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ghuleh-witch · 1 year ago

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Make You Sing

Fandom: Ghost Rating: Explict Warnings: NSFW, 18+, unprotected sex, p in v sex, exhibitionism (kinda), confessional sex Relationships: Papa Emeritus IV/Copia x Female!Reader Characters: Papa Emeritus IV, Female!Reader, unnamed Sibling of Sin Additional Tags: no use of y/n, soft!dom Copia Words: 1121 Summary: Between your busy schedules, you and Copia make time to see each other, but that time is interrupted when a Sibling of Sin steps into the confessional.

Ao3

Your nails were digging into the wooden back of the chair as your head was pulled back, making your back arch. “Fuck,” you moaned loudly as Copia held a fistful of your hair. “Papa.”

“As much as I love those sweet noises, you need to keep it down, dolcezza,” Copia replied as he pounded into you. The hand that wasn’t pulling your hair was gripping your hip, pulling your hips back onto his cock. “Don’t want anyone to hear us, si?”

You and Copia hadn’t had a lot of time to spend together lately. Between his duties as Papa and preparing for a tour and your own work in the ministry, your time together was stretched thin forcing you to find little moments of free time throughout the day to spend together. Tonight Copia was holding confession, and as soon as the last person in line left, you came out of your hiding spot in the shadows and stepped into his side of the booth. It was late and Copia’s window for confession would be ending soon. No one else would be stopping in to confess their sins.

When his hand came around to touch your clit, you all but whimpered in need. “Let them hear,” you breathed, your mouth falling open in a silent moan as his fingers teased your clit. His hand let go of your hair and pulled you closer to him. “I–aaaaah—want them to know you’re ruining me.”

“Ragazza birichina,” he purred in your ear. He pressed a kiss to your neck as his thrusts slowed to a torturous speed.

“So close,” you panted softly as his lips peppered your neck with kisses and gentle nips. You teetered on the edge of your climax and were just about to shatter when the sound of heels could be heard approaching the confessional.

You both froze upon hearing the door to the other side of the booth open and close and someone sitting down in the chair on the other side of the wall. The mesh between the booths was thick enough that the sibling couldn’t see either of you and you couldn’t see the sibling.

“Bless me, Papa, for I have sinned. It has been fourteen days since my last confession,” came the voice of one of one of your fellow siblings. “I have lusted, I was greedy, and I was envious.”

One of Copia’s gloved hands came up to your mouth and covered it as he slowly pushed into you, careful to not make the chair you were balanced on creak. You felt his lips quirk upward into a smirk and knew he was turning this into a game.

“For these sins, I am not sorry,” the sibling finished.

Copia wasted no time stepping back into his role as Papa despite his cock buried deep inside of you. “Did you feel guilt while you were experiencing these sins?” Copia asked, keeping his voice level and neutral as he usually did in confession. A hand came and rested on your hip, keeping you still on his cock. He knew it would make you squirm.

“A little,” the sibling confessed. “When I was lusting after my married friend…I want her so badly, but she’s happily married. I can’t help it though. I’m so jealous that her partner gets to have her every day and night and I just want her all to myself. I know they’re both polyamorous, but I still feel wrong for trying to come between them. I just…I don’t know…I don’t want to feel guilt for having the feelings I do and I don’t know what to do about this whole situation.”

“All those feelings you have a valid,” Copia said as he thrust deep into you again. You wanted to whimper into his hand but fought to keep silent. “There is nothing wrong with feeling guilt either. You are human and being human is complex and confusing.”

There was a sigh from the other side of the dark mesh screen. “What should I do, Papa?”

“Have you talked to your friend? Communication is key, after all. It does not do to bottle up all these feelings.” Copia said, as the hand that wasn’t covering your mouth moved from your hip to your front and then between your legs. He dragged a single finger up your slit before stopping at your clit. You couldn’t help but tremble as you fought back any noise that was threatening to escape.

“I’m afraid that if I tell her I’ll ruin my friendship,” the sibling said. “Even though I have a feeling maybe she feels the same for me too…”

“Perhaps it would be best to bring up your feelings to your friend and talk it through with her. You will never know if she feels the same or not if it’s never discussed. Don’t live with the regret of never knowing,” Copia responded as his fingers teased your clit.

“You’re right,” the sibling said. “I should talk to her. The worst that can happen is that my feelings aren’t returned and she’s not interested, right?”

“Right. And if she is truly your friend, your friendship won’t be ruined. Sure things might be, eh, awkward for a bit but you two will work through it.” He thrust into you slowly again and this time, the feeling was too intense. A muffled moan sounded against the leather of his glove and Copia quickly started to fake cough to cover up the sound.

“Are you okay, Papa?” The sibling asked.

“Mi dispiace. I seem to be coming down with a cold,” Copia lied, his fingers putting pressure on your clit as though in punishment. “Speak to your friend and discuss how you feel. Life is too short to be left wanting and wondering.”

“Thank you, Papa,” the sibling replied, their chair scrapping on the floor as they stood.

“Go and sin freely,” Copia said, making the sign of the inverted cross to the mesh-covered window.

The door on the other side of the confessional opened and you could hear the sibling walking away. When all was silent again, Copia released his hand from your mouth and pressed his lips to the side of your neck.

“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He questioned, his teeth grazing your skin.

“Sorry,” you panted. “It just came out.”

He hummed in response before the slow, agonizing pace of his thrusts turned punishing. “You’re lucky confession is over and you can be as loud as you want now,” he growled into your ear. “And I’m going to make you sing, cara.”

And he did make you sing—your voice echoing off the rafters of the chapel as he brought you to orgasm.

Translations dolcezza-sweetness Ragazza birichina-naughty girl Mi dispiace-I'm sorry cara-dear/darling

#ghost #the band ghost #copia #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iv x reader #papa emeritus iv x female reader #fanfic #ghost fanfic #my fanfic #smut #copia x reader #copia x female reader

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hughiecampbelle · 2 years ago

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Dependence Pt. 2 (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

((SUCCESSION SPOILERS))

Character/s: Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Roman, Logan mention

Word Count: 1,478

Warning: addiction, drugs, alcohol, death mention

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: I'm feeling angsty, and that means everyone has to suffer :) Y'all thought I could leave this as it was? Never!!! I live to write angst, lol. This is on a whole new level, though, so please, please, pleass be warned!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 1 / Dependence Pt. 3 / Dependence Pt. 4 / Dependence Pt. 5

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt One.

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt. Two

The anger was back. Hot, red, like the blood running from your nose. Tasting of iron. Metallic. It was back and harder to control than ever. You were white-knuckling it for as long as you could remember. No one could understand how taxing it was, how much energy you were putting into keeping it together. Managing. It took everything inside you. Every bit of energy and attention and focus. Sooner or later, you’d lose your grip. You’d fall down again, scrape your knee, chip a tooth. You’d hit rock bottom. It was always waiting for you, the only inevitable in your life. The only constant. That, and your fathers hatred. He was gone now. He was gone and so was his meanness, but your anger lingered. It intensified. Towards him, that bastard, towards yourself, a pathetic little kid still seeking daddy's love. That man wasn’t capable of anything close. After the wedding, the boat, after seeing the body for yourself, you went home and you screamed. You tore your throat apart, to shreds, trying to tire yourself out. Trying to outsmart yourself. You were so close to going to a meeting, but you gave it a second thought. The cameras had followed you home, the paparazzi ripping your every action apart before his body was even cold. They would follow you. It would be the second biggest story in the papers besides his death. The cruelty of the headline, the phonecalls you’d receive, one after the other in this exact order: Kendall, Shiv, Connor, Roman, Gerri, Karl, Frank. Everyone would know you were teetering on an edge, threatening to jump. Everyone would hold it against you one way or another, as if the word addict were in lights across your fucking forehead. You had to keep yourself together alone. It was up to you. It always was. They could only do so much. They could only support you so much. Besides, they were grieving, too. It wasn’t right to go crying to them. Let them be, you figured. You can do this. You’ve done this before, and that’s when he was alive. That’s when he taunted your every decision.

The looney bin, he’d called it. Rehab, you were tired of correcting. Now you’d never have to.

Your sinuses burned all the way through, as if they’d been lit of fire. You threw your head back, dropping the rolled bill, inhaling through your nose. You could feel the blood move through your veins, your lungs inflate and deflate with air, you could feel the tingling, numbing of your gums. You let out a laugh, feeling it burst from your throat like a balloon. Growing, growing, until it popped. The music, the speakers so loud you could feel the bass in your bones, jolting them with every note. Surrounded, the drugs the most popular thing here. Old friends, friends of friends, friends of dealers huddled together like they’re trying to keep warm. An old spot. Underground, far from the city, from your life. Are you running away? You sister had asked you this once, when you were little and packing a suitcase. It was a pediatric act, full of stuffed animals and thick, chewy, cardboard books. Yes, I am. The memory ends there, with your gap-tooth response. You had more baby teeth in your mouth than holes. You were so little, so small, and yet you knew what your life would be like. What it would turn out like if you stayed a second longer. You were still running. It’s what you did best, your only natural instinct. You leaned against someone, a nameless figure dressed in black, watching the neon lights, waiting for anger to disappear, dissipate. Another drink would help.

You’re not sure what day it is, if it’s night or day. How long you’ve been here. A few days, at least. You slept a bit, in between songs. You were up mostly, seeking distractions, seeking a thrill. The club is dark, almost black. The lights cut through bodies, slicing them to pieces. There are no windows, no clocks, nothing to remind you of the outside world, thank god. The music pounds into your skull. If you just keep moving, dancing, kissing strangers, you won’t have to think about it. About them. You won’t have to look at those awful pictures Connor sent to the group chat, your father’s body in a fucking kilt. You won’t have to feel the vibration in your pocket from his calls, his questions, from everyone else. You were missing something important, something you hadn’t been necessary for, something big for the company. Your brothers and sister were off somewhere with that blonde freak. Per their insistence, Gerri had left a few voicemails. Checking in, asking where you were, if you were alright. They didn’t have time to worry about you, not this weekend. You were just fine. Better than fine, you were great.

Someone held you close, talking a mile a minute. You couldn’t hear a word that they said, nor did you care. Just keep going. Just keep going. Your heart beat fast in your ear as if it were trying to crack through your ribs, fight its way to the surface, break the skin, splatter on the floor. Maybe then, you’d feel better. Had they broken dad’s ribs doing compression's? Stop it. You kissed them hard, tasting bourbon, mixing it with your tequila. It burned, the concoction, making you gag, but you did it anyways. Your hands shook as you cupped their face, pushing away every bad thought you’d ever had. You could get more coke, more pills, whatever they were offering. Someone was always offering something. Their condolences, they said with pity. Getting high of your old man. Funny. It made you want to laugh until you sobbed.

More calls, this time from Ken, Shiv, Rome. At first angry, misunderstanding the situation. The anger, the annoyance in their voices. The silent treatment, really? Were you mad they’d gone without you? The jet could only wait so long, and you weren’t picking up your phone. Why were you acting like such a baby? It’s not like you’d showed any interest in the company, either. Gerri had a few harsh words for you, calling you flighty and selfish, making everyone distracted while they had a multi-billion dollar deal on the table. Then they started to worry. Were you okay? Where were you? Please call them, please. Overcome with rage, you threw your phone at the concrete floor, smashing the screen to pieces. You couldn’t listen to it anymore. Not like this, not when you’d ruined everything. You hated worrying them, like you were still a baby, needing help with everything. This was your bender. This was your life. If you wanted to ruin it, if you wanted to set it up in flames, you would. The last thing you saw was a silly picture of Connor you’d taken. He was making a stupid face just long enough for you get it in film. His contact name flashed for a second, then your phone died. Big Brother. Big Brother was worried, had gotten word of your sudden disappearance. He was calling to check in. You slumped on the floor, cradling the bits and pieces, regret setting in as you came down from your high. What have you done?

You lay with your cheek pressed against a sticky table, the booth warm with other bodies. They pushed into you. You’d taken more pills, washed it down with more alcohol. Things were slowing down now. The world had gone from so fast, so full, so euphoric, to slow motion. Your breathing was slow, your thoughts even more so. Call someone. Who? There were so many people to choose from. The thump of the music jolted the glasses on the table, threatening to crack them to bits. Too many to count. Too many pills. You knew that now. You could feel it. How weak your pulse had become, how shallow your breathing, how cold you’d become all of a sudden. You’d gotten the guy next to you to give you his phone. A phone call, that’s what you were doing. Yes. You dialed the only number you could remember. It went straight to voicemail. Your words came out slurred despite the panic you suddenly felt. You could barely keep your eyes open, they were so heavy, it was so much work. Your breathing ragged, every inhale taking everything out of you. It was so hard to remember anything. You tried another number. Someone picked up, someone scared, someone frantic, talking to others near them, far from you. Calling names you recognized, begging, pleading with you. You didn’t know who though. The words came out before you could stop yourself, slowly, painfully so. Choking them up, nauseous all of a sudden, your whole body shaking. Daddy, I messed up. I messed up and I’m scared. I took too much. I took too much, I did it again. . .

#writing #connor roy #connor roy imagine #connor roy x reader #kendall roy #kendall roy imagine #kendall roy x reader #shiv roy #shiv roy imagine #shiv roy x reader #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #logan roy #logan roy imagine #logan roy x reader

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phanfictioncatalogue · 9 months ago

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Forbidden Love (3) Masterlist

part one, part two

A Life So Changed (ao3) - Pilferingstarlight

Summary: TITANIC AU-- 1912. Phil Lester, the aristocratic son of one of the most prominent millionaires in England, travelling first class aboard the Titanic to America, where he will announce his engagement to a woman he is not quite sure he loves, and Dan Howell, the penniless third class wanderer who is travelling to America to seek opportunity and adventure. Different as sun and moon, they were never supposed to meet but one evening strike up a close friendship that develops into something much more. As they draw closer to their destination, they are faced with a single question: can their love survive or is it doomed to remain forever on the ill fated ship of dreams? (Loosely based off the 1997 film)

A Rose by Any Other Name (ao3) - MirabelleG

Summary: Set at the time of Romeo and Juliet. Dan and Phil meet at the masked ball and despite their opposing households they learn that their love is the most important thing.

A Stolen Ring (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan’s not normal. Why?

He's not human, he has a mysterious ring, and he hates Phil Lester. They have a strange past, one filled with bullying and avoidance, but when Dan turns into an incubus, everything changes. He struggles with his identity and cries himself to sleep most nights, yearning to be normal. And somehow the universe makes it worse by bringing him and Phil together - in the most literal sense.

Amaranth (ao3) - softsocks (orphan_account)

Summary: 'an imaginary flower that never fades; a purple colour'

Brotherly Love (ao3) - MySecretsX

Summary: Some family secrets remain hidden, others in punishments worse than death.

A slip-up in Dan's Mum's early life and a separate relationship years later, what were the chances the two half-brothers would fall in love?

Fate. Fate is the percentage of chance.

Not all soulmates have happy endings; some are forbidden, others cause endings for things too late to say goodbye to.

Butterfly (ao3) - A_Million_Regrets

Summary: Phil Lester, a lonely writer, finds a dying boy with beautiful black wings on a cold, rainy night in a dingy alleyway. He recognizes the boy as one of the winged men hated by human society. They are considered to be wild, ferocious beasts, but Phil's sympathy forces him to help the boy.

What happens when the boy, considered to be a wild beast, gets too attached and follows him home with an innocent, dimpled smile?

Give Me My Sin Again (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: It's the era when love is a sin,

but Dan and Phil fall in love despite the rules.

Life Would Be Funny (If It Weren't So Damn Tragic) (ao3) - mysticstargirl

Summary: Demons and Angels being soulmates is unheard of; blasphemous even.

