#when someone fits perfectly into the person-shaped hole in your heart | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xkseii · 1 year

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⎮Feeling you through these walls⎮

⏤ Characters: Simeon⎮Solomon⎮reader (separated)

⏤ Including: nsfw (-17)

⏤ Warnings: bottom/sub characters, top/dom male amab reader, use of fleshlight, dub-con, reader have dick piercing in Simeon's part, mention of sin and corruption.

⏤ Summary: After buying a fleshlight in a dubious sex shop, you certainly did not expect to enjoy that overly pleasurable and realistic toy to this extent.

⏤ 2.600 words

Part 1: Solomon & Simeon

✧ You met Simeon and Luke at the same time, for a short time though, as they were just staying in the Devildom for a few weeks.

✧ Having a crush on an angel wasn't the easiest thing in the world, especially when he had to go back to the Celestial Realm. The goodbyes were difficult, Luke cried softly into your torso before they really had to leave.

✧ You did not expect to be hit with a wet dream of Simeon the same night, waking us sweating and with a hard-on. Still sleepy, you couldn't remember what was the dream or how it ended, but you knew by how much precum was sliding down your dick, that it has been a good dream.

✧ In the state you were in, you knew it would be impossible to go back to sleep, even after taking a cold shower. Out of desperation and with the urgent need to relieve yourself, you opened the drawer and took the first toy that you found.

✧ Much to your surprise, it was one that you never used before. It was a fleshlight that you found in a dubious sex shop, in one of the darkest parts of the shop, and it was on sale, so you bought it but completely forgot about it.

✧ Observing it, you watch in amazement as the insides change shape, taking a whole new form, which was much tighter. You could remember that on the box, it was said to perfectly imitate the shape of the one you desired the most, who was obviously your dear and pure angel.

✧ The idea of doing something so unholy while thinking about an angel was awful, but you couldn't resist, giving in to the temptation and sin. He would never know about it anyway, right?

✧ Simeon was relaxing in the garden when he felt the strange sensation. He had to stop walking, touching his lower stomach with a curious and questioning expression on his face, another angel asking if he was feeling okay.

✧ At first, he was confused by the feeling, wondering what was happening, thinking that he perhaps ate too much, and it made him sick. But then, as the sensation became stronger in a certain place, it hits him, hard.

✧ Simeon was a virgin, he never touched himself, even though he was curious, and certainly never thought about doing it with someone. That was a lie… Since he went to the Devildom and met you, his thoughts were full of sin, his dreams were haunting his mind and pulling at the purest part of his heart.

✧ But now was not the time to think about it, he needed to figure out what was happening to him first. Simeon excused himself and ran to his room, closing and locking the door behind him, so he could not be found in such a compromising situation. He had no idea what was inside of him, but it was absolutely divine and showed a whole new world.

✧ As the movement became clearer, he recognized long and thick fingers, pushing against his walls, trying to fit another one despite his hole being so tight. He hated the fact that someone else than you was touching him, it gave him a chill of disgust, but he also could not stop the person doing this to him, so he closed his eyes and imagined you.

✧ Simeon was so close to crying, teary eyes making it impossible for him to see anything, he felt his body reject the touch. Until he was finally empty, he thought it was over at first, but something much larger pressed against his entrance. As the tip went in, the tears rolled down his cheeks, followed by a moan mixed with a sob.

✧ He was going to pray, beg for it to stop, until he felt it, the cold metal entering his body and scraping his walls. He recognized it in an instant, Simeon recognized you… For a simple reason, the dick piercings.

✧ During a conversation with Asmodeus, the Avatar of Lust couldn't keep to himself the last secrets he discovered or heard about. That's how he learned that the man accidentally walked into your bathroom while you were showering, and even more than seeing you naked, he discovered that you had dick piercings, more precisely, a lorum and a frenum. This newfound information about you never managed to leave his mind, and that's how he immediately recognized whose dick was penetrating him right now.

✧ It couldn't be just a coincidence.

✧ A spike of pleasure brought him back to the present, the feeling of being full was pervasive, foreign and yet so good. Simeon couldn't stop the embarrassing noises coming out of his mouth, the thought of you doing this to him was so lewd and good.

✧ He had no idea if you were intentionally doing this to him or not, but he was basking in the newfound sensation and pleasure anyway, unable to do anything but take it. His body and mind were begging for you, and nothing could bring him back to the good, pure, path.

✧ Simeon did not care as his wings turned grey, proof of sin and abandonment.

✧ Everything became too much, your thrusts, the feeling of being filled up to the brim while remaining empty, the last uncontrolled twitch of your dick inside his body, painting him as yours. Simeon came fast and all over his bed, not able to tell you to stop as you keep dragging multiple orgasms out of him, only stopping when you'll be satisfied.

✧ When you finally halted, Simeon was left with an aching cock, a numb mind and shaking legs, the ruined sheets taunting him. He glanced at his bed, noticing multiple black feathers circling him, but he could not bring himself to care.

✧ Without a word, he cleaned himself, cursing about his clothes being far too tight as his sensitivity was already too heightened. Cleaning the rest of his room, he sat down on his bed after looking in the mirror, understanding that it was over.

