeling like that. If you’re in the position of having hurt someone, extending that hand once your heart feels the need to is important. Also, inferring the situation, you’re probably the one who would need to apologize (not a bad thing! we all are in this spot, one way or another!)

Hopefully this helped. I truly do wish you the best.

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone - Nashville Parthenon

Stars Hollow - As You Were Before.

Frail Body - Old Friends

Hightide Hotel - A Soft Subtle Sound

Dear Twinkledad,

how do I find interesting things to do for my last semester of high school? everything feels like too much work to start and everyone else seems too busy to hangout.

Anonymous.

Anonymous,

I was in a similar position Senior year. When you get into college, those troubles will get infinitely better. It’s practically a boiling pot for activity.

For the time being, try relying on your impulses. Stupid, yes, but if you want to experience youth to its fullest, this is how. Interesting things to do lies within the “schizophrenia” (spacy, uneven rhythm in life) of what surrounds you. There is no purpose to try too hard for something. Let it happen, only focus on how your heart beats, and not an ideal nature your mind is trying to create.

Vandalism, finger painting, walks, kratom, anything and everything.

Cow tipping?

Yes.

It sounds like you’re left to nothing but to fuck around for the time you have left. Make it worth it. Hopefully that helped!

Laura Stevenson - Master of Art

Total Downer - Everything Is Gonna Be Alright

For Your Health - Second Aid Kit

Sleep Kit - Je Ne Sais Pas, Aue

Dear Twinkledad,

I am interested in a girl but I'm unsure we are compatible. I always run into her at skramz shows so I know we at least some musical taste overlap but the only other thing I know about her is that she works a blue collar job while I am a white collar professional. I am unsure if it's worth pursuing further knowing that I would rather be with someone that has a similar lifestyle to me. How should I proceed?

-Business Casual at the Skramz Gig.

Business Casual at the Skramz Gig,

I feel like the point of a crush (opposed to having actual feelings for someone) is to know someone better. It straddles the line between romantic interest and want of general companionship. Our human want is to interact with other humans, and arguably, become more human in the process. Even if she doesn’t check the boxes to your “goals”, there’s a wealth of opportunity there to get to know someone possibly rad.

Go for it! Skramz is a good starting point. You can’t be an NPC forever. I wish you good luck!

Dianacrawls - Rollercoasting Simulation

Senza - Sentience

Portrayal of Guilt - Among Friends

Shin Guard - Cross Country

Dear Twinkledad,

ask the emo bands how to get gamer girls to step on my face

Anonymous.

Anonymous,

this question makes everything your fault.

Wellspring - Quiver

ORTHODOXXER - IBLOCKEDHIMFROMMYFINSTAINAFITOFRAGE (TIK TOK ANTHEM)

oswald;octopus - montreal is where guys wear nail polish but not condoms (never meant pt. 2 i’m going to beat the fucking shit out of mike kinsella)

SCRAWLERS - 7/11

POSED OUT - THRASHACHUSETTS

friends from home - casket made of stone

god bless gilgamesh - i look for feathers in the rains from heaven, i find mostly piss

Clairo - Bags

#emo #emo revival #skramz #midwest emo #college #college radio #life advice #love #twinkledaddies #lock screen #yinz #hugh schmidt ruined my life #twinkledad #nevada

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jahaanofmenaphos · 5 years ago

Photo

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

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QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES

QUEST SUMMARY:

Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end…

CHAPTER 5: WRATH AND RUIN

Moia’s eyes narrowed as she locked onto Sliske’s glittering yellow irises. “Sliske…”

With a dramatic flourish, Sliske flamboyantly gestured around him. “Welcome! How nice to finally have some visitors. Hope you like what I've done with the place. The statues are truly inspired artwork, I think. I recommend having a-”

“Enough of this prattle!” Zemouregal cut in, summoning smoke to his fingertips with malicious intent. “I say we eliminate this vermin before he has the chance to scurry away!”

Hopping backwards, Sliske held his palms outwards and said, “Ah-ah-ah! How rude of me, I almost forgot to introduce you...”

Shivering slightly, Khazard took a tentative step backwards. “Bilrach... do you sense that?”

“Yes, Khazard, I sense it too,” Bilrach’s fists were clenched, his voice low and eyes darting around him. “Be on your guard.”

Sliske’s smile grew wicked now. “I think it's time for you to meet the other guests.”