In which Dan just wants to love and be loved, and Phil supposes it was never going to work out for them in the first place anyway; You can't stay warm forever.

Prince... oh my prince (ao3) - ReallyPham

Summary: Rich girls don't marry poor boys.

But can rich boys marry poor boys?

siren song (ao3) - lestered (clonetrobed)

Summary: He thinks of last night, teetering on the edge of the cliff, so happy with the idea of following Phil’s voice all the way down. That’d been a particularly close call, and he doesn’t even care. He just wants to hear the song again.

Straight To Video (ao3) - DisasterSoundtrack

Summary: It’s his face. His eyes, especially. They’re brown, the color warm like melted chocolate, but they’re also vulnerable and terrified, playing into the vibe of the song even better than the dancer’s body, even though he twirls and jumps and spreads himself thin. The real heartbreak is appearing right here, right on the dancefloor, as the dancer sheds a single, perfect tear.

Phil's peaceful, ordinary life takes an unexpected detour into a passionate, forbidden romance with a dancer, Dan.

The Roles We Play (ao3) - adorkablephil (kimberly_a)

Summary: Dan Howell and Phil Lester work together as voice actors for BBC radio dramas in the late 1930s, but slowly begin to develop “inappropriate” feelings for each other. (No characters die *in* this story, but there is some grief and sadness related to their deaths in the past.)

The Torment of Existence (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan was born into a world where your eyes mean everything. If you have grey eyes you're fine, but those with colored eyes are usually blind. Dan is one of the few who are not.

They'll Tear Us Apart If You Give Them the Chance (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan and Phil are both princes and they've been taught to hate each other their whole lives. They meet in a forest.

#phanfictioncatalogue #phanfic #phan #phanfiction #dan and phil #masterlists #forbiddenlove #forbiddenlove masterlist

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danganronpa-21 · 1 year ago

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For the dialogue prompts, B19 of the last one you reblogged with naegami? And if you'd be willing to do it, would you add tokomaru into that as well?

Rating: Teen & Up Audiences

General Warnings: Alcohol Consumption

Fandoms: Danganronpa Series

Relationships: Naegi Makoto/Togami Byakuya, Naegi Komaru/Fukawa Toko (background)

Additional Tags: Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, Byakuya Being Tsundere

Chapter Word Count: 3,317 words

Chapter Summary: Once upon a time, a drunken Makoto Naegi at a party sounded like the worst thing in the world to Byakuya Togami. Now, he's more than grateful to be the person who gets to take him home at the end of the night and tuck him in bed, knowing that such a precious thing is safe from all the harm in this world... Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

[Read it on AO3.]

For all the times that Byakuya thought himself to be a master of logic and decision-making, there were times like these, where the universe could do nothing but cheerfully and dramatically humble him. Times where he would truly be challenged, his wits put to the test, his resolve trembling as he tried to face the issue at hand…

If these were the times that were truly meant to test him, though, he sort of wished that it could be over more than his boyfriend, said boyfriend’s sister, and his annoying shrew all being blackout drunk together after a double date gone wrong.

“Bya-ku-yaaaaaa!” Makoto slurs in a sing-song voice, one arm wrapped around his little sister, the other nearly sloshing sake over the side of his cup. “Are you coming back to plaaaaaay some more?”

How the three of them are even still playing is beyond him. Toko and Komaru both passed a safe amount of drunk an hour ago, and Makoto was teetering awfully close to that edge himself. At the beginning of their evening, Byakuya had thought that the last thing he wanted to do was go on a double date with Toko and Komaru of all people, but now, it’s looking more like “cleaning up vomit” might be the least desirable option for the night. Ugh. He misses the days when he had Pennyworth to handle things that unsightly. The post-Tragedy world remains a dark, dark place.

“I’d rather not,” he scoffs from behind his book, unwilling to lift his gaze to lock eyes with Makoto. One glance up and he knows his idiot boyfriend will give him the most powerful set of puppy dog eyes to contend with, and though Byakuya is strong enough to occasionally pretend that he’s better than that, he’s really not. That man could make him fall apart, and he knows, because it’s happened before. It’s why they’re even dating, after all. “In fact, it’s time the three of you cut it out. At this point you won’t get any more inebriated, you’ll just succeed at poisoning your livers.”

“Don’t be such a party pooper, Togami-kun!” Komaru fires back, “It’s only one night, it’s not like we’re totally killing ourselves! You could stand to have a little fun with us.”

Byakuya can do nothing but shake his head. “I assure you, after what the three of you put me through today, I have experienced more than enough of your definition of ‘fun’, and suffice to say I’m not interested. But please, let me know when you are prepared to stop acting like a child.”

As if to punctuate his point, Komaru sticks her tongue out in retort. “They wouldn’t give sake to a little kid, thank you very much!”

He rolls his eyes. “As always, Naegi-chan, you are the pinnacle of immaturity.”

She is sure to whine about that, prodding Makoto and Toko to ask if they’re okay with letting him talk to her like that, but the two of them are far too drunk and out of it to even try to protest. Toko is laying on her back on the floor, murmuring something about the world spinning every time she so much as sits up. Her glasses are so askew that he can’t even figure out how they’re still resting on her face, and her eyes are practically rolling into the back of her head. If he hadn’t seen her drunk before, he might have worried that she was dying. Thankfully, a couple of nights at Future Foundation had more than prepared him for the reality of a drunk Toko Fukawa.

Makoto, on the other hand, is still under the impression that he is “just buzzed”, while actively looking like he is high as a kite. His cheeks and nose are dusted a heavy rouge, and his eyes are half-lidded. Even his hair is slightly askew, the usual fluffy, ruffled mess managing to be even more so. The most apt description in modern slang would be that he looks like a dork, but Byakuya is not fond of incorporating such words into his lexicon. It just amazes him how his boyfriend can still manage to be cute when he is also being impossibly annoying.

“You’re no fun at allllllll,” Komaru drawls, shaking her head, “At least Toko n’ Makoto can have fun. You just sit there all stuffy.”

Byakuya lets out a snort of derision, rolling his eyes. “It is called having dignity.”

“It’s called being a party pooper.”

Hmph. Though he knows how deeply Makoto loves his sister, he has definitely begun to sympathize with all of the times he has described her as annoying. He was never close with his most of his own sisters, bar Shinobu, but he never thought of them as this frustrating. Komaru was a different breed – although admittedly Byakuya would still protect her if he had to. But only out of love for Makoto, and definitely not because her goofy, friendly nature had endeared her to him… and definitely not because this was the first time he’d seen Toko look genuinely happy. Nothing of the sort.

“Well, sometimes one must… defecate on the parade. I am perfectly happy to be that person.” Byakuya turns to Makoto, staring at him expectantly. “And tonight, I must. It is late and all of you are too drunk to function. I am ending the game.”

A chorus of complaints sounds from their side of the room, like one collective cacophonous whine. Komaru throws herself back in her chair dramatically, Makoto pouts, and Toko flails helplessly like a fish. If they are trying to convince him that they are not that drunk and can stay up to play more of this ridiculous card game, they are failing miserably. They are also failing at proving that they have any semblance of maturity… although he supposes that is neither here nor there. He didn’t exactly expect much from them as it was.

Byakuya makes his way to Makoto in spite of their protests, holding out a hand for him to take. The smaller man looks at for a minute, as if to consider whether he wants to go with him, but in the end they both know that he will. In situations like these, Byakuya often has Makoto’s best interest in mind. Though he can play up his snobbery, when push comes to shove, Byakuya will be there to back him up. Through their years of working together, that’s something Makoto learned… and, admittedly, something that endeared Makoto to him. When they first met, he would never have thought of him as someone reliable. And now he’s staring at his hand, trying to let his loopy brain process that is perfectly okay to take it. With a soft smile, Makoto rests his hand on top of Byakuya’s, seemingly ready to go home. Now that’s something that Byakuya likes about Makoto – the ability to admit when he has probably had enough in a particular situation. Toko and Komaru could stand to learn from that, he thinks.

“Awww, c’mon, don’t go!” Komaru whines, her last-ditch attempt to keep the party going. “We’re in the middle of a game!”

Makoto laughs as Byakuya helps him to his feet. Byakuya can’t help but notice how he wobbles once he gets there. He leans in closer, so Makoto know it is okay to sway toward him if needed.

“You’re only complaining because you were going to win.” He reaches over to ruffle his sister’s hair. With this drunken movements, she dodges him with ease. “I’ll come over and we can all play again next time, okay?”

Komaru heaves a big dramatic sigh shaking her head,, but ultimately smiles. “Oh, alright. I suppose I can’t deny you and Byakuya your cuddle time,” she turns to look over at her own partner, still laying on the floor like a sack of potatoes. “I know I’m always disappointed when I miss out with Toki.”

Toko lets out some happy gurgle from the floor that Byakuya can’t decipher. Though he doesn’t appreciate Komaru’s teasing, he will take any opportunity to get out of there. Makoto is hammered and he is exhausted from socializing all evening, and that is enough of a reason for him. So if she wants to gush to them about both couples needing their snuggle time, well, so be it.

That being said, though, she should not count on him dignifying her annoyances with a response. He simply nudges Makoto along towards the door, more than ready to depart. Their limo driver should already be waiting for them. All they need to do is step in and enjoy the ride home.

“Thanks again for having us, Komaru,” Makoto says cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Byakuya is actively leading him out of the room, “We’ll have to pick up that game again next time.”

She nods enthusiastically. “For sure! Text me when you guys get home safe, alright?”

“Will do. Take care!”

“You too!”

Ugh, the commoners and their pleasantries. And they have the audacity to call men of his caliber “stuffy”. Keeping his hand on the small of Makoto’s back, he ushers him out the door and down the hall, careful to tune his attention into any stumbling or hesitations. Whether or not Makoto is elegant on his feet is debatable even on a good day, so his boyfriend knows to stay close. Thankfully, he seems grateful for the help, leaning into him so easily it’s like Byakuya is an extension of himself. How strange it is to think that the two of them once were not this close. Once upon a time, Makoto was nothing more than an obstacle in a killing game… and Byakuya, nothing more than a ticking time bomb that would surely decimate everything in Makoto’s path. And even with that history, for the two of them to end up here… it surprised Byakuya every day. He would never understand exactly how they both got so lucky, but Makoto has assured him time and time again that there is no need to question it. No matter what happened in the past, they have each other now. That is what matters most.

Still, it’s all he can think about as he guides Makoto down the hall, through the stairwell, and into the car. This moment would have been torture for both of them a short while ago, but now, Makoto is the only person Byakuya would want to care for drunk. He can’t find within himself to mind how Makoto nuzzles his face into Byakuya’s shoulder on the ride home. Those olive green eyes of his are so dazed and dreamy that all he can think about is getting his partner home safe and happy. After all, how could he manage to be so beautiful even while intoxicated? It simply isn’t fair.

“Thanks for coming to Komaru’s with me,” Makoto purrs, taking one of Byakuya’s hands into his own and squeezing, “I know you’re not big on that kind of thing, but I think she appreciated that we were there.”

Byakuya grunts in acknowledgement. For him, it’s as good as “you’re welcome”. He’s never been one for the mushy talk – he’d never be able to bring himself to say any of the things that he’s thinking.

I know you only get so much time with your sister. I know you would like to make up for lost time. I might want to do the same with mine, if I could. It almost comforts me, in a way, to see you have a sister. I want you to have things that make you happy. Seeing you happy is all I want. Sometimes she feels like my sister, too.

“I promise we can just relax for the next little bit, okay? No more get-togethers or whatever. Just a little me and you time.”

Byakuya sighs. “With our work schedules, such a thing is terribly unlikely.”

Makoto chuckles, almost as if he is unable to share the other man’s jaded bitterness. “We’ll make time. Maybe we could do lunch.”

“No, dinner. Dinner works better for me.”

“It’s a bit hard to get out of school when you’re the headmaster, but… I’ll see what I can do.”

“You better,” Byakuya challenges, “I will be making reservations somewhere with standards.”

Once again, his partner laughs. “I’ll be sure to straighten my tie before I go.”

______________________________________________________________

“You know, you’re surprisingly verbose for someone who is supposed to be intoxicated.”

Makoto snickers, totally nonchalant, even if this comment is made in response to him somehow getting stuck in his t-shirt as Byakuya tries to peel it off him. Even if his words are still working, his body is not. It is pathetic how clumsy he has become. He wasn’t exactly in perfect standing form when they left Komaru and Toko’s place, but now he’s all stumbles and swaying. He was barely even coordinated enough to get the keys into the door of their apartment. His body seems to drift naturally to the left almost every time he is left for too long. Worst of all, instead of considering it an inconvenience, he is amused by it. He always has been a bit of a gleeful drunk.

“And you’re struggling with a t-shirt for someone who is sober.”

That sentence barely makes sense, but it prompts Byakuya to flick his boyfriend in the nose anyway, earning himself a whine from the other party.

“Just stop your wriggling and let me figure this out.”

“I’m gonna pay you back for that.”

He grunts in response, reaching over Makoto’s head to pull the t-shirt from the back. With a soft shuffling sound, it slips off, revealing his bare chest. It is not the first time that Byakuya has seen Makoto with his shirt off, yet it seems like every time he does, he gets scrawnier. He never had much muscle to begin with, but it baffles him sometimes that he can even seem so tiny. It is not for lack of exercise or good nutrition – he’s been very strict with his partner about those things since they agreed to pursue a relationship – but it is just something that is uniquely Makoto. It is as if he was made to be small and cute by nature. The thought almost makes him blush, but he shakes it away, reaching over for Makoto’s bedtime hoodie and handing it to him.

“Are you going to be able to put this on yourself, or do you need me to dress you like a child?”

Makoto sticks his tongue out at Byakuya half-playfully, snatching the hoodie from his hands and slipping it on. The hoodie is grey and a little ratty, a full two sizes too big for him, but the way it swallows him up is so unfairly charming. How is this fair? How did he get to be so soft for this painfully average man? What spell did this man put over him to make him pudding on the inside? He’ll never know, and maybe he doesn’t need to know, but it swells so much emotion in him, to know how far he has come. A small smile sneaks across his face before he knows it.

“There, are you more comfortable now?”

Makoto nods gently, then chuckles and clutches his head. “Phew, that’s a little dizzying…”

“Then I would advise not doing that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Byakuya. Hadn’t quite figured that one out.”

Once again, he can offer only a grunt in response. He instead pushes Makoto back onto the bed, landing on his behind with a bit of a wobble. In any other circumstance, Makoto might make a joke about the scenario being sexual, but he’s too drunk to do so now. He knows that Byakuya would never take advantage of him, and joking about it would just feel wrong. Besides – nothing will ever beat the last time Byakuya got drunk to him. Apparently he had refused to sleep in the bed with a much more sober Makoto, because he had a boyfriend already and was not interested in any other, man or woman. He had been quite touched, while Byakuya, on the other hand, was terribly embarrassed. As much as he loves his boyfriend, he prefers to show it in actions rather than in words. This is why it is so easy for him to then grab Makoto’s legs and swing them onto the bed, urging him to relax into their bed. Clearly exhausted from the night’s activities, he does not resist, sinking into their mountain of soft pillows.

“There. Do you need anything else before I go?”

Makoto’s expression turns sad, his brows knitting together. “You’re not going to sleep in the bed with me?”

The look on his face sears pain into Byakuya’s heart. His rational mind tells him to resist the gloomy glint of those olive green eyes, but the better half of him knows that it would be best if he stays with Makoto. After all, if he were to get sick in the night, he could need him. “I intended to give you your space.”

“I don’t want my space,” Makoto says, reaching out his arms, “I want my cuddle buddy.”