✧ It seemed like Simeon was going to come back to the Devildom much quicker than he expected, with a desperate need of an explanation, but also to make the urge at the bottom of his heart and lower stomach disappear.

✧ Solomon, such a wise sorcerer, calmly reading a book in his room after class, relaxing after such a long day. He was disappointed that you couldn't spend the afternoon with him, as you had to hang out with lower demons, and he decided to focus on widening his knowledge instead.

✧ You came back to your room a few hours after, dishevelled and shaking, your mind was an utter mess. While being out, you, unfortunately, got hit by a spell heightening your sensitivity, which lead you to come back to your room earlier than intended.

✧ Your day has been long and not the best one, you had already some pent-up frustration, and the spell only worsened your state. Because of this, you had to unwind everything, and release once and for all this frustration.

✧ That's when your eyes fell on this bag, placed in the corner of your room, completely forgotten. The item contained in this bag was bought weeks ago, but you never had the time to use it or even thought about it.

✧ You spent so much money on it, and it remained useless… perhaps it was the occasion to finally unpack it.

✧ Without another thought, you took it out of the bag, and the dark purple packaging, looking at the most realistic fleshlight you have ever seen.

✧ Rapidly cleaning it with water before squirting lube into it, you gasped as the opening closed suddenly as if trying to keep the fluid in. The insides were clenching around nothing, reacting to any touch or feeling, which was extremely realistic for an object like this one. Though, it was not surprising as you were in the Devildom, and demon of lust obviously existed.

✧ Curiosity got the best of you, and you couldn't help but plunge your fingers into it, marvelled by how tight it became. At first, you could not even move your fingers, feeling the plastic flesh clench and prevent any movement. The sensation was mind-blowing, and your patience was running thin.

✧ Not waiting one more instant, you were unbuttoning your pants and letting them slide down your legs along with your underwear.

✧ A few rooms away, Solomon's book hit the floor with a loud thud, echoing through the entire room. The sorcerer lurched forward in his chair, his hand touching his pants, not understanding how it could be dry while he felt his hole overflowing. Soon, another fluid was squirted into him, making his head slam back, a whine escaping his lips.

✧ Quiet gasps and moans flew out of his mouth, the feeling of being fingered open was overwhelming, he could only beg to the emptiness of his room to get it over with. At first, he was confused and wanted it to stop, but then the pleasure took over, and he could not help but spread his legs.

✧ It was oh-so frustrating, he could feel everything, how the fingers were curling up inside of him, hitting his most pleasurable spots, loosening up so perfectly. But also, while that fluid was spread inside of him, his hole stayed desperately empty, he could feel it but couldn't do anything, not even fuck himself back onto those experimented fingers.

✧ As minutes passed, he grew impatient, annoyed by how the fingers were playing with him as if he could not feel anything. It was almost as if he was not here, only his body and especially his ass mattered, not any other part of him was being touched. Humiliated, he had to start playing with his cock himself, hoping it would be enough to bring him to his orgasm.

✧ Too focused on getting himself off, he was surprised when you finally penetrated him. You can't even imagine how loud the whorish moan that left his mouth was, feeling your entire dick enter him in one push, without slowing down or stopping once. There was no time for him to get accustomed to the feeling of being forced open, only able to lean forward and take it like a good toy.

✧ The quick pace that was taken immediately broke his mind, each thrust was powerful and deep, hitting all the good spots that the fingers previously found. At this pace, Solomon was not even going to last five minutes, he was already out of breath and twitching uncontrollably when you started.

✧ On your side, you were amazed by how realistic the fleshlight was, almost as good as a real person. You moaned and groaned every time it would tighten up around you, the way it was clenching so violently sometimes after touching a certain stop or moving at a certain angle was lewd and delightful. A whine would get pulled out of your mouth when it would tight so much you weren't even able to thrust out, the hole desperately trying to keep you inside.

✧ As your mind gets clouded with pleasure, your thoughts went towards the one who's been driving you insane. Thinking about a certain sorcerer while masturbating was so humiliating, but it was too good to stop, especially as you felt yourself on the edge.

✧ You tried to convince yourself it was just a way to cum faster, that's all… It had nothing to do with your feelings for him, how tiny his waist was, how his thighs looked when he crossed his legs, how he would always press himself against you when he was tensed, resting on your lap when he wanted to catch up on his sleep, or…

✧ Solomon was the one you wanted, and not just a stupid toy.

✧ While you were edging yourself, Solomon came embarrassingly fast, not able to keep it in. His face flushed red when he saw droplets of cum wetting the pages of his book. Now, he would be unable to act as if it never happened, this mess would remind him of it forever.

✧ Unfortunately, he did not have the time to grab something to clean his precious book, as you already started to move again. This time, you were set on cumming without any more edging, only wanting to fill up that toy and then get to work.

✧ By the end of it, Solomon was sweating profusely, on all fours on the ground, cheek resting against the cold floor as his hands were holding his legs open. A small puddle of cum could be messily seen under him, while he also tried his best to not fall into it and dirty his stomach, the humiliation would be too strong.