From a cloud of smoke, Sliske revealed his latest creations: shadow replicas, clones of the present Zamorakians that nested comfortably in the uncanny valley. They wore the same armour as their counterparts, had the same weapons, but they still seemed… off. Perhaps the sinister air surrounding them was just something that had brushed off from their creator.

“Nomad, meet Nomad!,” Sliske proudly introduced, watching the expressions of confusion and horror from the Zamorakians with twisted glee. “Daquarius, meet Daquarius! Jerrod- well, you get the picture.”

“So this is the result of your twisted experiments in the Shadow Realm,” Bilrach regarded the shadow apparition of himself without amusement.

“What have you done, Sliske?” Khazard demanded, his hand clenched around his sword hilt. The shadow figure of him mimicked the action. “Playing god like this is dangerous - even for you!”

Sliske sneered, “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were scared, Khazard.”

“No!” Khazard barked, too sharply, and it betrayed him. “Surely they are nothing but apparitions, constructs of shadow…”

“Indeed,” Nomad concurred, his resolve more certain. “A nice trick, but nothing more, conjurer.”

“Oh, but they are so much more! You will find them to be quite formidable opponents.”

Jahaan scanned the ranks once, then twice, and noticed an absence. His tone was slightly wary as he inquired, “So where's my one?”

The smirk Sliske gave him made Jahaan wish he had never asked. “Such impatience! Just you wait, I still have an ace up my sleeve for you...”

“We have heard enough of your empty words,” Moia summoned a ball of flames to her palms. “Disciples of chaos, ready yourselves!”

With that, the Zamorakians drew their weapons and readied their spells; their opposites did the same.

Unsurprisingly, Zemouregal was the one to make the first move, blasting Nomad’s double with a bolt of shadow magic. “Ha! Been waiting to do that for a long time.”

Taking it personally, Nomad squared off with Zemouregal’s clone, while the others paired off with their counterparts in a flurry of combat.

Jahaan was about to get stuck into the action too when he felt a force tug him backwards. From the instant chill, he realised he’d been dragged into the Shadow Realm again, the dark tinge his vision he’d acquired confirming this.

He wasn’t alone. This he knew. He could sense a presence. Nay, multiple presences. Those not quite living, not quite dead. These weren’t Sliske, but he was here too, his looming spirit omniscient.

Right in the centre of the room, a platform, holding the Stone of Jas atop it.

Sliske's voice echoed around the cavernous vault. “Welcome to the carnival, Jahaan! It’s been too long, my dear. Now, it’s time for the main act to begin...”

Suddenly, a figure materialised and charged at him, holding two blades akin to his own. Instinctively, Jahaan swung for the apparition, only for it to disappear in a cloud of smoke. Confused, Jahaan held the grip of his swords steady, shuffling backwards.

It was a whisper of a sound, a ghost of a noise, but there was someone behind him. Slashing around in the area his ears had tweaked, his blades greeted nothing.

Just as he was about to grumble out his frustrations, another figure appeared at his six o’clock. Jahaan rolled out of the way of the crushing sword blow, whipping around with his two blades, expecting not to meet the attacker. But this time, he did. His swords clashed with two blades, similar to his own, but radiating smoke. The opponent holding them was himself. Or, rather, a slightly more contorted version of himself. Pupilless eyes, slightly crooked limbs, like a puppet being held on a loose string. The likeness was revolting, for Jahaan felt like he was looking into the zombified version of himself, entranced and helpless to Sliske’s command.

It also had a hauntingly familiar smile carved into its overly pale face.

“Do you like him?” Sliske’s voice was laced with a malicious chuckle. “It’s such a shame you scarred that pretty face of yours, you know. Such a waste.”

Despite being faced with… himself… Jahaan found that he was on the defensive more often than not, and that every strike he made was countered perfectly. Knowing he was fighting an uphill battle, Jahaan said to himself, This is just a game to Sliske, like everything is. I’ve gotta focus on getting the Stone back into the material realm...

As he sparred, Jahaan edged backwards, closer and closer to the Stone. A blade swung for his neck, but Jahaan ducked in time, managing to use one of his blades to swipe at his opponents shins. Despite being a shadow construct, the counterpart took the hit like he was flesh and blood, and Jahaan capitalised with a slash across the chest with his other blade, only cringing ever so slightly at the sight of causing ‘himself’ such agony.

Not wasting a second, Jahaan dashed up to the Stone’s plinth, finally taking in the awe-inspiring power radiating from the immense artefact up close. It caused his skin to crawl as he felt the energy creep underneath his flesh and into his veins.