Byakuya glances between the door and the bed one last time, and heaves a heavy sigh. He flicks off the light switch, closes the door, and makes his way to bed with his partner. Makoto giggles gleefully as Byakuya joins him in bed, allowing him to be claimed by the merciful grasp of feather pillows and their cushy silk duvet. As soon as Byakuya is under the covers, Makoto cuddles right up, wrapping both his arms around his partner’s.

“The things I do for you,” Byakuya sighs once more, plucking his glasses from his eyes and putting them on the bedside table, “You’ve made a human being out of me, and I hate it.”

Makoto laughs again and reaches up to brush some of Byakuya’s hair out of his face, smiling all the while. “Your hair is so soft…” His voice is smooth and rich like fudge before he continues, reigniting his amusement, “Just like your heart.”

“Ugh, you’re as bad as your sister.”

It’s at that moment that Makoto jolts up, reaching for his phone. “Komaru! I forgot to let her know we got home!”

Byakuya opens his mouth to protest the movements, but Makoto already has the phone in his hand, not seeming to notice or care that he’s starting to sway again. Byakuya tugs him back down to rest his head, and surprisingly he does, but he won’t take his eyes off the phone. For a moment he wonders if there is more of an urgency to the situation than he thought – perhaps after her traumatic separation from their parents, Komaru had some unresolved anxiety about Makoto’s safety. However, once he catches a smile start to form on his face, he knows that whatever Komaru’s reaction is, it can’t be too bad. He is about to open his mouth to ask when he tilts the phone over to him. On the screen is two texts from Komaru. The first is a photo of her and Toko, snuggled up in bed. Komaru is smiling and winking, while Toko is dead asleep, drooling against Komaru’s shoulder with her mouth wide open, but seeming very happy. The second message is the caption to the first, saying: “Got my cuddle buddy to bed safe and sound. How about you?”

Ugh. He knows where this is going.

“I assume you want to send a picture of us back to her?”

Makoto smiles sheepishly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I would,” he sighs, taking the phone from Makoto’s hands and pushing a smile, “But I will do it for your sake.”

He laughs. “You really are a softie.”

Byakuya kisses Makoto’s cheek softly. “Only for you.”

#hopefully you like it anon! i know it's been awhile since this was requested (insert awkward sheepish laughing here)#this was honestly an interesting challenge for me tbh. I've never written byakuya romantically so it was neat to explore #Koto's 100 Followers Gifts #naegami #tokomaru #makoto naegi #byakuya togami #komaru naegi #toko fukawa #danganronpa #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #danganronpa 3 #danganronpa ultra despair girls #danganronpa fanfiction

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moonslaura · 1 year ago

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rotten woods —

tldr: former camp counselors who survived a cross-country trek after the blast, vaguely based on the breakfast club.

please note that below the cut there are vague mentions to the demise of like...so many people.

LABOR DAY, CAMP IDLEWOOD —

SEPTEMBER 2020 - After another idyllic summer in the Kennebec Valley, Maine, CAMP IDLEWOOD has emptied out, leaving behind the staff to pack up the canoes, close down the barn, and lock up the cabins. But first, there’s the end of the year bonfire, where beer flows steadily and counselors enjoy the camp just a little for themselves. It teeters on the edge of a John Hughes movie and a bacchanal for the most part, but THE BLAST turned IDLEWOOD summer slasher. How they survived ranges anywhere from happening to be down in a basement to drag out more frozen burger patties to other strokes of dumb luck. But when the sun rose, all that was left were five twenty-somethings in the gore-splattered woods. Not friends, not all of them at least, and certainly not prepared to explain what had just happened -- they buried what they could and cooled their heels. Someone would come, right? Some sort of authority? PRESENT DAY - Bound together mostly out of necessity, the IDLEWILDE FIVE mostly stumbled their way to outpost in Carlsbad by accident. As conditions grow worse, they’re thinking of trying their luck on the outside once again.

“THE PRINCESS” / OPEN / RESERVED FOR MOLLY Formerly a camper, THE PRINCESS came back to IDLEWOOD because she loved it, point blank, and spent the summer ensuring that GIRLS BUNK A had equally sunny memories. Perhaps: a silver-spoon daughter of a scion with soft hands, she’s taken the end of the world mostly in stride, despite possibly being unnfairly established as a weak link at the start of their adventure. She’s worked tirelessly to keep the group together and perhaps indulge in their humanity more often than not. What’s the point in surviving if there isn’t anything to look forward to? “THE ATHLETE” / OPEN / RESERVED FOR JAY Tapped astThe de-facto leader as they stuck out from CAMP IDLEWOOD after THE BLAST. The prototypical golden boy, a consummate optimist, product of generational wealth — THE ATHLETE almost found a thrill in everything going shit-sideways. For once: there wasn’t a playbook to follow, no more eventual picket fence with 2.5 kids and a golden retriever, no more family firm and corner office or endless games of golf looming in his future. Currently, the most skeptical about leaving the safe-haven of Carlsbad, his constant optimism is starting to fail him. A straight shooter, a Fred Jones archetype, but who stays the same when the world ends? “THE CRIMINAL” / DARCY FARRELL / RESERVED 4 THE #1 CROCS APOLOGIST (SAV) He spent the majority of summer in the craft yurt or slipping off to smoke on the jetty dreaming of the different life he would have when he finally got the fuck out of dodge. Had a kindred relationship with “THE BASKETCASE” out of all of them before THE BLAST, though perhaps he didn’t quite understand how deep that went for her. A never-do-well that was only sort of straightened out after the apocalypse. A townie who had a golden ticket out of Maine, but that got blown to shit with THE BLAST. Adaptability is with its weight in gold these days, and he’s not gambling on Carlesbad anymore. “THE BRAIN” / NAME NAME / OPEN Took the job at CAMP IDLEWOOD because he thought it would help differentiate his already packed resume going into INSERT IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL HERE. THE BRAIN has always been determined to move up and onwards, high school sucked but eventually, he’d be the one to call the shots. Perhaps he wasn’t the most popular counselor at camp, but he’s found his opportunity to be a team player in the apocalypse, despite initial misgivings about “THE ATHLETE”. A “well rounded overachiever” in a previous life, THE BRAIN’S encyclopedic knowledge about science fiction constructed the “Don’t Be Stupid Rules” that have more or less kept them out of trouble as they trekked across the country. Sometimes feels like an unsung hero, but hey — the meek inherit the Earth, right? “THE BASKETCASE” / NAME NAME / RESERVED FOR BRETT Probably didn’t have any business (desire or inclination) being a camp counselor, but when your mom is the longtime camp director, it was more or less an expectation. Something of a loner, avoided the general jocularity of her coworkers and preferred to spend time by herself in the sick-bay or waiting for “THE CRIMINAL” to put down his hemp bracelets for a minute. Unrequited pining aside, the BASKETCASE has become something of their walking first-aid kit, but is itching to be a little braver at the end of times. Has certainly found her voice and a purpose in Carlesbad, and while she isn’t eager to strike out again, she figures that it's better to stick together than to be alone.

#liminalrpg #a request #pls bonk me for discord

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anxiousnerdwritings · 2 years ago

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(In regards to the yan!sis!Rhaenyra ask I answered here I have a bit more to add to it.)

I think Alicent and Criston Cole would also be yandere for Rhaenyra’s sister. Given that the sister was most likely born sometime before Aemma was pregnant with Baelon and how close Rhaenyra keeps her, Alicent would have been around them given her friendship with Rhaenyra. I even imagine that Rhaenyra had trusted Alicent enough to allow her to become like another sister towards the Reader. But once Viserys’ marriage to Alicent is announced, all that trust and overall care for Alicent in general goes out the window. Rhaenyra feels betrayed that her closest and really only friend would go behind her back and marry her father. She’s even more upset with herself that she so willingly trusted Alicent to be in her sister’s life.

Given how is see it, Alicent didn’t like going behind Rhaenyra’s back with Viserys like she was but that wasn’t necessarily of her own accord. Her father had her do it. Her father was the one to pull the strings not her. When she becomes queen, she feels even more alone, especially with Rhaenyra having turned her back on her. It would really mean a lot to Alicent if Rhaenyra’s sister still tried to reach out and go out of there way to accept and be there for her in her time of need. Even if Rhaenyra despises it. I like to think the sister takes after Viserys to an extent, they just want everyone to come together especially regarding the family.

I think Alicent would adore the Reader all the more if they were so willing and adamant about being a very involved older sibling to Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron. Rhaenyra either doesn’t want anything to really do with them or just doesn’t have the time but her sister does and that would speak volumes to Alicent. When the Dance of Dragons does eventually take place the Blacks and the Greens would have a lot more to fight for them just the throne.

Now regarding Criston Cole, given that he’s Rhaenyra’s sworn shield and Rhaenyra keeps her sister attached to her hip (for the most part) I think Rhaenyra would be very adamant that he protect and watch out for her sister as well. It’ll be easy enough since they’re together all the time but will only become harder once the sister wants to pull away from Rhaenyra (even if it is just a little bit). By the time that starts happening though, Criston Cole has already broken his vows and is teetering on the edge of no return. I think that Criston Cole would have grown to have a soft spot for Rhaenyra’s sister and no matter how angry he is with Rhaenyra herself or how resentful he is of her, Criston would never take it out on her sister.

Given how close Rhaenyra is with her sister I have no doubt that she would have told her about what happened with Daemon and Criston Cole. Or maybe Criston even told the sister himself. Either way, I think that if the sister were to apologize to Criston Cole on her sister’s behalf would mean something to him. It wouldn’t take away from how he was still feeling or how he looked at Rhaenyra now but it would instill in him that her sister isn’t like her and for that he couldn’t be more grateful for.

Once Alicent and Criston Cole do eventually form an alliance and share their grudge against Rhaenyra they would also share the same (or a similar) adoration and attachment for her sister as well.

#yandere rhaenyra targaryen #yandere alicent hightower #yandere criston cole #yandere house of the dragon #yandere game of thrones #yandere house of the dragon concept #yandere game of thrones concept #yandere concept

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alloverthegaf · 2 years ago

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okay I’ve finished season 1 of Umbrella Academy.

First of all, entirely behind Vanya’s villain arc. Not the whole world being destroyed thing, but the anger and rage and being blinded by hurt and grief thing, that I was all about. At no point did the rest of the characters stop pissing me off in the way Vanya was treated (or forgotten), right up until the end. Even when they establish she’s with a sociopathic murderer who’s manipulating her, they’re too caught up in their own personal shit to spare more than a couple of minutes’ thought or a few sentences of dialogue, for their own sister. It had me on the verge of going from being enthralled to rage watching multiple times, and teetered way too close to the Riverdale formula for my taste.

Also, Elliot Page was badass in that role.

In saying that, I do like all of the siblings (except Luther). I obviously love Klaus, and Five’s character is very entertaining and more layered than most of the others. I enjoyed Allison’s development and thought her and Vanya’s desire to be good sisters to each other came across really well. Diego’s character is a little one-dimensional and Dean Winchestery for me, but I see a lot of potential for him.

Luther, on the other hand. A few of you have already told me to give him a chance past season 1, so I’ll do my best, but insert the longest “euugghhh” in history here. I don’t know if I’m supposed to like him and find him admirable or not, but he comes across as so pretentiously self-righteous and blindly selfish that by the end everything about him set me on edge. The insistent way he forced his help and ‘protection’ on Allison in the last couple of episodes even when she clearly showed him she didn’t want it was just the gross cherry on top.

And yeah, their relationship was not a highlight for me. Blood related or not it was way too weird and uncomfortable for me to enjoy their scenes together.

All in all, a very interesting story that while predictable, was still exciting and enjoyable, and managed to hook me after the first few episodes. I think the actors did really well in roles that have a lot of potential but, at times, are written in a very restrictive way.

I’m starting season 2 and am excited though still slightly wary the show is gonna Riverdale itself.

Oh also, obviously, Hazel is the highlight of the show.

#ramblings #and though I hate his character it was cool seeing Perceval from Merlin actually speak lol #umbrella academy

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uwusenpaiuwu · 3 years ago

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Sleepovers At The Baji Household feat. A Fed-Up Chifuyu

Summary: Chifuyu just wants to sleep, man, but Baji wants to be a jealous crackhead at 2 AM.

Pairing: Sano Manjiro | Mikey x Male Reader

Note(s): I had a little free time and wrote this. So, please enjoy! ALSO, to the anon that sent me a request a few days ago, I saw it and have it filed on my to-do list!!! I will definitely get to it as soon as I get a break in my schedule :)

"Chifuyu, ya wanna see some real discrimination?"

No. No, Chifuyu does not want to see what Baji means by 'real discrimination.'

Does he tell him that, though?

Yes, actually, because it's 2 in the fucking morning and, as much as he respects the other boy, he wouldn't put it past himself to smother him with a pillow after having his dream of cuddling with a sea of puppies suddenly destroyed.

Unfortunately for his sanity, Baji either doesn't hear him or, more likely than not, doesn't give a fuck, because he's already flopping onto his belly and whipping out his phone to do God knows what.

The dial tone that sounds from the speaker a few seconds later makes Chifuyu cringe, especially since it's only ever been a calm silence fit for a good night's sleep prior to Baji bulldozing through it with his absurd question. (At the very least, he's thankful that the latter has half a mind to keep the brightness on the lowest setting, otherwise, Chifuyu would have had to fight.)

On the far end of the row of carefully-laid futons, you shift in your sleep, eyebrows furrowing together at the noise. Rotating onto your side, you unconsciously reach for Baji, and just when he thinks you're being cute and trying to cuddle him, you smack him in the head.

Baji doesn't flinch, instead, takes his pillow and shoves it in your grasp to keep your unconscious self occupied, so that he can focus on getting through to the person who reuses to pick up (understandably so).

Releasing a frustrated groan after being redirected to voice mail for the fifth time, he dials the number again, muttering an impatient, "Pick up already."

Chifuyu feels sorry for the poor soul on the other end. He would've blocked someone following the first call, because again, it's-

The blond has to squint his eyes up at the digital clock on Baji's nightstand, which confirms that it's already 2:22 A.M, further solidifying the fact that he shouldn't be awake right now. And this also applies to the ever persistent first division captain, who insists on bothering who Chifuyu soon discovers is Mikey from the contact ID that flashes across the screen.

Why Baji is so keen on bothering him is a question he doesn't have the mental capacity to ponder over. The most energy he'll expend is to listen in when the call miraculously connects.

"What...?" comes a muffled voice from the receiver, tone laced in an irked grogginess birthed from a slumber rudely interrupted.

There's an absurdly loud, almost angry, roar of Mikey's name, one that has Chifuyu curling in on himself in a futile attempt to escape a sound that should be illegal at this hour.

But you know what else should be illegal?

The fucking whiplash Chifuyu gets when Baji's deep voice takes an abrupt 180°, switching from its normal gruffness to a squeaky, ear-piercing shrill as he screams, "I love you, love you, love you! Do you love me, too, Mikey-kyun~♡?!"

The room is dead silent.

Not a word. Not a murmur. Not a breath.

Just pure, unadulterated silence as both Chifuyu and Mikey process the words that hang in the air, permeating it with a goosebumps-inducing eeriness from having heard such a...a girly, overtly cutesy screech from Baji.

Then-

"What the fuck? He hung on me!"

Chifuyu opens his mouth, thinks better of reacting to the cursed scene he had the misfortune of bearing witness to, and promptly closes it.

Other people may have sleep paralysis demons.

But Chifuyu?

Chifuyu has Baji.

With both hands partially raised in prayer, he begs for the shenanigans to be over and done with.

They are not.