✧ It was with trembling legs that he went to his bathroom, cleaning himself and the ground, not able to glance at the mirror from embarrassment. It took him some long minutes to regain his composure, but everything that happened always came back to his mind, so he went out to distract himself.

✧ That's when he walked in front of your room and decided to knock, knowing your joyful and friendly attitude around him would get rid of those thoughts.

✧ After the first knock, there was no reply, so he knocked again. He didn't understand why there was no sound, he knew you came back a few hours ago, he heard the door along with the distinct sound of your steps.

✧ Curious, he opened the door, only to find the room empty along with your bed, the sheets were thrown on the side without a care. Finally, he noticed the door of your bathroom being open, and the water of the tap running, as he came towards it, calling your name.

✧ Solomon certainly did not expect to see you half naked, with just a towel around your waist. And even less to find you with a fleshlight in your hand, full of cum and ready to clean it with water. He wanted to leave discreetly, until he saw you plunge your fingers inside the toy to get the fluid out, the sensation of being full again coming back full force.

✧ His legs shook and almost gave up under him, and he ran out of your room as fast as he could, slamming the door shut behind him. That's when he realises what really happened, it was not a stupid prank or spell that has been cast on him, he was being fucked open by you. Just the thought of it made his cock twitches painfully in his pants, and he ended up staying in his room the rest of the evening.

✧ Meanwhile, you were still oblivious to what happened. You did hear someone leave your room in a hurry and slam the door behind them, but you only expected someone to get surprised by your presence and run away to not get caught.

✧ The last thing you expected was to get a text from Solomon, as he was unable to face you yet, the embarrassment too strong for the poor sorcerer. Or, perhaps, he was still completely naked in his bed, fingers deep inside of him in the hope to feel that pleasure again, to no avail.

✧ The text he sent you was explicit, and you understood instantly what he was talking about.

→ “Next time you buy a magical item, come to me first.”

→ “Also, warn me the next time you use it, I don't want to be teased like this during classes.”

→ “… I am free this evening if you are perhaps interested.”

⏤ Thank you for reading! I wish you a great day.

⏤ here is my masterlist & ko-fi ⏤

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cross-d-a · 2 months

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you know… now that I’m thinking about it. I think what makes The Acolyte feel so non-canon to me is that it really DOES seem like someone’s rpg or self-insert fic. Which isn’t inherently a bad thing!! Bc so much can be explored and analyzed and you can have SOO much FUN with those things!!! I guess my problem is that at the heart of it, The Acolyte doesn’t feel like it perfectly fits into the Star Wars canon. And this IS supposed to be canon, which is the Problem, for me. If this was a fic I’d have some questions but be mostly satisfied, because it’s just someone playing with the Star Wars canon and emphasizing the parts of it they like. I’d enjoy their take on it, even if I didn’t agree or it felt out of character for canon.

But again. This is Canon, and it doesn’t wholly feel like canon. It feels like someone who’s extremely passionate about Star Wars focused only on the things they cared about, and waved away certain parts of canon to support their own desired story.

Which is an issue because Star Wars is a Shared story. It’s a shared, beautiful universe that SO many people have had their hands in. And when you’re given the chance to dig your hands into it and shape something of your own, you can’t just think of your own wants. You have to think about the needs of the overall GFFA. It’s your responsibility to emulate the heart and soul of the universe that George Lucas created. You have to respect the already established canon and all the creators who have come before you and all the creators who will come after. That’s what creates a good, strong universe where everything informs and supports each other.

Not that the creators of The Acolyte don’t respect other SW creators, I just think they lost sight of the greater GFFA in the excitement of creating a uniquely placed story within an already established timeline.

I think Darth Plagueis’ appearance really brought this home for me, because after the initial shock of OMG ITS HIM!!!! I realized..Oh. So the creators are doing the fanfic kind of thing where you write in the blank holes to explain what happens in pre-established canon, but they’re doing it with an RPG flare. The creators have a very specific story they want to tell. And it’s this very specific storyline that they desperately want to fit into a very limited number of episodes that makes you realize: Oh. The plot is leading the characters instead of the characters pushing and informing the plot. It feels far less organic this way.

Like “Oh, we need to explain Darth Plagueis and how he led to Palpatine so we’re gonna fit some spunky characters in there to play out a very confined and specific storyline where we get to have some fun with things!!” Except it’s hard to have a successful story when you somehow both limit yourself and give yourself TOO much leeway. Because again, you need to respect ALL of established canon even when you don’t like it. And if you don’t like it, write it so it makes sense to you, write it so you can Explain it to yourself. I’ve done that with plenty of characters and canon plots, where I play with canon rules but expand it in a way that I’m satisfied with (I’ve come away from these fics liking characters I absolutely hated before!).