Despite guessing that it would be foolish to reach out and touch the godly weapon, Jahaan decided to reach out and touch the godly weapon.

Upon touching the Stone, Jahaan’s mind was cast back through time to witness a memory that was imprinted on the Stone of Jas many years ago, far back towards the end of the Third Age, and to a land once known as Forinthry…

The battlefield was solemn, a haunting wind crying out through the desolate grey sky. Mere minutes beforehand, the place was ablaze with the clashing of swords, the screams of battle, and the rattle of magic. Now, it was eerily quiet, save for the low groaning of the wounded and the unstable pulsing of energy emitting from the Stone of Jas.

Panting, Zamorak was huddled over on the ground, a hand defiantly (albeit desperately) sealed onto the Stone’s surface.

When he blinked through the grit in his eyes, he saw three figures looming over him, though keeping a comfortable distance.

Saradomin, Armadyl and Bandos, side by side.

“You are defeated, Zamorak,” Saradomin announced, barely keeping the smugness from his tone. “Give up the Stone.”

“Never,” Zamorak spat, unsurprised when blood spilt from his lips. “You betrayed me, you bastard! You threw away our alliance the moment your knife could find my back!”

With his words, the Stone’s surface quivered and cracked, energy pounding through it with more vehermence than ever before.

Seeing this, Armadyl pleaded with heavy eyes, “Please, Zamorak. Look at the Stone. Your desperation is causing it to become unstable!”

“Stop squawking, bird,” Bandos grunted, tightening his grip on his large warhammer. “Bandos has destroyed red man’s armies. Now, Bandos finish red man too!”

“There’s a peaceful way out of this for all of us, you barbarian,” Armadyl maintained, softening his tone when he returned his focus to Zamorak. “Please, Zamorak. It does not have to end like this...”

Saradomin’s eyes were on fire, burning holes through Zamorak’s skull. “You cannot reason with this mad dog, Armadyl. He and his forces are devoted to evil above all else.”

“Lies!” Zamorak rebuked, forcefully. “You do not understand… you have never even wanted to fucking TRY and understand! I have risen to power through my own strength and will, and that is how ALL can thrive! You… you little bitch, you’re wretched and weak, just like your pathetic excuse for an ideology. Order leads to stagnation, but chaos leads to innovation, empowerment, FREEDOM!”

Now, the Stone’s pulsing began to cause rifts in the world, quaking the earth surrounding them all, but Zamorak didn’t even seem to notice. Armadyl’s resolve, on the other hand, was about as unsteady as the ground beneath him. He looked over his shoulder to the aviansie army behind him, the fearsome warriors that had followed him from their home world on Abbinah in hopes of finding peace on Gielinor. He had lost a fair few good soldiers in the battle preceding this standoff, and he would weep for them all. However, many were still alive, and thus one thing was repeating inside his mind, clawing fiercely to escape.

“Zamorak, I beg of you - the Stone!” he implored with increased urgency. “You know not what you are doing. You could annihilate Forinthry and all innocent life within!”

“Do you see now?” Saradomin swept a grand gesture behind him. “This is what you truly stand for - the destruction of life. You are nothing but a villain.”

Coughing, Zamorak ignored the blue deities remarks and turned to the others. “Armadyl... Bandos... hear me. Everything I've done was for Gielinor. I seek only to raise up the people of this world.”

But Bandos just laughed. “Ha! The mighty Zamorak, begging on his knees. Pathetic.”

There was a glint in Armadyl’s eyes, however, that indicated he might be reasoned with. “Saradomin, does he speak the truth?”

Quickly, Saradomin dispelled this idea, eager to keep his allies on his side. “Lies, all of it. He is trying to manipulate you. We each allied to bring this wretched criminal to justice. The Stone is rightfully mine!”

This didn’t sit well with Bandos. “Yours? Looks like fair game to Bandos, old man.”

Latching onto this, Zamorak growled, “Saradomin, you only want to rule and control this world with your power, the same as Zaros before you. Stagnation and weakness is all that comes of it.”

“And you believe chaos to be the answer?” Saradomin rebuked. “Would you have this planet ravaged by a never-ending war?!”

“Conflict would be inevitable, yes, but the people of the world would be free. Free to fall and grow, to fail and rebuild-”

“MADNESS!” Saradomin cut in, and by the looks on Armadyl’s on Bandos’ faces, Zamorak knew he had lost them all. Nevertheless, he persisted, “Surely you can see the value of my words, Bandos?”