While his eyes remain closed in a last ditch effort to convince himself that it's all a bad dream, he hears a lot of grumbling happening on your side of the room, courtesy of Baji, who's scrambling around in search of...something. One quick peek reveals him fiddling with a phone - yours, to be exact, as evidenced by the distinctive phone charm of your favorite anime character hanging from it.

"(Y/n), wake up for a second," he hears him whisper. It takes a bit of prompting, until he's able to successfully rouse you enough from sleep to elicit any kind of response, which is, essentially, nothing short of an incoherent, slurred mess. Although, Chifuyu is pretty damn certain he heard you call Baji a 'dickhead' for the trouble.

Unperturbed, he continues shaking your limp form, coaxing you into wakefulness with, "Repeat what I tell you, and I'll let you go back to asleep. Deal?"

You squint your eyes at him, only able to make out a vague outline of his visage in the lightless room. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die," he automatically responds with the same phrase he's become accustomed to saying whenever you two made a promise, something done purely out of habit, formed when the two of you were just kids and he wanted to get you to do something absolutely ridiculous either for him or with him. And just 'cause he knows you're more susceptible to complying if he does it, he also interlocks his pinky with yours.

"...Fine."

The approval is his cue to proceed, and it's as he's putting the phone on speaker that he turns back to a regretfully wide awake Chifuyu, mouthing a wordless, 'Watch.'

The phone rings, loud and clear, precisely once and only once.

"(Y/n), what's wrong?" It's important to note that even though Mikey still sounds tired as hell, his tone is much lighter, much happier really, than when it was Baji, which is an offense in itself to the said teen that's off to the side, attentively listening to the conversation unfold.

Then, it strikes Chifuyu, what Baji is trying to do, and fuck does it give him an instant headache.

Meanwhile, your mouth morphs into the dopiest of smiles with the pleasant surprise of hearing your boyfriend's voice, chest instantly overtaken by a warm fuzziness that never fails to make an appearance whenever he's involved. Sappy, you know, but it's true!

A light but firm nudge to your shoulder reminds you of your mission. It's too bad that, teetering along the edge of sleep as you are, the words Baji whispers are barely repeated correctly.

The initial phrase from before, the one Baji greeted Mikey with, is shortened to a simple, "You wuv I...?"

But, without missing a beat, you receive Mikey's confident reply of, "Mhm... I wuv you a lot."

There's a sleepy giggle then - a fucking giggle - before your voices drop to sweet whispers that the third and fourth wheels can't fully comprehend from where they are.

"Where the fuck was my 'I wuv you,' huh?!" Baji whisper-shouts, considerate of your conversation even when ranting and raving. "Shit, I would've taken a simple 'I love you,' too! I've known that bastard way longer than (Y/n), and this is what I get?!"

Okay. Toman's president answers his boyfriend's late night calls faster than he does anyone else's and openly expresses his love for him. So what? Chifuyu wouldn't exactly call it 'discrimination,' per se. 'Favoritism,' maybe if you wanna stretch it, but using as strong a word as discrimination, especially taking into account you two are dating; it's normal? Nah.

"You wanna say 'bye' to them? Mm. Baji and Chifuyu." A pause. "Fuyu, Mikey says 'bye.'"

"Bye, Mikey-kun."

The other person in the room waits, and waits, and waits, and when it's clear that there is no intention to address his presence whatsoever, Baji turns to Chifuyu with an almost scandalized expression, making wild gesticulations with his hands, clearly distressed. "See?!"

Blank blue eyes stare back at him, unblinking. Honestly, it's a common occurrence - Baji spiraling in a nonsensical rage - so it's easy for Chifuyu to block out the muted, jealousy-driven temper tantrum as he takes his pillow in both hands, raises it as high as he can, and-

Sigh.

-lets it flop right back onto his face.

He can't suffocate Baji. Shouldn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't. After all, they're best buds, meaning he has an obligation to put up with shit like this once in a while. (Plus, he'd probably get his ass kicked before he succeeds anyway. Totally not worth the beating.)

"Did you hear? Mikey said he wuvs me," he hears you drawl dreamily as soon as you hang up, sounding very close to clocking back out for the night.

"Yeah, yeah. Cute shit. Happy for ya, dude," Baji huffs. Thankfully, he sounds like he's in a similar state to yours, if the yawn that follows his sarcastic comment is anything to go by.

"...He soooo ignored you."

That warrants a punishing punch to the arm, dulled only slightly by the combination of the thick quilt you're swaddled in and the raven-haired boy's fatigue.

"I'll fucking throw you out right now, (Y/n). Don't test me."

"You won't."

"I will."

"Won't."

"Will."

The conversation gradually dies down shortly after, the exhaustion that took its sweet time getting to both of you having reached its peak with the help of the childish bickering. It takes 10 minutes, maybe 15, before two sets of light snores fill the room.

Finally.

Let it be known that there is a lesson to be learned from tonight's events. Really, there is. Y'know, something along the lines of 'Don't agree to a sleepover with Baji, if you plan on actually sleeping,' or whatever.