But I digress. I don’t really want to be negative about The Acolyte, because everyone involved with the obviously has a lot of love and passion for Star Wars, and there’s no way I can resent them for that. Because they did create something amazing and did a lot of super cool things and I did, overall, enjoy it (even if it broke my heart). All the actors were brilliant and I adore them. Every single person involved put so much hard work into it and I don’t want them to feel discouraged. And I really don’t want them getting any hate. They don’t deserve that. We saw what happened with Jake Lloyd and Hayden Christensen and Ahmed Best and I think it would be really fucking awful if that got repeated. No one’s mental health is worth a click-bait video or hate tweet. Absolutely no one.

So it’s with this in mind that I think the creators did their absolute best, but should have gotten more direction so they didn’t lose themselves in the process.

Ultimately, it’s an enjoyable show for me personally. They explore some cool concepts and I lost my mind over Plagueis. I just wish the characters had time to grow and feel Real. I wish the actors got more TIME with their characters, too, because they really put their hearts and souls into it. I wish it hadn’t felt like they were completely focused on explaining how the High Republic declined while Palpatine and the Empire rose to power. There’s ways you can do that in a story that feels like its wholly its own, rather than something borrowed, or feeling like you’re cramming your story into a very narrow space in the timeline hoping it’ll fit. And even though they clearly plan for a second season, I wish we’d had a much longer season, so we could feel more emotionally connected and involved with the characters and storyline. I wanted a story and characters that feel less contrived and more real and whole and like actual living, breathing people. Like a story I’m devastated I cannot change, because it DID actually happen a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

I have more specific thoughts about the portrayal of Jedi and Sith and the regular galactic citizen— because the use of perspective and bias and unreliable narration is actually SO incredibly fascinating and skillfully used in this show. Though I don’t necessarily approve of the corrupt Jedi storyline, because NO ONE should be blamed for their own genocide and it very much strays from the fact that the Jedi Order is based in Buddhism and not whatever Western religious (probably traumatized) perspective has informed The Acolyte and parts of the fandom. I’m not a fan of “edgy” takes just for the shock value or angst bc! again! please respect the canon as a whole. And there’s a way to handle the fall of the Jedi that both respects them and admits their faults and also!! Talks about!! How the relationship between the Republic and the Jedi warped through unreasonable obligations! And how the Sith were the downfall of the Jedi!! And how they PLAYED the Jedi!!! That’s what makes Palpatine so terrifying!!!!!!!!! But that’s a whole other post.

But I’ll leave it off here. In the end I hope they get green-lighted for a second season and that they learn from this first one. But I also hope they don’t come away from this discouraged and that ultimately it’s a good experience for them. For my part, I also hope I get to have some more favourite Jedi characters and that I get to spend a little longer time with them :’)

#cross talks #the acolyte #the acolyte spoilers #Jedi order #Jedi #Sith #Star Wars #Sw meta #meta #Star Wars meta #Plagueis #Darth plagueis #osha aniseya #Sw negativity #master sol #master vernestra #vernestra rwoh

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hisoknen · 4 years

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kinktober day 1: somnophilia warnings: noncon, somnophilia, drugging, stalking, unprotected sex, yandereish? wc: 2.1k

a/n: thank you @10millionyearsdungeon for helping push for the true creepy potential dabi has to offer and staying up to talk with me most days,, this is a part 1! first day of kinktober! i’ve been waiting to post this one and while my schedule will be wonky, i am so excited to write and to read things people are writing and meet new friends! if you’d like to add me to your kt taglist please feel free to!

“Really?” Dabi chuckled under his breath, swinging the window open. A long back and forth with Shigaraki left him irritated and wandering the streets late at night. He wasn’t quite ready to head back. If only he could find a place to crash.

That’s when he saw you—walking all alone down an empty street. Didn’t you know that there were villains out there? Depraved people looking for lost souls? You walked without a care in the world, holding your head up confidently as though nothing could ever hurt you.

He wanted to greet you, introduce himself maybe. But you looked too delicious to scare away. The moment you saw his scarred form, he knew you’d run away like the rest of them. He just had to be patient and treasure you.

He didn’t think you would be stupid enough to leave the house unlocked, though. Some people had too much faith in humanity, too naive for their own good. Never thinking that strange men would creep in at the dead of night to play.

Stumbling inside, he checked out the surroundings. The space was relatively empty, smelling of lavender and sage. Walking to the kitchen, he swung open the fridge, grabbing a beer, and flicking off the cap, taking a few swings.

Placing the bottle on the counter, he began wandering down the hall, looking for where the pretty little thing slept. From the looks of the house, you lived alone. There was just enough of everything for one person. Good thing too, he didn’t have the energy to entertain a Prince Charming who thought they could save the thing.

There was a small light at the end of the hall, quietly approaching he listened at the door before entering. You were facing him, body tangled within the blankets. Soft breasts, taut against the covers, begging to be sucked and groped. He could make out the subtle shape of your hips, knowing then that they were made perfect for his fingers to dig into.

Walking over to the bed, he wondered what you thought you were doing? Sleeping naked with your house open to anyone curious enough to come in, eager little whore. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his heart picked up for a moment when your body turned, pulling the covers even further down your body.

You had to know what you were doing—the dimple in the small of your back accentuating the shape of your ass. Your lower lips, glistening with arousal. Did you get off on the thought of someone sneaking in? Or were you just naturally a slut whose body was ready to get fucked at all hours?