“They are just words,” Bandos snarled. “Powerless and empty. In another time we might have seen eye-to-eye. You might have been allowed to fight for Bandos.”

Lastly, desperately, he turned to Armadyl. “Armadyl? Come on…”

His eyes wavered, and he looked away from the downed deity. In a regretful tone, Armadyl said, “I am sorry, Zamorak. I cannot allow chaos to engulf this world.”

Sneering with victory, Saradomin declared, “The time has come for you to meet your end, usurper.”

“NO! You are all blind!” Zamorak’s rage began to get the better of him, and the Stone crackled and pulsed in time with his temper, shaking the ground beneath as it started to glow brighter. “None of you are deserving of this power. None of you! If I must meet my end, THEN EACH OF YOU WILL MEET YOURS!”

Jahaan could no longer hear anything, and his vision began to get blurry. Armadyl reached out a hand, Bandos charged forwards, Saradomin raised his Staff, and Zamorak rose to his feet with the power of the elder gods infused into his heart. The world burst into light, and then receded just as quickly into darkness.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he realised that he and the Stone were back in the material realm. He was still attached to the Stone, and it required some fighting to break free from it. Once he did, he noticed how his entire body was tingling, similarly to how he felt with Zaros inside of him. This time though, the power was much stronger, dizzyingly so. He felt unstable, but at the same time, he felt immortal.

Clenching his fist, he noted how energy was literally sparking from his knuckles. It was intoxicating, and it made him want to fight. The nearest conduit for his adrenaline was the shadow copy of Enakhra; Jahaan didn't even draw his swords as he knew he had the power flowing inside him to channel a magic spell. What spell, though, he wasn’t sure - he had no runes, and Zaros only acted as a substitute for the ancient magicks.

Soon enough, he realised this little conundrum wasn’t going to be an issue as he shot a bolt of pure elder energy out of his palms, so powerful that the Enakhra shadow dissipated upon contact.

Startled, Enakhra spun around to see who had stolen her kill. Grey eyes sparkled with shock horror when they met Jahaan’s green ones, seeing the fire dancing inside them and the magic wrapping around his palm.

However, Jahaan realised that the attack had used up a lot of the power he’d taken from the Stone. Knowing the magic was fleeting, he thought to pick his next target more wisely. Zemouregal's shadow was long since dead, as was Nomad’s and Khazard’s. The aforementioned had spread themselves around to take out the remaining shadow’s of their comrades. Only Lord Daquarius fought alone, sparring with a mirror image of himself. Jahaan sprinted over, gathering the magic to his fingertips, but a lighter blast this time - overkill was not necessary. The amount definitely proved to be effective as Lord Daquarius’ shadow went down without a second thought.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bulky figure running towards the Stone. Clearly he wasn’t the only one to see it as a female voice called out, “Nomad, stop!”

Instinctively, Jahaan whipped around and fired a bolt of energy towards the charging Nomad. It caught his back and shoved him forwards, onto his knees.

“You dare stop me from realising my destiny?!” he bellowed, picking himself up and changing the grip on his spear so it was as if he was holding a javelin. “Only I am worthy of the Stone's power! Foolish human. I should have finished you long ago!”

Swiftly dodging to the side, Jahaan missed the spear’s deadly tip by a literal hair’s length - he felt it cut through his dreadlocks - and retaliated by slipping his dagger from the sheath at his back and launching it towards Nomad, slicing into the soul mage’s fingers.

Roaring in pain, Nomad clutched his left hand, watching helplessly as blood poured from where his index finger used to be. It’d been sliced clean off from just above the top joint, and his middle finger had also lost the tip. Seeing he was outnumbered and losing blood fast, Nomad caved and teleported away, a harsh curse thrown in Jahaan’s direction for good measure.

Once he left, another figure emerged, fading in under the glow of fire and shadow.

Zamorak had arrived.

He wordlessly nodded to his followers, then to Jahaan, before turning his attention to the Stone. Eyes full of hunger, he strode up, examining the glowing and crackling specimen for only a fleeting moment before he placed a grey claw upon its surface. Reeling back, Zamorak began to shake, his body convulsing as energy surged through his veins.