Alas, Chifuyu's consciousness fades before he realizes what it is.

~~~

"Mikey, be honest. Who do you love more? Me or-?"

"(Y/n)."

"But-"

(Y/n)."

"I-"

"(Y/n)."

Baji is only momentarily discouraged, sharp eyes glaring at the blond that lays his head on your lap after hi-fiving you. He didn't want to do this, but he's left with no choice.

"(Y/n) or Babu?"

From the way Mikey stiffens up, refusing to look at either him or you in the eyes, Baji knows he has him right where he wants him, has him torn between a cute face or a sweet ride.

"Oi! Don't pretend to be asleep! Answer the damn question! OI!"

(After hours of serious contemplation - even though you told him it doesn't particularly matter - it's revealed that, of course, Mikey loves you more. Babu just happens to trail behind as a very close second.)

#mikey x male reader #mikey x reader #sano manjiro x male reader #sano manjiro x reader #sano manjirou x male reader #sano manjirou x reader #sano manjiro #sano manjirou #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x male reader #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers x reader #baji keisuke #chifuyu matsuno

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aminiatureworld · 4 years ago

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Return to Me

Characters: Albedo, Scaramouche, Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 4,538

Warnings: Violence, Minor villain death

Premise: What is it like when the one you most adore becomes a stranger? And how’re you supposed to pick up the pieces?

In which the reader loses their memory.

Author’s Note: Just a note that this is not how actual amnesia works, and if you’re experiencing memory loss please contact your doctor.

That being said the amnesia is really good for angst and pining so how could I resist? It’s one of those guilty pleasure tropes I like to read and think of so I hope I did it justice.

Albedo

Albedo loved two things in this world, alchemy and you. They were what kept him centered, what kept him sharp and curious and full of life. So how could it be that one of those things should cause him such great unhappiness, and that said unhappiness should be the other’s suffering?

It had been a dangerous experiment, from the beginning Albedo was well aware of that. Testing whether or not elemental energy contained traces of elements via water could yield incredibly useful results about magic’s interaction with the ordinary world. But it could also backfire massively. Noxious gases, explosions, anything was possible.

But he’d thought he was prepared. After all you two had hiked all the way to the edges of Windrise specifically so no one would be around, and Albedo had even put up a barrier with the express intention of keeping anyone from getting hurt. It should’ve been fine, everything should’ve been fine, and yet when the Electro Slime condensate hit the water and the explosion knocked you both off your feet, slamming into the ground three meters from where you’d originated, he could only wonder how things had gone so wrong.

Picking himself up after a few agonizing seconds, every bone and muscle in his body stiff and aching from the sudden impact, Albedo crawled over to where you lay. To his horror you appeared to have hit a rock, and your head was bleeding slightly. Cupping your face in his hands the alchemist rasped out your name. The relief he felt when you opened your eyes was only momentary, replaced by shock and a sense of utter emptiness when you made out a groggy: “Who are you?”

Electro slime elements appear to contain no small amount of Chlorine, which, combined with only the hydrogen as a result of the electricity splitting the water molecules apart, caused an explosion. Although normally Albedo might’ve been thrilled by the discovery of an element only found mixed in the natural world, now he could only look upon that experiment with a raw sort of hatred that he hadn’t known he’d possessed. The ice around the alchemist’s heart had been burned away, and now all that remained was a burnt and shriveled up little thing, determined to make up for the lack of emotions by throwing its owner into the pits of despair.

Albedo spent all his time at first in the hospital and then in the apartment you two shared. You’d made an offhanded remark about how empty it looked, and Albedo had smiled awkwardly, not having the heart to tell you he could barely look at a piece of science equipment without a deep sense of loss. The doctors had said the effects should fade with time, but Albedo knew that there had been magic in the air, and a sick, twisted part of himself jeered that he was holding onto false hope.

It didn’t help that Albedo had been absolutely unprepared for the reality in which you couldn’t remember a thing about him, or your relationship. Never again would you rush up to him as you had before, excitement in your eyes and questions in your head. Memories of gathering crystal flies in the sunset and staying up all night, notes on old ruins swapped with sweet kisses and phrases that meant nothing at all, the beach where Albedo had sketched you for the first time and you had given him your first gift, all that was nothing to you, the stories of a stranger told by another.

“The first gift you gave me was a flower preserved in a solution of Cryo.” You said, words awkward and unsure in your mouth. Albedo knew that you weren’t really remembering it.

“That’s right,” he replied, voice light and calm, trying desperately to keep the despair from showing on his face. “It was a Cecilia. You said that it looked as if it was made of snow.”

“It sounds beautiful,” you replied, speaking more to yourself than to him, “I wish I could remember it.”

“You will someday, I’m sure of it.” He smiled, but the movement felt like too much effort to keep up and soon his face collapsed once more into an expression of melancholy. As if noticing this you smiled slightly in turn.

“Does it still exist?”

“Yes,” Albedo gazed out the window that faced you two. Beyond the buildings, only a few streets away lay his laboratory, locked away and gathering dust, “it does, but I cannot get it right now.”

“Oh,” you seemed at a loss for words, glancing down towards your hands, “that’s alright. I’d rather remember it on my own anyways.”

Albedo said nothing to this. Moving to place his hand on yours he paused. He was a stranger to you. This little act of comfort, all the little gestures he’d gotten so used to were now impossible. Dropping his hand to his side he moved to get you a glass of water, desperately trying to ignore the pain burning in his chest and in his heart.

_____

“Are these yours?”

Albedo placed the bag of groceries he’d just gotten on the floor. Moving over to where you were sitting, you were taking a break from adventuring until you remembered more, a decision made by the doctors for fear you’d forgotten how to control your vision. You had recently moved on from mostly sleeping to exploring your once familiar home, and now you sat curled on the couch; in your lap was a familiar book. Leaning over Albedo glanced at the page you were on.

“Yes, they’re mine. I like to sketch in my free time.”

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, running your hand reverently over the slightly stained page, “I can see the different shades in the mountain, even if it’s only a pencil drawing.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Albedo smiled to himself, the memory of that day offering him some solace, “it was quite a difficult thing to draw.”

“It had an odd name.” You scrunched your nose slightly in concentration, an expression so cute Albedo could help but let out a huff of bittersweet laughter.

“Dragonspine. That’s the name of the mountain.” Turning to put the groceries away he paused when you spoke once more.

“No. That wasn’t it. It was something else. V-Vida something.” Albedo watched, incoherent thoughts and emotions clouding his mind as you retraced the circles you’d been making on the page beforehand. Suddenly your fingers stopped and you looked up. “Vindagnyr, yes that’s it! There’s a fortress up there, a, what did you tell me they were called, a domain. And that’s the name of it.” You closed your eyes once more. “Something happened there, something to do with you. I can’t remember it, if I was there or if you told me about it before, but something’s there. Something important.”

Albedo felt as if he must’ve been dreaming. The same sort of emptiness that had filled him at the beginning of this catastrophe was there, but this time there was something else, the bitter feeling of a hope that he couldn’t be sure of filling his lungs and his mouth. He turned back towards you, teetering forward as he tried to grasp the situation.

“Yes. That’s right. Vindagnyr. The name it had before it was essentially destroyed by Durin. I met the Traveler there, a week before I met you.” He sat down on the chair adjacent to where you were sitting, memories filling his mind. “It was also the first place we performed an experiment together.”

“I’d like to go there again then.” Your face was one of open triumph and excitement, and there was something in your eyes that Albedo thought he might never see again, a sort of recognition that he thought had been lost, “I know you haven’t been to your work once. I suppose it would make sense, considering what happened, but would you take me there?”

“Of course.” Albedo’s voice was sure and solid.

“Even though I might not remember more.”

“Even then.”

You reached your hand out to the alchemist, and after a second Albedo took it. He ran his thumb over the back of your hand slightly, and you made no move to withdraw, instead squeezing his palm slightly.

You had remembered something. It wasn’t everything of course, and there was no guarantee that there wouldn’t be heartbreak up ahead, wouldn’t be frustration and sorrow and moments when hope seemed very far away. But as long as moments like this existed, Albedo could hang on. The anger and despair that had burned inside him remained, but now something stronger resided there.

And that was hope.

Scaramouche

“Do you see them?” You whispered, raising your head slightly above the rock you were hiding under. Scowling Scaramouche made a cutting gesture with his hand.

“Yes I see them. And get back down!”

Although his tone of voice was harsher than usual you smiled a smile of understanding as you lowered yourself once more out of sight. Scarmouche took a deep breath in response, trying to control the coiling tension that sat in his stomach. Today’s mission was an unenviable one, made only worse by your presence, for Scaramouche knew these were no ordinary enemies, and though you could take care of yourself just fine there was a nagging in his head that refused to be silenced.

Your targets sat encamped up ahead, completely nondescript in appearance, although that was hardly surprising of deserters of the Fatui, especially ones of such high caliber as them.

Scaramouche’s expression twisted into a scowl of concentration once more as he thought about the moment when you two had received your orders to get rid of those who knew of the dealings of the army of the Tsaritsa, and who were certainly willing to dispose of said secrets for the right price. Although they were no doubt traitors of the worst sort and worth less than dirt, there was still something unpleasant about fighting people who had once been comrades. You’d mused it was because of the bonds of mutual struggle and culture, but Scaramouche suspected for himself it was more the annoyance of fighting people who were at least somewhat trained.

Scaramouche gave the signal and you crept once more out from behind your hiding spot. Manifesting your polearm Scaramouche could already see the well worn metal steaming. This battle was going to be bloody.

At first everything had gone well enough, being hidden on a ledge about the camp you’d managed to do a great deal of damage, made easier by their surprise and ill planned position. However things quickly began to turn sour. The ex-Fatui might not’ve had the equipment of their army days, but they retained the ruthlessness that had once made them so efficient and now made them so dangerous.

There was an odd smell running through the valley, the smell of electricity and something burning. Scaramouche stood in front of a man who had certainly once been a vanguard and a woman who appeared to have been a Cryo mage. Sweat coated their faces but Scarmouche felt cold with the thrill of battle. Electricity crackled to life in his hands and already bits of electricity were dancing on the charred and dinky armor of his enemies. What were they thinking sending a Harbinger against a pathetic group such as this? It was laughable, really.

“Such a pity that members of such an elite force are going to die like dogs.” He drawled. The woman in front of him gritted her teeth, summoning a trail of icicles which Scaramouche easily leapt over. “Is that truly your worth?” He laughed, before the calm that always came with killing washed over him. “Your best is hardly worth my worst.” Gathering electricity, Scaramouche prepared for the final, searing strike.

The man in front of him smiled a sickening sort of smile, the kind that one made only when they knew that it was the end, and then it all went wrong.

The sound of your voice was muffled by the energy approaching Scaramouche from behind, as the outline of a transparent sort of figure clipped his vision. Quickly whirling around Scaramouche was unprepared for the third ex-Fatui member, an agent who had apparently learned his skills well, bearing down on him. Raising his hands, the Harbinger was suddenly thrown aside by an unknown force. Fire made contact with lightning and the ground exploded.

Fighting to retain consciousness Scaramouche was aware of the sickly smell of burning flesh. Blinking away the confusion he glanced at the carnage around him. The agent lay haphazardly, face half obscured by a mass of flesh that must’ve once made him up but now seemed out of place. Behind him the other agents had hardly feared better, and the charred visage of mangled flesh replace what had once been arms, legs, necks. It was an unsettling view, and though Scaramouche couldn’t say it was the worst thing he’d ever seen it still left a vile taste in his mouth. How quickly a fragile little human could come undone, made into that which was unrecognizable.

Finally he fixed his gaze towards you, relieved to find that there was no apparent wounds, although that perspective shifted slightly when viewing your hands, which were covered with welts. Your fire must’ve mixed with his electricity, causing an overload of energy, and you two lying in the eye of the storm. Scaramouche looked at his own hands, and realized they were similarly reddened. Ignoring the pain he shook your shoulder. “Get up.” He let out when you finally opened your eyes.

However it was apparent very quickly that something was wrong. You eyes held no recognition in them, instead they seemed as blank and transparent as a mirror. Looking at him you furrowed your brow slightly.

“Where…” your gaze drifted towards the scraps of humanity around you and then there was nothing but screaming and a wetness on Scaramouche’s cheeks that felt suspiciously like tears.

“You need to get back to work.” Signora’s voice betrayed no sense of pity. Scaramouche was glad for it, he wouldn’t’ve been able to forgive her if there had been.

“I doubt those imbeciles need me for something as simple as the daily regime. If they do it’s their fault, not mine. I owe them nothing.”

“You owe them your work, it’s your duty as a Harbinger,” Signora’s eyes narrowed, “or have you forgotten that in your folly.”

“I’ve forgotten nothing!” Scaramouche snapped, eyes boring into those across from him. “I am well aware of what my obligations are and what they aren’t. As I said there is nothing of importance fir me right now, and I don’t wish to waste away my time with trivial matters.”

“What would our dear Tsarina think of such words,” Signora let out a dramatic sigh. Raising the glass she was drinking from to your lips she paused, “you best be careful. I cannot shelter you from your folly forever. Either you learn how to deal with this… unfortunate incident and your work, or I shall have that person thrown out into the snow.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Scaramouche’s tone was like acid and he felt for the moment as if letting go of himself wasn’t such a crime, for now there was no one to chastise him about it anymore.

“I’m warning you. Don’t forget what happens to those who cannot fulfill their duty to the Tsarina,” Signora paused, a cruel smile gracing her face, “or have you forgotten who caused this in the first place.”

It was all Scaramouche could do not to set the tent ablaze.

“Get. Out.” He commanded. Signora sighed, shaking her head and downing her drink in one go before walking out and leaving Scaramouche with the feeling of falling apart.

_______

“Do you sing?”

Scaramouche lifted his head at the sound of your voice, surprised by the question. You hadn’t said much since the aftermath of the incident, and Scaramouche hadn’t forced you to. After all it was one of the things he’d first appreciated in regards to you, you’d never forced him to talk when he didn’t want to. Now he felt the need to afford you the same courtesy, knowing that intelligence still lay behind those eyes even if recognition had disappeared. Now he put down the document he was reading, smiling wryly and shaking his head.

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Because that’s what you’re called isn’t it? Your name, one of your names. The… the Balladeer?” You said it as if it was a question, and perhaps it was. Scaramouche couldn’t think however, couldn’t think over the rushing in his ears.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I don’t know. I just heard it. Or I remembered it. But that’s who you are, isn’t it?” You smiled, and for a moment Scaramouche could almost imagine life was as it was before. “Can you sing for me?”

“No.” This conversation had happened before.

“Fine,” you shook your head, “but one day I want you to sing for me, when I remember everything, then I want you to sing for me.”

“Fine.” Scaramouche managed to get out, afraid of the rising emotions he felt, afraid they might break through his voice.

“You’re missing work, aren’t you.” You continued on, gaze piercing through him. “I can tell, I can hear people whispering about it when I go out. I’m not supposed to be here, and you’re supposed to be working. If what you told me really is what happened, you should work.”

“Ridiculous,” Scaramouche scoffed, “I can manage my own affairs. Besides,” his voice grew softer, as if he didn’t want to reveal himself to you. You were too familiar, but still a stranger, and a part of him hid behind the walls he built up around everyone else, the walls only you could climb over. “Besides, who would look after you.”

“I can look after myself.” Your answer was as confident as it had always been. “I have to, since I trust what you’ve told me about myself, about this work, this world.”

“It was you not looking after yourself that lost you your memory!” He was shouting by now, he was shouting but he couldn’t stop because if he stopped shouting he’d be crying.

“Perhaps. But it’s not looking after me to end up like the people we fought. So go to your work. And maybe one day when you come back, I’ll remember.”

He couldn’t say no to you, eventually you won. It had been that way since the beginning, you tearing down his bluffing and his empty promises. Perhaps it was what he appreciated most about you.

Every moment Scaramouche was away from you felt like he was betraying a part of himself, a part he had hid for so long. But you were right, just like before, and just like before you’d won him over with your honesty, your refusal to back down, and your view of the Harbinger for what he truly was, someone who was deep down truly afraid. That part of you remained, somehow without memory and without certainty it remained.

And if that part of you remained, well maybe some day the rest would return.

Xiao

“Xiao look!” You let out a cry of delight as you threw yourself off the tall stone mountain, glider unfurling in a vibrant waves of color as you began circling in the air. Xiao scowled from the tree in which he was perched, unwilling to humor you in your folly.

“You’re going to be injured.” Although he hadn’t meant for you to hear that you still laughed at the comment, shaking your head as you once more carved shapes into the sky.

“It’s a lovely day for gliding! The air is so fresh and the breeze is just enough to keep you upright!”

“It’s too windy.” Xiao’s voice was flat. This was foolish, what you were doing was foolish. He could feel the currents, feel their laughter, their excitement. They were surely up to no good.

But you weren’t paying attention to that, instead you were gliding about as if you were born to fly. It was a beautiful sight, Xiao had to admit. The beauty of those immersed in what they loved. And what Xiao loved was you.

“Come on Xiao!” You called out. “Come fly with me!”

“No.”

“Oh c’mon, I know you can do it!” Screwing your face into a pout when the adeptus once more shook his head you shrugged. “Your loss.”

Xiao knew you were disappointed, but he couldn’t help it. It seemed somehow out of place for him to join you in whatever you were doing. Besides, he needed to keep track of the currents, just in case.

You dove down for a moment, and Xiao felt his stomach clench, knowing full well what you were doing, but unable to keep the worry out of his mind. And yet then you were flying up, up, up, up and though Xiao wanted to scold you, wanted to tell you to come down once more, he was rapt, in awe. You were too beautiful, and it stole his breath away.

A gust of wind came blowing through the stone monoliths and as your wings buckled and you plummeted towards the ground Xiao found that he was truly unable to breathe at all.

Perhaps it was a blessing that you were unconscious. Then you didn’t have to feel the way Xiao held onto your shoulders as if he’d never let you go, the way he gasped for the air he was supposed to be in charge of, the way his eyes were devoid of everything but fear. You hadn’t fallen so far, he told himself, you hadn’t fallen so far it was fatal. You were breathing, you were going to be fine. But he found himself unable to believe those words. If you had said them he would’ve, but there you were, a crumpled mess and he barely able to process the world around him.

Crashing onto the Inn balcony, not caring about the odd looks thrown his way, Xiao made his way upstairs. You were going to be fine. You were.

If only he could believe himself.

“They’re out of danger now.” Verr Goldet’s voice was calm, unnaturally so, and Xiao only softened a little at the knowledge, sure something had gone wrong. “But…” the innkeeper continued, confirming all of the fears Xiao had been secretly nursing.

“But.”

“But there seems to be a problem with their memory. They were very confused at first, unable to remember things such as Liyue, their duty as adventurer, this place, things like that. At first we thought it would clear, but now it seems that isn’t so. Their memory might be affected for quite a while.”

“I want to see them.” Xiao brushed past Goldet, determined to help you if this was to be your fate. But Goldet’s next words stopped him in his tracks.

“Xiao, they can’t remember you.”

At first there was the feeling of falling. And then, as Xiao vanished, there was nothing.

______

At first Xiao was determined to stay away completely. It hurt too much, hurt to think about what had happened. At first he’d managed to survive on anger, anger at the world, at you not listening to him, at himself for letting it happen. But quickly the anger faded and what replaced it was a loneliness so vast he couldn’t believe that he had managed to survive in such a way before he met you.

Still he didn’t want to go, didn’t want to see you as you were now, unaware of him and perhaps destined to remain so. How cruel fate was. It took everything he knew from him and just when he began to live again it took that to. It took away your memory, your livelihood, and for what? To punish him? It seemed unfair, so unfair.

So he’d stayed away, afraid that something would happened again to you if he were to show himself again. But the knowledge of such emotions as love is something that doesn’t fade, and Xiao found himself unable to continue on as before, finding the pain too great. He had to see you. At least to say goodbye, he had to see you. It would be unfair not to do so.

The moon was full, casting a silvery light on the landscape. Xiao drifted over towards the roof of the Inn, thankful that he was invisible, so as to not have to experience the moment your eyes reached him but you didn’t.

Your silhouette appeared quickly enough in the darkness. You seemed somewhat preoccupied, and yet there was a purpose to your step, made all the more evident by the Qingxin grasped firmly in your hand, a brethren of the other flowers which lay scattered on the railing.

“I know you’re there.” At first Xiao jumped, thinking perhaps you’d somehow managed to sense him. However he calmed down once you continued, it appeared you weren’t truly talking to him.

“I know you’re there. And I wish you’d come back,” You continued, gazing out on the landscape around you. “I don’t remember your name you see. They told me your name of course, but I wish they hadn’t, I wanted to remember it myself. It must be why you left, of course you didn’t want to see me like this. If what they said was true…” you shook your head, “I know it was true. I know that it had to have been true, that I cared for you, that you cared for me. I know because I miss you.” Xiao felt his heart pound in his chest, so loud he could barely hear you.

“I miss you so much. Isn’t that odd? I don’t know you anymore and yet I miss you. It’s as if something is missing. I mean, of course something is missing but it’s more than just the memories themselves. It’s the feeling. Like going outside without a coat on. I miss you, even if I can’t miss you because I can’t remember you I do, I miss you dearly.”

You paused, placing the flower on the railing next to the rest.

“I hope you see the flowers before they fade,” you called out softly to the dark, “and I hope one day I can look at you again. I remember you had such lovely eyes. I’d like to see them again to be sure.”

For a moment Xiao didn’t move, frozen by all he’d heard. But the minute you turned to leave he was already there, bound by the feelings he had for you, by the knowledge that continuing as he had been would kill him, would only hurt you.

“Do you remember me?” It was a silly question to ask, but he had nothing else to say. You turned towards him and smiled softly. It was true, your eyes didn’t recognize him. But there was something in your gaze nonetheless.

“Xiao.” You whispered, and the yaksha knew that he’d never be able to leave again.

#Don’t ask me why Albedo is mixing hydrogen with something that contains a halogen he and I are both just stupid like that #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #requested #albedo #scaramouche #xiao #albedo x reader #scaramouche x reader #xiao x reader #scenarios #mine

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tripleaxeldiaz · 3 years ago

Text

nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

read on ao3

Eddie’s fine. Really. He’s got a fresh scar on his right shoulder, a twin to his other one, and a couple more medical bills to pay off, but other than that, everything is good.

Why shouldn’t it be? Things could be worse — he could’ve lost his arm, could’ve been shot in the spine instead, could’ve not survived the trip to the hospital. But he did — he’s healed, he’s still breathing, and he’s ready to get back to work on Monday, to stop staring at the inside of his house and get back to the life he’d finally started to feel settled in. There’s a twinge in his chest every time he thinks about actually being back out in the field, but it’s just nerves, a small worry at getting back into the swing of things. He knows the team and how well they work together, so he’s sure one rope rescue with Buck is all it’ll take to feel normal again.

He’s fine. Or almost fine. Really, he is. He doesn’t let the tremble in his hands or the ice in his gut tell him otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~

It doesn’t really register, the first time it happens. There’s a glint of light in his periphery, and for a second, his arms go numb. It’s just a second, though — he sees the flash again, sunlight shining off an axe Ravi is packing onto the truck, and he moves on, doesn’t think about it again.

The next time, the wind whips by his ear a little too fast after a call at the pier, and he turns around so quickly he cracks his neck, the thought of bulletbulletbullet ricocheting in his head. It gets him a concerned look from Bobby and reminds him that he never called that therapist his doctor mentioned at his last visit, but he elects to deal with it later and moves on.

Things keep happening, but they’re all small, insignificant — someone laughing too loudly at dinner, the feel of hot asphalt under his hands as he reaches under the ambulance for a runaway bandage roll, a phantom jolt of pain in his shoulder when someone accidentally jostles him running to the truck.

Tiny things, meaningless, not even worth remembering.

He’ll get used to them, eventually. He’s been healing, isolated from the real world for months now, it’s going to be a bit of a shock to his system and his senses.

He doesn’t call the therapist.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck’s happy. Genuinely happy, in an open, honest way that Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen. His laughs are still loud but they’re freer, unrestrained, and his smile is bright enough to light whatever room he’s in. It makes something sing in Eddie’s chest, especially when all that wattage gets directed at him. If he’s honest, the music’s been there for a while, it just took lying in his own blood, reaching toward the only thing that felt like safety, for him to finally put a name on the song that’s been playing.

Talk about shitty timing.

Because Buck’s with Taylor now, and as much as he still doesn’t care for her, she’s helping with Buck’s new attitude too. He sees the soft smiles that linger after a text from her, and he only gives himself a minute to wish it were for him instead before reminding himself how much of a miracle those smiles are at all.

If he had watched Buck get shot, been splattered with his blood, been soaked with it as he tried to stop it from leaking out of his chest, he’s not sure he would’ve had any kind of happiness to spare.

So he adds this feeling, this particularly green beast twisting in his chest, to the list of things that he’s just going to have to get used to, and moves on. Buck is still in his and Chris’ life, still at their house more than his own, still the center of both of their worlds, and that’s enough.

It has to be.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Wow, Eddie, you look like shit.”

He glares at Chimney as best he can, but he’s too tired for it to hold any heat. “Good morning to you too, Chim.”

Hen sits next to him at the table where he’s nursing his second mug of coffee of the day, downing the first one before driving Chris to school. She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, and he tries not to melt into the touch too much.

“You don’t feel warm,” she says, “but you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

He shrugs, staring down at his coffee. “Just haven’t been sleeping well.”

That may be an understatement. Not sleeping well implies sleeping at all, which Eddie’s not sure he’s been able to do in the past few days. It was easy enough when he first got home, still on pain meds that made his eyelids constantly heavy. And when Chris crawled into his bed the night after his sling came off, quiet but sniffling and burrowing into his side, it was a relief to gather him up close, a hand stroking through his hair as they both drifted off, clinging to each other. It was good for both of them, necessary to remind them both that Eddie is still here, but Chris went to his own room on Monday night instead of Eddie’s, and Eddie refused to take that choice away from him.

So he’s been alone, in a too dark room with a too big bed and a too loud brain that only shows him flashes of light and blood and fear whenever he does try to close his eyes.

Just another thing he has to get used to.

He sees Chim and Hen exchange a look and hopes to God they don’t press it. He’s beyond frayed, his state of exhaustion warring with his almost constant state of hypervigilance, and he’s not sure if he’d snap or cry or both if they try to ask him any more questions. Either way, that’s not how he wants them or anyone else to see him, especially not at work. At work, he’s Mr. Cool, always level headed, always in the game, always on top of it. Despite the jumpiness, despite the sense of dread that seems to be a permanent fixture under his skin, he’s been able to keep that attitude going, even getting lost in it sometimes, feeling like the Eddie of four months ago again. If that starts to unravel, who knows what other parts of him will fall apart with it?

Luckily, they seem to get the hint, a pat on the back and a squeeze on the shoulder as they leave the loft to restock the ambulance. But even once they’re gone and he’s alone in the quiet of the loft again, Eddie feels exposed. Fragile. Vulnerable. Teetering on the edge of an abyss he can’t afford to fall into. And he hates it, because this isn’t him. He’s the protector, the provider, the guy who’s survived getting shot twice now, and as much as he encourages Chris to be open and emotional, it still feels wrong to him, like something too close to failure. He knows, rationally, that talking about the mess in his head would probably help, but it would also feel like a loss. Like this one-sided war he’s been fighting was all for nothing.

He hears Buck before he sees him, his unmistakable bounding up the stairs echoing through the whole loft. Just that sound, just the knowledge that Buck is about to be in his vicinity, is enough to yank Eddie back from the edge. He’s not settled or calm or better, but he’s not worse. These days, that’s all he can really ask for.

Buck takes Hen’s vacant seat, stealing a sip of coffee and chattering about a traveling art exhibit he thinks they should take Chris to. Eddie feels the vice on his ribs loosen, letting Buck’s voice and enthusiasm wash over him, pushing him back to center. He doesn’t quite make it, not when Buck stops talking mid-sentence, brow furrowed and looking so intensely at Eddie he can probably see right through him

“You look tired,” Buck says.

Tired isn’t a strong enough word. But he smirks half heartedly instead, willing a little bit of his confidence back to get the subject changed sooner. “And here I thought I looked good today.”

“No, you always—“ Buck clears his throat and shakes his head, “You just look like you could use a nap. Are you okay?”

And for the first time since he woke up in the hospital with a new hole in his body and extra demons in his head, Eddie doesn’t want to say he’s fine. In the face of earnest blue eyes and worry lines, he doesn’t want to lie, and that’s exactly what an I’m fine would be, no matter how much he’s been trying to ignore it. He doesn’t want to downplay and pretend that it’s nothing, because it’s Buck. Buck who has seen him lower than he’s ever let anyone see, who slept on his couch so he was never too far away from him or Chris, who knows when Eddie needs to be pulled or pushed or pressed or none of the above.

He doesn’t want to just say he’s fine, because he’s not.

The courage to say so finally fills him, just in time for Buck’s phone to light up, Taylor’s name flashing across the screen on two messages. Buck doesn’t even glance at his phone before flipping it face down and pushing it to the side, but it’s too late — Eddie feels his walls going back up, any bravery leaving to make room for the reminder that Buck is in a good place and Eddie will do anything to keep him there. He’ll take another bullet, he’ll keep every emotion under lock and key, he’ll carve his own damn heart out of his chest if he has to. He cannot — will not — be the reason that smile that’s become so natural on Buck’s face dims by even a watt.

The crease in between Buck’s brow has only gotten deeper the longer Eddie hasn’t answered, so he musters up the most genuine smile he can. “I’m okay, Buck. I promise.” The lie cuts through his throat like broken glass.

Buck squints at him, scooting forward until his knees are digging into Eddie’s thigh. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

“Of course,” he says, another lie, more salt in the wounds he’s already given himself. Buck’s quiet for a few long moments, studying Eddie’s face, and Eddie prays that he doesn’t crack, that Buck doesn’t keep pressing. By some miracle, he doesn’t, just rests a hand on Eddie’s knee and squeezes before heading to the pantry for a snack.

The vice is back as soon as he’s out of sight, and Eddie’s list of things he has to learn to live with is starting to feel a little too long.