Palming his cock through his pants, Dabi thought of the noises you would make when he pumped you full of cum. Wondering if you woke up, you’d pretend that you weren’t begging for this all along. How warm and tight your little cunt would be, tugging him in while he rutted his hips into you. He’d have to be careful if he didn’t want to wake you up.

The thought of you clinging to his body in your most vulnerable state. Unaware of what was happening to you and only responding to your innate desire for pleasure, sent a wave to his growing erection. His eyes glanced around the room, finding a bottle of pills. Standing he walked over to pick it up and read the label.

“Hmm,” he chuckled, placing it back. Dabi unzipped his pants slowly, shrugging out of his shirt and watching the rise and fall of your chest. Reaching in, he pulled out his cock, running his finger over the bead of precum that was already weeping from it. You looked delicious like that, sprawled out for him like a good girl.

You only moved slightly when the bed dipped under his weight. His fingers were running across your parted mouth, dipping in to feel the wetness of your tongue. He leaned down, landing a soft kiss against your supple lips. Pumping his cock while breathing against you, your nose twitched. He tightened his grip, stroking it, and imagining what his cock would feel like, buried inside your throat.

Too excited to wait any longer, he pushes your shoulder down back against the bed. He trails bites and kisses along your torso, drawing his fingers against them, feeling the imprints his teeth left behind. You would wake up littered with his marks, knowing that someone had staked their claim on you. He had claimed you as his.

He sucks at the insides of your thighs, your body shivering. You were so honest like this. Flicking his tongue out against your folds, he lapped up the arousal that was flooding your cunt. There was almost too much for how little he’d touched you.

He prodded at your clit, swirling his tongue around the nub and brushing his fingers up and down the slit. You were so good for him, letting out soft moans and shakes and unknowingly telling him what felt right.

“Such a pretty little thing, so tight for me.” He pushed a thick finger past your entrance. It was almost as if your sleeping body was attempting to fight him off with how tight you were. A loud moan escaped your lips, his head craning up to make sure you were still out. Curving his finger up, he began to stroke your walls, easing them along your gooey insides. The muscle was fluttering and contracting around him in gentle pulses. He shoved another finger in, groaning at the way you released to fit him.

The more he worked at it, dragging his fingers across the slick tissue, rubbing in circular motions, the more you trembled below him. Your tiny whimpers only spurred him on. His fingers wouldn’t be enough to make you feel good, though. He needed you to remember him when you woke up.

Pushing himself up, he tugged your hips closer to him. Dragging his tip up and down your slit, paying special attention to rubbing at your puffy clit. Your head shook for a moment. It was like you were telling him to go faster. By all means, who would he be to deny you that?

“Such a good little slut, getting my cock nice and wet.” He purred, sinking his cock in just enough so that you were clenching around the tip. He loved a thing that struggled against him just as much as the next guy. But having you so helpless underneath him, unable to flail against him, was something different that he never thought he’d enjoy this much.

You’d look pretty with tear-stained cheeks, begging him to stop while he pumped into your eager little hole. But that could wait for another time.

He pushed past your quivering walls, a soft groan rippling past your lips. He dragged your hips against him, making your body fuck itself onto his cock. Moving them in a circular motion with each pull-out, thrusting in entirely on the off beats. Your skin is so soft that his nails gradually sink in.

He shoved your left leg across your body. Your thighs were sticking together tightly with sweat. The new position causes your pussy to tighten around him even more. His hands, pushing down against your thigh, hips colliding with your ass each thrust.

You were perfect, just like a rag doll. Limp body bending and folding whichever way he desired. Your skin, soft and supple to the touch. It tasted so sweet against his tongue. No matter how much he groped you or pumped his cock in and out of you, nothing seemed to wake you.

In your purest form, unable to fight him off, or pretend that you didn’t feel what he was doing to your body. Just reacting and pulling him in. He caressed your face tenderly. If he was deluded enough, he might even think this was love at first sight. You were perfect for each other after all, bodies made for one another.

And your cunt was oh so tight. The gooey insides bring Dabi in further, hungrily swallowing him despite your state. Really it was only fair that you help him. You were such a pretty girl, giving him your cunt to keep him warm for the night.

He continued to hump your sleeping body, fondling fistfuls of your naked flesh and memorizing the feeling of the skin molding into his palms like clay. His sweat falling onto your skin with each jerk. He didn’t have to be gentle in fear of you waking up. Nothing could hold back his vicious assault.

He grabs your legs, hoisting them up over his shoulders. Your ass lifted off of the bed, as he pushed your thighs into your chest, the slapping of his balls against your skin rang across the room. He pinched at your nipple, a gurgling gasp fleeing your throat.

He drove your thighs flush against your chest, desperately chasing his orgasm. Reaching his hand down to rub and collect your pooling arousal, covering his fingers and sweeping them across your clit. He wanted to feel your cunt squeeze onto him while he came.