It was at that moment Sliske revealed himself once more. All the Zamorakians were so focused on the spectacle of Zamorak absorbing the Stone’s power that they didn’t notice the snake’s arrival, but Jahaan did. He didn’t have time to act, or even call out, before Sliske began to move, disappearing back into the shadows. His movements were quick, his appearances fleeting; he appeared in front Khazard first, thrust a palm into the Mahjarrat’s stomach and chest, and then vanished once more before reappearing in front of a new target. Whoever he touched was left paralysed, limbs frozen and stiff as a flurry of shadows engulfed them. Jahaan, however, had been spared, and could only watch in amazement and horror as Sliske effortlessly worked his way through the Zamorakians.

By the time Zamorak noticed, all his followers were incapacitated. Growling, Zamorak removed his hand from the Stone, staring daggers through Sliske when he manifested opposite him. The fury in the deity’s eyes could burn castles to the ground, yet Sliske seemed unphased, or at least that’s the facade he wore.

“So, the serpent finally rears its ugly head,” Zamorak spat, his fists clenched into tight balls as the elder energy flowed between his fingers.

“Ah, good ol' Zammy,” Sliske cheered in response. His smile dripped from his lips like acid. “It’s nice to see you again too.”

“Release my followers or you will leave here in a FUCKING BUCKET.”

Tutting, Sliske’s smile grew into a wicked grin. “Careful, I could disappear into the shadows with the Stone faster than you could say 'Saradomin'.”

Zamorak stance was proud, solid, immovable. “You better watch that tone of yours," he threatened with a hiss. "I'll rip your tongue out with my bare hands for all the shit it's caused."

Sliske’s stance, on the other hand, was hunched, casual, his hands wringing together incessantly. “Oh, come now, we have so much in common! There was a time when we stood side by side, many lifetimes ago.”

“We’re nothing alike, Blasckum.”

At this, Sliske roared with laughter. “Such colourful language! Do be careful - there are humans present, after all. And to use such harsh words against one of your brothers!”

“We’re not brothers anymore,” Zamorak maintained, his voice cold and chilling.

“Oh but we were!” Sliske maintained, his voice cheery but his eyes emotionless. “Back in the good old days of the Zarosian Empire. Did we not work together then, Legatus? Until you stabbed Zaros in the back, that is.”

Sliske leaned in a little closer, his voice lower and more calculating as he revealed, “Tell me, Zammy - do you really think that the Praefectus Praetorio was unaware of your plot against the Empty Lord?”

Zamorak paused, hesitant, carefully trying to read Sliske. “...bullshit.”

This elicited a grin from Sliske. “Why would I lie about this? The old society was oh so boring. Everyone being watched, afraid to put a foot out of line. Your development of this 'chaos' ideology was a breath of fresh air. Honourable intentions certainly, but it was the results that had me intrigued.”

“Chaos is not a game where you can pull the strings,” Zamorak asserted. “Only an arrogant Zarosian would believe they could play puppet master.”

“Yes, I suppose that is where we differ,” Sliske sighed. “But ask yourself, do the motivations really matter when the goal is the same?”

“You're no ally of mine, you damn snake. Fuck off back to the shadows where you came from. The Stone belongs to me now.”

Erupting with cackling laughter, Sliske countered, “Ally? Oh Zammy dear, I fear I have misled you. You know better than to think me so… unambitious. You may have reached the Stone, yes. It was truly amusing to watch your minions play my games. But to believe it is in your possession? Well…”

“I’ve already drawn power from it, regardless of your empty words,” Zamorak replied. “Even now my energy increases. It’s about time I finally shut you up for good.”

“Ah yes, you can feel the energy coursing through your veins. You are addicted, just like Saradomin is, just like Lucien was,” Sliske raised his eyebrows, his tone lighter as he finished, “And now I am too.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan had been silent thus far, watching the events unfold with baited breath, but finally he piped up, “What do you mean ‘addicted’?”

Sliske turned slightly towards Jahaan, keeping one beady yellow iris on Zamorak at all times. “Can't you see? Everyone who has ever touched the Stone has sacrificed everything in order to keep it in their grasp. The energy withheld in the Stone is not from this world, and the feeling of absorbing it is incomparable. I am not so clouded by pride that I would deceive myself.”

“You speak only of your own addiction,” Zamorak declared, “The Stone is nothing but a tool, a necessity if I am to free this world from the other gods.”

“Fool yourself all you like, Zamorak,” Sliske’s wicked, all-knowing smirk was back. “I know the truth.”