~~~~~~~~~~

Healing isn’t linear. It’s something he’s heard from every doctor he’s seen, every therapist he’s been assigned to, something he’s experienced first hand, physically and emotionally. So when he wakes up one morning feeling rested, energetic, and normal, he’s wary. He doesn’t want to focus on it, afraid he’ll scare this fragile feeling away, but he also wants to soak in it as much as he can. Wants to remember the easy laughs with the team and the night of board games with Chris and Buck when he’s inevitably surrounded by darkness again tomorrow.

He falls asleep and he doesn’t dream and he wakes up and feels...normal. Again. Same thing the morning after, and the morning after that. For a whole week, he doesn’t wake up with the taste of blood in his mouth or a soreness in his shoulder. He hears birds and sees the sun peaking in and feels something dangerously close to good. The wariness is still there, but every day it gets pushed a little farther back in his mind, making it a little easier to believe that while this feeling might not last, maybe it won’t be as dark when the clouds roll back in.

He’s wrong.

The restlessness comes back with a vengeance — a thrumming in his blood that won’t let him sleep, that amplifies every sound to sharp snaps that remind him too much of the gunfire he’s been trying to forget, putting him constantly on edge again. There’s a heaviness too, making it hard to breathe, hard to move, even though staying in one place for too long feels like putting a target on his back for the monsters that have made a home in his head.

He tries to keep his cool, tries to keep the facade up, but it’s hard to keep your balance on a frayed tightrope.

Bobby notices the shift right away.

It doesn’t help that even the quiet thump of the oven closing makes Eddie flinch where he’s sitting at the kitchen counter. He had hoped that watching Bobby make breakfast would calm him, remind him of the countless hours he’s spent in Abuela’s kitchen doing the very same thing, but it doesn’t. He’s still jittery, worse than he can remember being, and everything just feels like too much.

Bobby sets a to-go container down in front of him, and Eddie flinches (and curses himself) again. He looks up, confused, and is met with Bobby’s I’m about to tell you to do something and you are not allowed to say no look. Usually it’s Buck on the receiving end of that one.

He tries for a deflection. “Are we going somewhere, Cap?”

The look stays in place. “We are not. You are. There’s enough in there for you and Chris, take it home and don’t let me see you here for the next 48 hours.”

“There’s still three hours left of shift.”

Bobby pushes the container closer. “Go home, Diaz. Be with your kid. We’ll talk when you get back. And if you won’t talk to me, we’ll find someone you will talk to.”

Normally, he’d fight back. Raise his hackles, insist he doesn’t need any special treatment or intervention. But he feels like his insides have been scooped out and replaced with lead and cement and he’s tired. He barely has enough left in him to keep himself upright.

He slowly picks up the container and gets up to leave. Bobby calls his name as he gets to the top of the stairs.

“We’re here for you,” he says. “You’ve been through too much to be handling this on your own. Just let us know how we can help.”

I would if I could, but I don’t even know where to start.