“Fuck yes, little thing,” you tightened up around him, body shaking before going still. Small mumbles and moans from you and his groans flooding around the room. Dabi works you through your orgasm, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

His head feels light as he empties himself into you, hips never ceasing to pound against you. He wanted to know what you would sound like crying out, mewling in pleasure, but he could wait until next time.

“Such a good girl,” he grunted, continuing to force his load into your womb. He didn’t let up his assault until the sun was peeking through the window, forcing him to head out. Your cunt was perfectly molded to take his cock whenever he wanted.

Scribbling down a note for you to wake up to, he zips up his pants, sticking two fingers into your cunt to push in the cum that was beginning to run out. Maybe next time he could fuck your mouth and finish in your throat.

—

You woke to the sound of your alarm blaring, a cold breeze hitting your bare skin. Cracking your eyes open, you stretched your body, reaching to grab it. Wincing you hold the phone in your hands, your stomach felt full and tender as though you'd been hit in the gut. Maybe you walked into the corner of the counter while you were asleep.

Ever since you were prescribed Ambien for insomnia, strange things seemed to happen at night. Once you woke up on your front lawn, the neighbor's dog licking your face. Another morning you woke up to the smell of something burning, you'd made bread while in your hazed state.

You brushed off the memories for a moment before feeling a thick, sticky fluid seeping out of you and coating your inner thighs. Your hands dart between your legs, flinching when you make contact with the tender flesh, and runny fluid, your blood ice cold.

Bringing your fingers to eye level, a wave of nausea erupts heavily in your stomach, bile rising in your throat. You had a wet dream, that was it. That had to be it. A bead of sweat slid down the back of your neck, chills falling in its wake.

To acknowledge what else it could have been would mean confronting yourself with the fact that somebody broke into your house to violate you. Somebody found their way in and used your body to relieve themselves and left you aching and full of cum.

Dabi gazed in from outside the window. Your body was trembling, fingers prodding at your bruised and cum covered flesh. Discovering new marks with each twist. The winces sent heat to his cock, his pants stiffening.

You looked so pretty like that. Scared eyes frantically scanning every inch of the room, desperately trying to remember even a sliver of what happened to you.

Next time he’d have to be more careful. There was no way you’d leave the house open for him again. But the fear and second-guessing would leave you tasting sweet for his return.

You spot something on the counter beside you, scrambling to get up and grab it. It was a sticky note with scratchy handwriting. Dabi smiled to himself as you picked it up, hands shaking. You felt sickness overtake you, vision blinking, and unclear, your skin prickly to the touch.

There was a clatter outside of your window, and you spun your head around, not seeing anything. Your legs lost their strength beneath you, crumpling to the ground. Someone was here. There was no way to ignore that now.

“Until next time pretty thing.”

—

kinktober masterlist

#dabi x reader smut #dabi smut #bnha smut #bnha x reader smut #tw somno #tw drugging #tw noncon #tw yandere #tw stalking

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

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Key: 🤍 Fluff | 💜 Angsty Fluff | 💛 Smut (no minors) | 🧣 Taylor Swift Inspired

🤍 🧣 Forever Is the Sweetest Con: After a successful case, which is hard to come by the BAU, the team (season 3 team) celebrates with drinks at the bar. things go arise when Penelope convinces a normally reserved y/n to sing karaoke.

🤍 Sweet Valentine: a 22 year old spencer reid finds himself thinking about his firsts…and the one first that he has yet to accomplish

🤍 Cutie Pi: Spencer Reid’s second favorite holiday isn’t really a holiday, but it’s sure a day that he’ll never forget

🤍🧣 You Kiss My Face and We're Both Drunk: Who would have figured that a normally serious genius with an eidetic memory would be a silly, forgetful drunk, or drunk Spencer realizes how much he loves Y/N.

🤍 49%: If there’s one thing that Spencer hates more than rejection, it’s spontaneity. But sometimes the things (and people) we love outweigh the things that we hate.

🤍 I'll Take X-Pecting for 200, Alex: Dr. Spencer Reid plays a trivia game at the request of his wife, Y/N, but he’s in for more than some heaving hitting questions

🤍🧣 Take My Hand and Drag Me Head First: Spencer Reid is a scientists and scientists love predictability; but love isn’t predictable, it’s fearless.

🤍 🧣 Wrap Your Arms Around Me, Baby Boy: Sometimes love at first just might be the thing that’ll make you want to get married with paper rings.

🤍🧣 I Can't Help It If You Look Like An Angel: Spencer is not that kind of doctor, but he’ll always come when Y/N needs him, even if germs are involved.

🤍🧣 Las Vegas Boy: Y/N surprises Spencer at their joint Bachelor/ Bachelorette Party with a song she’s been working on.

💜🧣 Band Aids Don't Fix Bullet Holes: In a standoff with an unsub, reader makes a choice: her life or Spencer’s.

💜 French Toast Waffle Sundays: Coming home to Reader from a stressful case, Spencer needs a little reassurance that he’s as wonderful as Reader thinks he is.