Considering this, Jahaan evaluated the feeling he had when he touched the Stone, and easily could see how one would become addicted to such an immense feeling of power. Then again, he already felt the power depleting oh-so quickly, and with it, his lust for the Stone did not remain. Hesitantly, he asked, “What about me? I touched the Stone after all.”

“Hmm… It would seem being the World Guardian is a double-edged sword,” Sliske replied. “You may not be harmed by the gods, but you are also unable to absorb divine energy. Good old Guthix gave you a blessing - and a curse. You do seem to be quite handy at channeling the Stone's power temporarily, though. Addiction may not be your downfall, no, but power so often corrupts the heart and mind.”

“Enough of this chatter,” Zamorak hissed, a small storm brewing around his palms. “You’re done here, Sliske. And I mean for good.”

Finally, Sliske’s calm demeanour dropped, and he looked slightly worried now. Jahaan could have sworn he saw the Mahjarrat gulp. From the corner of his eyes, Sliske locked his glare onto Jahaan, his tone absent of all joviality as he stated, “Jahaan, I have afforded you the opportunity to influence history. Choose wisely.”

The gravity of Sliske’s words sunk in instantly. He saw Zamorak begin to channel a spell, and Sliske just standing there, waiting, somewhat nervously. Why isn’t he moving?! Why isn’t he trying to defend himself?!

It was like the world was moving in slow motion, like everything was underwater.

Jahaan thought the choice was obvious. He had some of the Stone’s energy inside him still, and if he helped channel a spell at Sliske alongside Zamorak, then perhaps it would mean an end to all his games, his charades, his war and insanity. The shadow that had loomed over Jahaan’s life for so long would be gone, and he’d be free from the wretched puppeteer.

But as quickly as those thoughts crossed his mind, so did their counterparts. Should Zamorak really have the Stone? And it wouldn’t just be him having that power, it’d be all his followers. Zemouregal, Khazard and Enakhra… all of them would have even more power and influence over this world. One of them would be bound to follow in Lucien’s power-hungry footsteps. And I’d also be making enemies of Azzanadra, Wahisietel and Zaros… ah, FUCK.

Not allowing himself to think twice, Jahaan fought back his hesitation and channelled all the remaining power within him.

Just as Zamorak was about to strike, Jahaan cut in, hurling elder energy into the deity’s chest. It winded him, but didn’t have a lasting effect. Confused, Zamorak’s betrayed and fiery glare settled upon Jahaan, and he readied a retaliatory strike. Edging backwards, Jahaan suddenly regretted all of his life choices. Luckily, before Zamorak could strike, he was yanked into the Shadow Realm and teleported away.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he recognised the blurry outline of the Empyrean Citadel wavering around him, cloaked in shadow and mist. The Stone, too, was beside him. As he caught his breath and tried to still his rapid heartbeat, Sliske’s laughter echoed around him.

“Good show, Janny! You really did leave it until the most dramatic moment to upstage poor old Zammy. Needed a little help from yours truly, of course, but impressive nonetheless.”

Jahaan looked up and into the smirking, smug face of Sliske, and again regretted his life choices. “I didn’t do it for you. I didn’t want the Zamorakians having the Stone. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

“Ignoring that hurtful remark,” Sliske grinned. “I must know - what did Zammy offer you to become his lackey, hm?”

Too tired to think of a suitable rebuttal, Jahaan just sighed, taking a seat on one of the statue plinths. His eyes wandered about the Citadel. “He didn’t offer me anything. I liked his ideology; it makes a lot of sense, it’s practical... I didn’t mind going along for the ride, for a while. But I guess I can strike Zamorak off my Wintumber Festival card list…”

“Ah yes, Zamorak will certainly regret bringing you along,” Sliske smiled wryly. “Now, I have much to do, and as much as I enjoy your company, I think it’s time we parted ways. Do enjoy the scenery up here, though. I often admire the sunrise from such a view.”

Sliske placed a gloved palm atop Jahaan’s shoulder as he said, “Until the next time, darling…”

Within a blink, Jahaan was back in the material realm. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the blinding sunlight that was pouring into the Empyrean Citadel.

Peering over the edge into the clouds below, Jahaan rolled his eyes. Fantastic. Couldn’t have transported me anywhere more convenient, Sliske?

Luckily, he remembered the invitation box he’d kept after Sliske’s ascendency ceremony and hurriedly removed it from his backpack. With a deep exhale, he readied himself, opened the box, and was whisked away to the forest north of Ardougne.

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#sliske #zamorak #saradomin #armadyl #bandos

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