He just nods, hopes his face looks some degree of reassuring, and heads to the locker room.

~~~~~~~~~~

The way Chris’ face lights up when he sees Eddie waiting for him in the front office is enough to thaw the ice in his chest for a minute. He can hear the exact octave his mother’s voice would reach if she heard about him pulling Chris out of school for “no good reason”, but he also could not give less of a shit.

He feels a little bit more like a person with Chris in the backseat. That’s a good enough reason for him.

They set up camp in the park near their house, Bobby’s food and extra snacks Eddie picked up spread out between them, and Chris fills Eddie in on all the things he missed while he was working. He tries to focus on everything — Chris’ excitement about his upcoming science fair, the Sour Patch Watermelon sugar stuck to the tip of his nose, the way his hands move with his words. Eddie feels better, more settled, just getting to bask in the sun and in Chris like this, but he still feels heavy, like every move he makes has him fighting against gravity, threatening to pull him into the dirt.

There’s a crack from the playground in front of them, and Eddie’s blood turns to ice. He’s halfway to standing before he sees it’s just some kids snapping sticks in half to build some kind of log cabin. He lets out a slow breath as he sits back down and wills his heartbeat back to normal.

Chris is staring at him, eyes intense and brow furrowed, very similar to someone else they know.

Shit.

As soon as he’s settled, Chris moves to sit in the criss-cross of his legs. He’s a little too on the lanky side for this anymore, but Eddie’s absolutely not going to complain. Chris twists until he’s looking Eddie in the eye. Eddie does his best not to look away.

Chris rests a hand on his cheek. “It’s okay if you’re feeling bad,” he says. “You can talk to me about it, if you want.”

The crack comes from Eddie’s own heart this time. His kid has been through so much in 10 short years, and it’s only made him wiser than he should be, compassionate and understanding and open, ready to be there for anyone without a second thought. He’s good in every sense of the word, and Eddie’s in awe of the fact that he, somehow, has something to do with that. And the last thing he wants to do is lie to his son, but he just...can’t. Talk about it. Not now. Not yet. Not in a way that will keep Chris this good.

He has no way of articulating all that, so he just wraps his arms around Chris’ middle and squeezes him close.

“I know, buddy. Thank you. I’ll be okay, and we’ll talk soon.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not everything.

It seems to be enough for Chris, though. He nods and pats Eddie’s face before reaching into his backpack and pulling out a library book. “Well, I’m gonna read to you until you feel better, just like you do for me.”

It’s the first real smile Eddie’s cracked in months. He kisses the top of Chris’ head, settling his chin there as Chris leans back into his chest.

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

They sit there for a while longer, Chris reads to him about Percy and Annabeth and Grover, and Eddie, inexplicably, feels a little bit lighter.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck’s Jeep is parked outside when they get home, and Chris practically breaks down the door to greet him. It looks like he’s gone all out, too — Chinese food on the table, the promise of cookies and cream ice cream in the fridge, and a list of movies that Chris ecstatically agrees with as Buck lists them off. Chris hurries off to change and clean up for dinner, and Eddie moves to start opening plastic lids and cardboard containers.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” he says. He leaves out just having you with us is enough.

Buck waves him off. “Anything for you two.”

He could leave it at that, keep up the comfortable silence as they move around the kitchen in tandem, but there’s a nagging memory that he has to ask about or he’ll never stop thinking about it.

“Didn’t you have a date with Taylor tonight?”

Buck tenses ever so slightly, a container of dumplings shifting in his hand. “Cancelled,” he says with a shrug.

Eddie knows there’s more, but Chris comes back before he can ask, and it doesn’t feel like a conversation they can have in front of a 10 year old. So they eat, and fall into the familiar banter between the three of them, and for half an hour, Eddie can be present. He can forget the last six months and the weight still hanging off of him and live in this moment, with the two most important people in his life, and pretend that this is all there is. Just these two and their joy and warmth that wraps around him tight enough to make him feel alive again, if only for a little while.

Two bowls of ice cream and one and a half movies later, Chris is dead to the world. Buck carries him to bed and Eddie tries to ignore the new ache that’s sprung up of the course of the evening, the one that wants and pulls towards Buck like a magnet. The one that almost purrs when Buck settles back on the couch so close they’re touching from ankle to (good) shoulder, contentedness washing over the living room as they find a rerun of The Shawshank Redemption playing on cable. It’s not perfect, there’s still a roiling in his blood that won’t seem to leave him alone, but he feels better than he has in God knows when.

Buck shifts closer to Eddie, eyes glowing in the light of the TV, and Eddie never wants him to leave. “Thanks for coming tonight. I— Chris and I both really needed this, I think.”

“I told you, anything for you two. Always.”

He ignores the way his stomach flips and tries to focus on the movie. He gets about five minutes of peace before another thought comes back, still nagging him, mixing with his anxiety enough to actually force him to say something.

He aims for cool and casual. “So, you and Taylor...everything okay?”

Buck gives him a very long, almost challenging look before turning off the TV. Seems he missed that casual mark. “I should be asking you the same thing.” “Very funny.”

“I’m not trying to be. I’m really worried about you, Eds.”

“This isn’t my first time getting shot, I know how to handle it.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as bitter as it does, but he can’t bring himself to care, either. He doesn’t have the energy to keep a filter up anymore.

“Eddie, I’m serious.”

“I’m fine, Buck,” he says sharply, and he’s surprised his teeth haven’t fallen out of his head yet with how hard he’s lying through them. He hates that he’s lying to Buck at all, but those smiles he’s gotten used to have been fewer and farther between recently, and he knows it’s his fault. He might feel like his own seams are coming apart, but he’ll be damned if he rips Buck open too, even if it means pushing him away from his mess. “You’ve got a life and a girlfriend to worry about, I’ll figure everything out on my own.”

“I don’t.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. We broke up.”

Eddie pauses, curses the faint hope that sparks in his chest. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been a little distracted by someone else for the past few months. It didn’t feel fair to her to keep it going.”

He gives him another long look, and Eddie might be a little dense when it comes to things like this, but that look breaks through loud and clear. This is it. This is real. This is everything he’s wanted for the past six months — and probably longer than that — but now that it’s happening, it doesn’t feel right. Buck was happy, free, finally settled into his own skin, and it’s all gone now because of Eddie and his stupid, broken everything. He knows he won’t be able to give Buck everything he needs, at least right now, but Buck needs to know that too. “Buck—”

“Nope,” he says with a firm shake of his head. “I know you’re gonna try and blame yourself for this somehow, but…don’t. It was bound to happen anyway. Because you’re right, I do have a life, but it’s you two. You and Chris. That’s all I need it to be. That’s all I want it to be. And I hate that it took so long for me to figure out, that it took you getting shot, but we’re here now.” His eyes shutter a bit as he looks down at his hands. “At least, I hope we are.”

And there it is. So simple, so easy, for Buck to admit this huge thing that Eddie thought he was dancing around on his own. The ease reminds Eddie, through his fog of sadness and anger and every other bleak feeling that’s been controlling him, that that’s what makes them work so well together. Honesty. Being able to show all their ugly, mismatched inside parts to each other and still find the beauty, the ways to help, the ways to hold each other together when they need it the most.

And Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever needed to be held together more than he does right now.

“Ask me,” he whispers, the sound seeming to echo around the room.

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me if I’m okay.”

Buck shuffles on the couch until they’re facing each other, takes both of Eddie’s hands in his.

“Eddie,” he says softly, “are you okay?”

The world blurs as the tears he’s been fighting finally break free, but he feels strong. Brave. Like he can do anything now that Buck’s holding his hand.

“No,” he says, a crack in his voice but the conviction behind it still firm. “No, I’m not okay.”

The floodgates open, and he lets everything wash over him, all the things he’s been holding back, forcing away in the hopes that they’d just disappear one day. He’s floating and sinking and lost in the waves of it all, but strong arms wrap around him and pull him close, and there’s relief. Not a lot, not enough, but it’s there, for the first time since he woke up in the hospital. He feels safe here, with Buck wiping away his tears and pressing kisses along his hairline. He honestly forgot what safety felt like, was sure he’d never feel anything like it again. But he knew it that day he was bleeding out on the street, and he knows it now — it feels like Buck’s sweatshirt and smells like his aftershave and sounds like whispers of it’s okay and I’ve got you.

It all subsides, eventually, but Buck still holds him close, presses their foreheads together so there’s nothing else Eddie can focus on. His eyes are piercing, bright like Eddie only usually sees when Buck has a plan that refuses to be derailed.

“Let me help, Eddie,” he says, punctuated with a kiss on Eddie’s cheek. “I know you think you can do this yourself, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to. Let me help you carry it.”

His voice left with the rush of everything, so all Eddie can do is nod before sinking back into Buck, into relief. Even that simple motion, the silent acknowledgement that he’s not alone anymore, is enough to let small seeds of hope sink into him and take root. They’re still weak, still unfamiliar, but they’re here, waiting to grow.

And Eddie knows, with a certainty that he forgot he was capable of, that Buck will be here to help tend to them, no matter how long it takes for them to blossom.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Eddie wakes up the next morning, he still feels weighed down. There’s still an edge, an unease low in his gut, anxiety still crawling through his veins.

He’s not okay. But he looks over and sees Buck — breathing even, arm thrown over Eddie’s stomach, keeping him close — and the ever-present darkness fades from an angry black to melancholy grey. Not perfect, not even close, but better.

He’s not okay. He hasn’t been for a while. But now, finally, he feels like he will be.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #911 fox #buddie fic #911 fic #tim i know you read fanfic you can HAVE this one so we can get a recovery arc #i don't even need credit just DO IT #ficcery

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years ago

Text

Quite at Home in Hell

For @whumptober2021 day six & day 21: blood-matted hair & hunger

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, noncon touch, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper, biting, captivity, dehumanizing language

Vampire Chris AU Masterlist | Follows directly from this piece

Thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German & @alittlewhump for helping with the French!

1918, the Western Front of WWI

The prisoners are held in a small, hastily constructed sort of barracks far too close to the front lines.

Gefrieter Erich Eeten knows why, of course. The hope is that his own people will hesitate before they blast this bit of dirt apart, that they will be concerned enough about killing their fellow soldiers that they’ll give up a few key moments of pause to the French, the Americans, and the British. Give them the advantage in a firefight.

They want to shield themselves with the bodies of the men in this tent, unwashed and dirty, who are exhausted from a day spent digging trenches for their enemies to hide in.

He can’t exactly blame the Allied powers for it.

It’s a brilliant bit of strategy, if less and less effective as men on both sides become so battle-hardened that they cease to care about their own lives, let alone each other. Still. He’d almost rather be at one of the true POW camps further away from the front lines, where the Red Cross at least comes to check on their treatment.

Here, so close to the front, there is no one keeping watch on what happens to them at all… and the longer the war draws on, the more viciously they kill each other, the more the prisoners kept here too far for oversight feel like they are teetering at the edge of some terrible invisible cliff.

There’s a stiff breeze outside the tent, whipping the heavy, waterproofed canvas edges. They’re flapping a little, making a sound that Erich will one day hear in his nightmares. The cold sneaks in through the slight space between tent and ground, and the men in here are huddled together for warmth, sharing the meager blankets they are given.

At least, though, their captors are officially the French.

Say what you will about the blasted frogs, they never deny their prisoners a nip of strong cognac to help hold off the cold. The Americans, on the other hand, seem to be laboring under an enforced lack of good liquor, not just for prisoners but for their own soldiers, too. That seems a worse crime than nearly any other, in circumstances like this. To force a man to be a cruel killer without even a nip or three to soothe his conscience… to Erich, it sounds like brutality.

There’s a bit of a scuffle outside the tent, and the prisoners look up. Erich is at the back, leaning back against the rough frame of a cot he sleeps on at night, cards in his hands wrapped in strips of bandage cloth just for warmth. What happened to his gloves, he’s no idea. Probably one of the Allies took them for a souvenir.

The canvas wraps work well enough.

“Au garde-à-vous, prisonniers! Sur vos pieds!” Erich knows the voice - it’s the main guard of the tent they sleep in, a man named Alain who looks entirely too old for war. Here he is, anyway, all moustache and silvering hair, pulling open the entrance of the tent, moving the flap aside.

Erich glances left and then right, meeting the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the half-dozen of them that share this single small tent push heavily to their feet, shifting apart as much as the tent will allow, hands behind their back.

His stomach dips, a low drumbeat of dread alongside his heart. Something tells him this isn’t a social call he wants to be part of.

He’s even more certain when a tall, thin American steps into the entrance, nearly silhouetted by the dim, barely-there light behind them. Their hair is long, in a loose plait with parts undone, and their eyes gleam, briefly seeming to glow in the dark. Erich is reminded of his mother’s cat, who would stalk mice at night and whose eyes did just the same when light hit them.

He feels very… mouselike.

They wear a medic’s uniform, but it’s a little tattered. There are unrepaired bullet holes through the heavy woolen tunic, and they move with grace and disdain for how heavy wet wool must be, how itchy and uncomfortable. As if it simply doesn’t matter to them.

Because, of course, it doesn’t. The damn thing is a walking corpse, baring fangs in a grisly smile.

“Hello, soldiers,” They say, in a voice that isn’t quite a purr. “You all look a fright.”

“Verdammte Blutsauger,” Lukas Müller mutters to his right.

Erich hates the bloodsuckers. Everyone does. They come with the Americans, monsters brought from the shadows as a kind of secret weapon. Erich has never seen vampires out in the open before - back home, they are creatures of hiding. They live in cellars and basements and houses with the windows painted in thick matte black. They sweep along the streets at night, a risk for anyone who stays out too late.

But they’re not part of anything.

Here, they’re death itself, demons quite at home in hell.

Oh, sure, the Americans claim they use them only for bringing the injured back to safety - and some of them, he’s sure, are kept to that purpose. Some kind of ability to deny the truth of them, if there are enough seen doing only what the official story claims.

Erich, though, has seen one dispatching wounded German soldiers one by one left behind in a field, killing them before they can be recovered by their own people. He’s seen one with fangs buried in the throat of a man who would otherwise have lived. They’re listed as medics, but those things are what keeps the Germans on their own side of the battle lines after dark, and everyone knows it.

His own side brings canisters of poison gas. The Americans respond with an army laced around its edges in abominations the gas can’t touch.

The vampire sighs, faintly disappointed. “No good morning for me from my audience?”

Erich speaks the best English out of them all - his grandmother was English, taught it to his father in the cradle, who taught it to him. It’s made him more or less the spokesman for his small group of prisoners, and for the larger group when they are moved and briefly allowed to interact with the others. He clears his throat, stepping forward slightly. Lukas and Vilhelm, on his other side, nudge him just a little with their shoulders. It’s meant to be support, he supposes.

He feels like he’s being pushed onto a target painted on the floor, one invisible only to him.

“Good morning,” Erich says, voice flat, letting his accent roll far more heavily off his tongue than it needs to, turning good into gut. It’s always good to let the enemy believe you know less than you really do, so he pretends that English comes with difficulty and not ease. “Should you not turn to ash?”

Their eyebrows raise just slightly, not quite in amusement, and they give a brittle little laugh. “First off, Fritz, that’s a myth. Secondly, it’s not even morning. Probably close to evening now, honestly.”

Erich rolls his eyes. Lukas mutters something under his breath next to him, but the slight creaking of their boots seems to cover it too much to be understandable. Erich sighs, heavily. “Then why did you have us say to you good morning, Blutsauger?”

“Because it’s funny that you don’t know what time it is, of course. All right, who here is Fritz, who is Hans, and who am I just going to call Kraut?”

“No one here is named Hans and no one is Fritz, fangs.” Erich tips his chin down slightly, a lock of greasy brown hair falling into his eyes. “May you drown in holy water.”

He spits at the vampire’s feet.

He feels a pang of regret when the vampire turns to look at Alain, the French guard and points back at Erich, cheerful. “I want that one. He’s rude.”

“Das ist pech,” Lukas whispers.

When Alain simply stares at them blankly - and Erich knows Alain speaks English, they’ve spoken before in a tongue they had in common when neither spoke the other’s mother-tongue - the vampire groans. They don’t seem to know Alain is pretending not to understand them. “Fine. Let’s try this again. Je veux cet homme, s'il vous plaît.”

Alain’s expression tightens a little. He nods, and he won’t look Erich in the eyes as he draws the entrance open a little wider. “Emmenez-le alors.”

“Merci beaucoup,” The vampire says, giving a little bow. Erich backs up, but there isn’t anywhere to go, and none of them is armed. Besides, any resistance is met with removal of meals, with being denied the smallest comforts that make this bearable. With the possibility of all of them being handed over to a vampire, not just one.

This war had been civilized, in some ways, before the Americans brought their monsters.

It’s not actually true, but in this moment it comforts him to pretend it, to have a place to put his furious disgust as the vampire’s thin, long fingers close around his arm and yank him forwards with inhuman strength. They’re clicking their tongue against the top of their mouth in a strange animal way. Erich thinks again of his mother’s cat, making just that sound watching birds outside the windows.

“May your hands be pressed into the holy cross,” Erich snaps as he’s forced out into the freezing humid air outside the tent. There are others walking around - a war camp is never less than controlled chaos, no matter the time of day - but none of them will look at him. No one acknowledges him, although they’ve all seen this before. They know what’s going to happen here.

“Je déteste ça,” Alain mutters.

A bell is rung, clanging in a discordant note, and soldiers move into the POW tents. Erich is led towards a pole in the center of the ring of prisoner tents, something that a half-century ago might still have been a flogging post, a punishment for mutinous men.

“Crosses don’t really harm us,” The vampire says, careless and casual. “Very little does, actually. I’m a big fan of garlic, for instance. Silver, though…” They hum, dragging a fingernail over Erich’s wrist. “That hurts.”

He jerks his hand back and free, only to have the vampire laugh, bright and brilliant, and grab him again, spinning him around until they’re behind him, chest pressed to his back, using that demon strength to twist his arms up his back until his bones creak and ache, forcing him forwards towards the pole.

“I hope you have silver shoved down your throat,” Erich manages, but his heart is pounding in fear as the vampire grabs his hair and jerks his head to the side, forcing his cheek against the rough-hewn wood. Splinters bite into his skin and he grunts as his arms are moved, forced to encircle the pole. His wrists are tied with rope, leaving him looking a little ridiculous, as if he decided today to go for a hug.

Another rope goes around his shoulders, keeping him in this awkwardly pressed position. He tries to kick back, pulling viciously, but then his ankles come next. The rope goes from them to small metal hooks driven hard into the ground, keeping his legs more than shoulder-width apart. He can’t kick, or even balance himself. He must rely entirely on the pole he’s tied to in order to stay upright.

“I’m going to enjoy you,” The vampire murmurs.

Behind Erich, the sounds of a crowd gathering begin. Soft mumbles, exhalations of surprise and disgust. He closes his eyes against the rush of heat he feels - more rage than tears - knowing the prisoners are being brought out to witness this, to be shown what could happen to them next.

It does an excellent job of making them grateful for every day it’s not.

The French commander of the POW camp is barking a running list of commands to his men, but Erich doesn’t speak enough French to clearly understand them. Someone comes close by behind him, and he jolts as there’s a clap to his back. There’s a laugh behind him, not the vampire but someone else.

He manages to see from the corner of his eyes. A different American, of course. Comfortable enough with the vampire to get this close to them.

“Isn’t this a sorry sight,” The American says, and laughs. “What’s the prize for, fangs?”

The vampire lifts their hand, gently brushing Erich’s hair from his eyes. He spits in their face, this time, and is gratified by a flash of very real anger that briefly overtakes their constant amusement. They slowly wipe the spit away, then clean their hand - sort of - on Erich’s uniform.

It’s so dirty they’re probably even less clean after that than they were before.

“Reported a desertion. Now I get fresh food.” They lean down, meeting Erich’s furious hazel eyes. “I’m so hungry, Fritz. All the time. Imagine being surrounded by schnitzel and cabbage as far as the eye can see, and you’re not supposed to eat your fill. Imagine how empty you would feel.”

“Fick dich.”

“What, you won’t even curse at me in English anymore?” The vampire pouts, lower lip sticking out. He hates them more than he’s hated anyone during this godforsaken war. “Come on, you have to understand how hard this is for me, right?”