💜 Open Me Carefully: Reader finds her hopelessly in love with Spencer, who unfortunately for them is hopeless when it comes to love

💜 🧣 The Moment I Knew My Future Was Sweet: Spencer plans a surprise birthday party for reader, who comes to the realization that Spencer is the one who’s always been there for her

💜 Crawl Home To Her: The only thing that’s keeping Spencer alive is the memories of his heaven. Maybe somehow how a faithless man will escape death’s grasp on faith alone

💜 You Die in My Nightmares, But I'm Dying to Dance With You in My Dreams: Tired of being tired, reader takes leap instead of counting sheep

💜🧣 And I Will Hold On To You: They’ve never been apart for holidays since they started dating. That was until Spencer Reid found himself behind bars for a crime he’d never think of committing. Growing and healing, Spencer realizes that it’s not the holidays that matter, it’s the person. Because with that special person, who’s laugh he can recognize anywhere, even cleaning up the empty bottle the next morning is magical.

💜 🧣Though I Can't Recall Your Face, I Still Got Love For You: Spencer’s always been ambivalent about his birthday, but self proclaimed lover of birthday’s Y/N attempts to change that.

💜🧣 Can't Say Anything To Your Face: Lunchtime is Spencer Reid’s favorite time of day and not because of the crappy endless coffee, dry sandwiches, or the occasional chocolate donut. Spencer’s favorite time of day comes in the shape of a little post it notes and fits perfectly into his heart.

💜🧣 Right Where You Left Me: Y/N never expected to see him again. He tore her heart out and left her in the dusty heat of a Las Vegas diner. She never wanted to see him again, but sometimes the heart wants what heart wants.

💜 Don't Thank Me For Loving You: Spencer and Reader have been dating for a total of 4 weeks. If someone asked, Spencer would be able to tell them the exact amount of time he’s been in love with Y/N. So why does he get so nervous to share a bed?

💛 Is This Gonna Be Graded?: Y/N’s last assignment is simple, write down everything that you’d want to try. The options are endless and that just might be the end of her.

💛 🧣You Can Hear It In the Silence: Sneaking around can be fun, but sometimes the silence is just too quiet, or a small moment of falling in love with your best friend.

💛 🧣 Worship This Love: Y/N doesn’t think she can get jealous easily. She knows that Spencer is almost as head over heel for her as she is for him. But still, seeing the pretty detective grab Spencer by the tie is enough to send her into a jealous stupor.

🤍 🧣 It's A Love Story, Baby: Secret relationships can be fun, but sometimes the love runs so deep that it’s just begging to get the spotlight. Love like that is difficult, but it’s the realest thing Spencer and Y/N have ever felt.

🤍The Doctor Is In: Reader knows that they shouldn’t have dairy, but it’s hard to resist the creamy sweetness, especially when an equally sweet husband wants to have a relaxing vacation.

💜🧣 My Silent Screams, Our Wildest Dreams: Reader knows two things, she loves Spencer and Spencer doesn’t love her back. But, she finds herself learning a couple more things that threaten to shake up her world.

🤍 You Remind Me of You: Spencer Reid is good at many things, but he just might be too good at pretending to be in love with Reader.

🤍 🧣 Boys Only Want Love If It's Torture: You don’t hate may people, but you sure do hate the ridiculously cute Dr. Spencer Reid.

💛 (De)Railed: The canon episode “Derailed” reimagined where Reader is sent on the solo interview and Spencer, recklessly, decides to save her. Plus, the aftermath.

💜🧣 I Will Stay: Spencer returns home after leaving Gideon’s cabin, but is haunted by the ghosts of his past and the finicky fate of his future.

🤍💜 Honestly & Truly: Spencer has his prom 10 years late, but none of that matters when it's with the girl of his dreams.

💛🤍🧣 I Once Was Poison But Now I'm Your Daisy: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? Most people don’t think that translations to having a clandestine relationship with someone you’re supposed to hate, yet most people don’t have a Spencer Reid in their life.

💜🧣 That's When: Sometimes Spencer’s mouth works faster than he his brain. And when that happens there’s casualties of the heart

💜 Unconditional Love: Spencer is anxious to get home to help his secret fiancée grieve the loss of her beloved cat, Chuck

🤍 🧣 You and Me Forevermore: Weddings are the promise of you and me forevermore. Spencer and you share a special dance.

🤍 Forever Composed Of Nows: Spencer continues a tradition and asks an important question.

💜 🧣Stars Around My Scars: The incident with Hotch and the hostage brings up some bad memories for Spencer, but sometimes you fate has a funnily little way of showing you the people that will draw stars around your scars.

🤍 Passwords & Passionate Pecks: It’s time to change computer systems passwords at the BAU. To make things easier, Garcia tells Spencer to memorize the passwords, but for some reason Reader doesn’t want him to know.

💛🧣 And I'll Do Anything You Say (If You Say It With You Hands): Spencer and Reader are forced to share a room, but can't resist falling into old patterns, even though it's dangerous and just might break them.

🤍 It's Gonna Be Alright (With You By My Side): Reader has some news for Spencer, but he needs some help putting it together. When he realizes it's as easy as well, one, two, three

🤍💜 🧣 Eyes Like Sinking Ships: The boy with the rosy cheeks and golden eyes in the library has some secrets up his sleeve

💜🧣 There's A Heart On Your Sleeve (I'll Take It When You Leave): Spencer is no Clyde and you are no Bonnie, but why can't you just run from it all?