Erich ignores them, jerks his wrists again, trying to yank himself free of the ropes through sheer force. His back already is aching from being slightly bent forward, his thigh muscles stretched. He does the only thing he can think of - he slowly, with effort, drags his face along the wood and manages to turn away, and look the other direction.

“Well, fine. I suppose you’ll be mad at me for acting like you all eat schnitzel and cabbage, too,” The vampire says behind him. He doesn’t dignify them with an answer. He fixes his eyes, instead, on a point in the dark roiling clouds in the sky, above the remaining trees.

“The prisoners are well-positioned to witness,” A French officer states, speaking with a light, dancing accent but without the difficulty and hesitancy some of the regular infantry have. “You may feed when ready, Private Saathoff.”

That gets Erich’s attention. “Saathoff?”

“That’s right.” The vampire laughs, stepping up behind him. Their fingers move through the hair that curls, grown a little too long, over the back of his neck. He shudders with disgust at the intimacy of it. Their mouth moves close to his ear, but there is no heat of breath. Only the brush of lips. “Ich bin Deustcher, genau wie du.”

“Nothing like me,” Erich grinds out with his teeth gritted together so hard his jaw is already aching. He presses his forehead into the rough wooden pole and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

If he’s going to die…

“Vater unser im Himmel,” he begins, halting. He hasn’t seen the inside of a church since he was fourteen, and that was twelve years ago now. Still, the words to the Lord’s Prayer come easily, more muscle memory than thought. “Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme, Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel so auf Erden-”

“Zu jeder anderen Zeit hätte ich dich als Haustier behalten.” They use his hair to jerk his head back, and their fangs jam into his neck with a flash of sudden agony.

It’s a white-hot pain that races down his spine to the very tips of his toes, and Erich screams, the sound strangled and thin but still echoing, bouncing off of trees and tents and back into his mind, crashing like the shells that slam into the earth.

Lukas jerks forwards as if to run to help him and is pushed back by one of the French soldiers, their expression set in a grim line. They have to twist Lukas’s arms behind his back to hold him as he shouts, angrily, that this isn’t fair, it’s against the laws of conduct.

There’s laughter, at that, from their captors.

The other prisoners grumble and shift uncomfortably, look at anything but Erich whenever they can, but they can’t escape the sound of his horror, of his pain.

There’s no pulse of the much-spoken-of venom. There’s no numbness to drift in, there’s no fog to cloud out his awareness of what is happening to him. Every muscle of Erich’s body is tensed tight enough to snap the bones they wrap around, the veins standing out in his throat as if giving them a roadmap of where the food can be found.

He didn’t know vampires could choose not to use the venom.

He didn’t know they could make it feel like this.

When his scream dies, he can’t get enough breath to make another. All he can do is let out high-pitched, thin whimpers and cries. Spots dance before his eyes. Beneath the sound of his heart pounding in a sudden panic to push more blood faster to replace what is being lost, he can feel - can hear - a low rumbling sound against his back.

Erich has heard the rumors that vampires purr, and now he knows they aren’t rumors at all.

He can feel it right through his back, just barely. It’s a vibration that would be pleasant if it didn’t seem to be somehow making everything hurt even worse, waking up his nerves the way the venom is supposed to deaden them. Their hands are closed around his ribs, pressing the tips of their fingers rhythmically against them, as if playing a piano, as if he is dough to be kneaded, as if he isn’t human at all.

As if he’s nothing but a field mouse that found his way into the wrong house, and the vampire is the housecat who has waited too long for a living toy to torment.

There is no prayer, in pain like this. There is no thought beyond the body’s fight for survival and the mind wanting to flee from it, if surviving means this feeling will not end. There is nothing but the feeling of his blood being pulled forcefully out of his body, nothing but his nerves screaming to escape it, nothing but the bite of the ropes that ensure he can do no more than jerk in his bonds and choke on his agony.

It feels like forever - and like a moment - when their fangs pull free, their cool rough tongue lapping at the wounds to close them, purring against his ear with contentment. Their fingers knead into his skin a little bit longer, drawing the moment out as he slumps against the wooden pole he’s tied to. He’s only standing because of the ropes.

Pain rolls through him, breaking against the edges of his body from the inside, like the smaller waves after a storm falling onto a beach already strewn with debris. He slumps. His own breath is a rasping wheeze, taking far more effort than it should.

Nein, Erich, Erich stirb nicht…” Lukas’s voice comes from somewhere so far away, filtering through the noise in Erich’s mind slowly. He can’t even begin to form a response. His mouth won’t answer his commands. It only hangs open, panting, pulling in the chilly air over his tongue. He starts to shiver as the breeze hits the cold sweat in his hair and on his neck, cuts through his uniform somehow.

He doesn’t have enough blood left to warm himself.

Their tongue licks up his neck behind his ear, matting his own blood into his hair there, sticky and hot. It starts to cool and dry immediately in the cold air. Erich’s stomach twists.

“Oh, he won’t die,” The vampire coos, petting through his hair slowly. Their nails scratch at his scalp. “Not today.” Their mouth presses back against his ear. “Thanks for the meal, Erich. And for being so entertaining. Maybe I’ll find you after the war. I’ll buy you a beer… and some schnitzel.”

They push themself away from him, turning away to wipe a bit of blood from the corners of their mouth, and walk with a jaunty step through an opening that appears in the ring of watching prisoners, whose eyes follow them with apprehension and no small amount of fear.

When Alain comes up to untie him, Erich simply collapses into the Frenchman’s arms as soon as he’s free of the ropes. Lukas is allowed to move up to stand at his other side, putting Erich’s limp left arm around his shoulders, while Alain supports his right. Erich lets his head fall into Lukas’s shoulder, hitching his breath as he forces down a sob.

“Wh… why do you let them do this?” He asks, his English slurred with the exhaustion that means he is dragged with his boots carving paths through the mud back towards the tent.

Alain is silent until Erich is dropped onto his cot, the hard frame digging into Erich’s back right through the thin mattress. He glances over his shoulder, the three of them alone in here for the moment, and then looks back.

“It is believed that this is how we will win,” He says, and pats Erich’s hand. “My apologies. I do not believe in the monsters, but I am not the one to run this war.”

“None of us are,” Erich says, weakly. He closes his eyes. “We are only the ones who must fight in it.”

There’s a pause, and Alain’s exhale is audible in the quiet tent. “I will ensure you are given extra meat rations tonight, and I will find you some schnapps. Essaye de dormir, maintenant, si tu peux,” he says with soft regret lacing his voice. Then there is a shuffle of footsteps, and he’s gone.

Lukas shifts and sits with his back to the cot, in the same position Erich was in before. He swallows, picking up the abandoned cards from the game they’d been playing, looking over Erich’s hand. “You’d have won, you know, on the next hand,” He says in German, before he reaches out to grab the others’ cards and reshuffle the deck.

“Do I still get my… my winnings?” Erich can barely move his lips to speak. He’s so tired. So, so tired. He can feel his hands starting to shake, now that it’s over, the trembling moving slowly up his limbs, stuttering his breathing.

“My share of the liquor? Not on your life.” Lukas pauses, and then his tone gentles as he looks Erich over again. “You know what... of course you can. You’ll need warmth. What did the bloodsucker say to you, anyway? I couldn’t hear.”

Erich thinks about the promise to find him after the war, about the way they spoke into his ear as if he were little more than a toy top to be spun at their command. In another time, I’d keep you for a pet, they had whispered, before they bit down.

He shakes his head, slowly. “Lies,” He answers, and feels the softer-edged darkness of sleep begin to take him.

“Lies?”

“I hope… I hope they were lies.”

For the moment, at least, he is too exhausted by the present to feel terror for the future.

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump @thefancydoughnut

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levihantrash · 3 years ago

Note

Hi! Got a prompt for you if you're interested (feel free to write a drabble, a one-shot, or a multi-chap): Levihan, "One more chance." Open to interpretation. Thanks, and good luck! :)

okay so i decided to combine this prompt together with my headcanon for that levihan ring merch for a canon setting one-shot!

One More Chance

"What do you think of rings?" Hange asks Levi out of the blue, in the little room that could suffice as an office for his unofficial position as second in command.

"Why?" Levi knows that Hauge doesn't ask questions out of the blue without motives.

They could be random, absurd, silly, but there was always a reason behind their questions.

Hange plants one elbow on the table, bent forward in anticipation for Levi's answer. His eyes catch the glint of Hange's bolo tie as it swung back and forth.

Jewellery? Vanity aside, Hange knows better than Levi how expensive it is to obtain warm clothing and food, much less a bunch of shiny rocks. They spent days mulling over the Survey Corps’ budget, where to allocate resources, how to seek funding, and to keep expenses humane but tight.

“Why?” He repeats, unsure as to whether to sneak in a crass joke as Hange’s eyes were shining—in a different tone compared to the bright-eyedness that showed whenever they made a new discovery. It was, what was it? Nostalgia? Levi is certain that Hange had never, of ten years being by their side, even hinted at a desire for a ring, for whatever reason they might yearn for the object.

Hange knows Levi is perturbed—suspicious, even. They know that such an ambiguously-worded question, simple as it was, will not warrant a straightforward answer from Levi. He is far too observant to not think of Hange’s line of questioning as uncharacteristic from the usual. The usual Hange will elaborate; they will give details. Perhaps this is a ring made from a special sort of metal to go undetected from metal sensors to sneak past the enemy and pass on valuable information etched in code on the inside, for example. Whatever reason that prompted Hange to take a sudden interest in rings wasn’t for battle, or for moral good, which frankly, is more embarrassing for them.

“Do you keep those patches with you?” Hange changes the topic. Levi blinks, then turns to the drawer and pulls the handle. The open drawer speaks for itself; filled with rows and rows of haphazardly torn patches of the Survey Corp’s uniform, the emblem of the wings of freedom.

“You keep it here, huh…” Hange muses, touching one patch tenderly, feeling the crusted blood stain at the tip of their finger.

“Do you remember who each patch belongs to?”

Levi shakes his head, not defending the lack of differentiation between the patches. To him, each patch is louder than a name attached to it. A fellow soldier whose heart he carried on within him.

“If I die, Levi, will you bring back my patch?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Levi is quick to retort, sounding mildly irritated that Hange brought up the possibility of death.

“We all die someday.”

“We should think about how to stay alive,” Levi says firmly. “And what does any of this have to do with rings?”

Hange laughs, patting Levi on the shoulder affectionately. “You won’t let that go, huh?”

“It seems important,” Levi says, disgruntled. “You’re not usually so hesitant.”

“It’s not.” Hange waves their hands defensively, straightening up to avoid Levi’s gaze.

“What’s that in your pocket? Your hand keeps touching it.” Levi is sharp as ever, Hange thinks, itching to back out and tend to more important commander duties.

“Maybe next time! I have to go!” Hange brisk-walks out of the office, leaving Levi in the dust. He has the immediate urge to follow them, to grab their arm and ask what’s wrong, to force some kind of coherent understanding to this muddled conversation. Yet, he continues sitting on the chair, wondering if their mutual awkwardness had swept past them in the form of a lost opportunity. The patches flutter a little in the wind, as though asking him, what are you so afraid of?

He closes the drawer and sinks back onto the creaky, wooden chair, waiting for Hange to come back.

The next time he sees them again is when he’s so battered that his back trembles at the prospect of sitting on another hard surface. The series of negotiations, arguments, plans, fly past him in a whirlwind of decisions led by Hange. He occasionally spots the bulge in their side pocket, but his head is spinning with a million of other more dire worries to figure out what the hell is this unresolved mystery from months ago.

One night, as Hange tends to the bandages around his head, traces the stiches on his face, and mumbles quiet nothings about how they’re glad he’s alive, he finally lifts a shaky hand to point at the bulging pocket.

“Are you going to tell me what’s in that?”

“Nothing that will help us stop this mess,” Hange says, sweeping some of the fringe off his forehead to wipe the sweat underneath.

“But it’s important to you,” he states. Hange nods slowly.

“And you want to show it to me.” He tries, unaccustomed to the presumptuousness of his claim. But there is little time. If there was ever time before, now they were running on thin, cracked lines of time, teetering over the edge.

Hange sighs, and stuffs a reluctant hand into their pocket to bring out a small box.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t use the Scouts’ funds.”

“The Survey Corps doesn’t exist anymore,” Levi reminds them, to distract his mind from speculating endlessly about what’s in the box. He wants to sit up. Physically straining himself feels unwise, so he settles with tilting his head to get a clearer view of both Hange and the box.

Hange carefully holds his shoulders to sit him up, leaning him against them.

“I got rings for us.”

“Huh?”

The box is opened, and inside were two shining rings in silver and gold. Purple embellishment on the gold and green on silver. Not to mention it was heart-shaped rings. Levi feels his cheeks getting warmer by the second by its blatant implications, and is thankful that the bandages literally covered half his face.

“I know, I told them not to make it heart-shaped but you know when Reeves knew it was for you he said I had to make it obvious, whatever that meant,” Hange says quickly, snapping the box shut so as to save themselves from having to confront what was glaring at them.

“It’s not practical for fighting,” Levi murmurs, reaching out to take the box from Hange.

“Dedicate your hearts… wasn’t that what Erwin said?” Hange, always the one to inject light humour in tense situations, decides it will be alright to quote Erwin’s war cry in what is essentially a confession.

“Right.” Levi opens the box, looking expectantly at Hange.

“What?”

“Rings are for wearing, right?”

“You said they weren’t practical!”

“We’re not fighting now.”

Running their hands through their hair, Hange looks rather sheepish. “It’s a bit selfish but I just want to be remembered. As more than a patch.”

Levi frowns, bandages crinkling. “You think I’ll forget you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I won’t forget you. Ring or no ring.”

Upon hearing the seriousness of Levi’s voice, the light-heartedness returns to Hange, as they cheekily present the ring to them.

“Well then, will you dedicate your heart to me, shitty Captain?”

“Whatever, Four-eyes.” He says it as flippantly as he can, yet handles the ring like sudden movement will break it.

“Hah! I wonder what the kids will say about the rings…” Hange stretches out and lays beside Levi, admiring the ring on their hand amidst the backdrop of night stars. He takes their hand and weaves his fingers through it, placing their interlocked hands on his chest.

After the plane takes off, Levi’s eyes are trained on the floor. The plane rattles, swerves, and gains momentum. Everyone around him is emotional—rightly so, because their leader had said a fleeting goodbye before leaping to their death. He holds one hand in the other, feeling the cold metal on his finger. Rings don’t leave the smell of Hange’s skin when they lie their head on his shoulder after a long day. Rings don’t capture the sound of Hange’s laugh when they make friendly banter with their juniors, or when Levi makes the occasional, dry joke that only they pick up on. Rings don’t emulate the dialogue of their late-night discussions in his office, the tea that he makes and that they drink from the same cup—to save the time needed for washing, according to Hange. He doesn’t protest.

Still, the ring is all he has left. The one chance Hange had, they entrusted in him this ring. They could translate Levi’s words into more palpable versions for other people, but they could not for the life of them come up with words to express their more vulnerable feelings. For Hange, the ring was another chance to cement what remained unspoken: I hope you remember me. I’m here with you.

The last chance Levi had, he placed a fist on their heart.

“Dedicate your heart.” The ring flashes in the sunlight, making Hange blink back tears.

Now, he clutches one hand in the other.

“See you, Hange.” The ring stares back, patiently. He closes his eyes, bringing the thin, metal sentiment to his lips.

“Keep watching us.”

thank you for the prompt @djmarinizelablog !! ^_^

#aot #levihan #rings #levi ackerman #hange zoe #levi x hange #fanfiction #my writing #hanji zoe #shingeki no kyojin #prompt #how many times can i use these same three lines from chapter 132 #yes i admit merch has inspired my writing what can i say #tbh a heart shaped ring irl sounds hard to wear XD

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fandom-puff · 4 years ago

Text

Sandor Clegane Smut Alphabet

Requested by: anon

Warnings: what it says on the tin. Smut.

Gif creds to owner

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He cradles you, shushing you gently and rubbing your back. “You alright, little one?” He’ll ask. He’s really very tender, offering you light ale and little things to eat, kissing your forehead

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He’s a thigh man. He loves having hold of your thighs as you fuck, he likes them even better when they’re either side of his forehead...

He doesn’t like anything really on himself, but being with you has made him a little more proud

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He likes it deep inside you, and loves to admire it trickling out after he pulls out. If you’ve had a quickie, he’ll replace your small clothes over your cunt and pat the gusset where his come is already seeping through the fabric. “Mine.”

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He loves to overstimulate you. You beg so prettily abd stumble over your words, trying to figure out if you’re begging him to stop because you’re too sensitive, or keep going because you’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s fucked, but he’s always had to pay for it. In his eyes, no woman in her right mind would go near him.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

It used to be doggy (not because he’s the Hound stfu) but as you grew closer, and you assured him you didn’t give a shit about his scars, having you ride him quickly became a fave

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

In the earlier part of your relationship it was always intense and serious.

If you’ve been married a few years (and far, far away from kings landing) then you can get a little silly during it

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He doesn’t give a shit about your hair or his own. So long as it’s clean, do as you like

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Very, very intimate, even when it’s rough. He’ll hold you close to his chest as he ruins you

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Sometimes, if you’re both particularly busy, he takes matters into his own hands. He hates it though; he’d much rather have your hand- or mouth...

He also likes watching you get yourself off, whether that’s by your own hand or on his cock

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Size difference (he big), spanking. Other than that, I think he’s fairly tame

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Bedroom. Nice and safe.

Failing that, anywhere that locks (or has something pushed up against the door)

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Seeing you get sassy or bossy gets him going 100%. He also really likes watching you dress in the morning

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Sandor does NOT share.

And anything that puts you in harms way? Absolutely not.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

King of oral. He’s surprised at first that you’d let him put his scarred face anywhere near your nether regions, but he’s not complaining. With definitely make you come several times over before he even unlaces his trousers.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

His go to is fast and rough, especially if he’s tightly wound up. However, occasionally, he likes it nice and slow

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He’d much rather be shut up in a cosy room with the door firmly locked.

Needs must though 🤷🏻‍♀️

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Somewhat? Anything remotely dangerous is a big no- you’re precious to him. But if you say ‘Sandor, I’d like you to tie my wrists together’ or ‘you could spank me if you want?’ He’d give something like that a go

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Ooohhh he can LAST, and go for quite a few rounds. It’s normally you who taps out first

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t own any, and he’d rather just do it himself than ‘fuck about with wooden cocks’

His belt comes in handy sometimes though

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Sandor isn’t one to tease you too much. He does, however, plant some very delicious ideas in your mind when you can do absolutely nothing to resolve it. And then when you finally get to your rooms (or anywhere with a lock) he’ll definitely comment about how wet you are...

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He starts of relatively quiet, just a few grunts and groans- he always, always moans loud and long when he first enters you.

As he reaches his climax, he gets louder and louder, grunting, growling, groaning as his thrusts get a little sloppier...

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Most arguments end up with a good rough, angry fuck.

And afterwards, you both apologise for being petty or stupid or ignorant.

And then you have a good make-up fuck :)

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He’s a big man. That’s all. Do with that what you will ;)

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

It ebbs and flows, but it’s always there. Sometimes he craves physical release (those are when he’s at his roughest), other times he needs to be reassured and told you love him

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It depends, really, but more often than not, he lays awake, staring at the ceiling for ages until the sound of your soft breathing and snoring lulls him to sleep

#sandor clegane x reader #Sandor Clegane x you #Sandor Clegane x y/n #the hound x reader #sandor clegane deserves the world #Sandor Clegane smut #game of thrones #game of thrones smut #game of thrones HCs #Sandor Clegane HCs #request #2021 #smut alphabet

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