💛 🧣 Red Lips and Rosy Cheeks: Spencer Reid is a wallflower. But what happens to wallflowers when they’re invited to the dancefloor?

🤍 That's How I Know Your Mine: Spencer and Reader decide to screw the traditional wedding and get married amongst the wildflowers.

#masterlist #samuel-de-champagne-problems #my masterlist #Spencer Reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader

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samstree · 3 years

Text

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (2/3)

Jaskier pays the price of his lies. With blood and tears and a few broken hearts.

(4.3k, lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, blood and injury, miscommunication, mutual pining)

Previous | Read on AO3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4].

Jaskier wakes with a crick in his neck and an aching heart.

He goes through the motion of packing, their morning routine too familiar to distract him from the heavy guilt in his chest. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is actively avoiding him—the way his back is turned at every chance can’t be a coincidence.

The only time he so much as spares a glance is when Jaskier puts the lemon cake in their rations bag, wrapped perfectly and untouched. Geralt stills for a split second, his jaw clenched.

Jaskier wants to brush it off.

Finding an excuse is the first instinct he has, thinking of a lie as to why he didn’t eat something he’s been drooling over for ages, and erase that crestfallen look on Geralt’s face, the one that is breaking his heart.

Because he can’t exactly tell the truth, which is that he’s more likely to be sick if he ate it. Another lie, however, would turn his stomach even more.

Jaskier remains silent.

Even Roach is judging him as they walk out of the stable. Jaskier bears her side eyes and annoyed headbutt without putting up a fight. The mare is too perceptive to miss the tension in the air, and her protectiveness is more than justified. She’s a smart girl. Of course, she knows Jaskier is one making her broody witcher brood even harder.

She tries to bite his doublet again, and it’s Geralt who stops her with a soothing hand down his mane, murmuring confused questions into her ear. Sweet, kind Geralt, who has been rejected by Jaskier so many times for no reason in the past few days, is still trying to defend him.

Jaskier needs to make it right.

“Geralt, look—”

“Master Jaskier!”

Someone in the distance rudely interrupts Jaskier’s nervous attempt. He turns by instinct and watches a boy in lilac doublet jog up to them. He’s so young, no older than twenty, still with that joviality and naïvety in his features. The way his matching doublet and trousers could catch the eyes of any crowd reminds Jaskier of himself in his early years.

“Sweet Melitele, I’m your biggest fan! Oh my…” the boy proclaims, awestruck. “I’ve been following your ballads for years, and now I get to meet you in person!”

Jaskier looks to Geralt and then back at the man.

“Ah, I’m flattered. It’s always nice to meet a fan, but you see—” Jaskier gestures to the horse and the man behind him. “—I’m in a hurry to leave town.”

Besides, he’s in no mood to converse right now. The quicker he can get Geralt alone, the better. With this weight on his chest, Jaskier feels so drained just talking to anyone but his witcher, let alone dealing with an enthusiastic fan.

“Oh but you must listen to my set first!” The boy looks at him expectantly. “I dream of writing a hit song just like Toss a Coin. I could be just as big—”

“I’d love to, but the circumstances won’t allow it.” With the biggest smile plastered on his face, Jaskier dismisses the guy. “I’m sure there’s promise in you, especially now you’ve chosen the correct role model—”

“You can go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snaps his head to Geralt, confused as to what he just heard.

“We need to leave this morning, my dear. That’s the plan.” Jaskier frowns. “Remember?”

He excuses himself to the young man and drags Geralt away too quickly, too rudely—on another day he’d feel contrite ignoring a fan like this, but today he’s mind is occupied by something much more important.

Once out on the street and alone, Geralt’s befuddled frown deepens. “Why did you—”

“I need to tell you something,” Jaskier interrupts. “Before I say it, I know you will get mad at me, but you have to understand that the past year has been hard on me, Geralt. When you showed up in Oxenfurt out of the blue, I didn’t have enough time to process everything or what it would mean for us to travel together again. That’s why everything is so wrong now and I need to make it right.”

“I know what you want to say.”

The world stops.

All he can see is that pained look on Geralt’s face, the one that’s breaking his heart and making his blood run cold. Of course, he knows, witcher senses and all. As if Jaskier has ever gotten away with lying to Geralt’s face in the past.

“You do?” he breathes, the crack in his voice unmistakable.

Geralt lets out a sigh. He’s not mad. At least, he doesn’t look like he’s angry with Jaskier. “It’s been obvious in the past few days, and I… I do understand.”

“Oh.”

There’s still hope then. Jaskier just needs to come clean and apologize, and, definitely, throw whatever game he’s been playing out the window. They will be fine. The two of them, the bard and the witcher on the path, just like the old days—

“I can leave now,” Geralt starts. “With me gone, you’d be free to stay here for longer. You have so many things to see and so many people to meet. You can go back and talk to the boy. Finally, there’s someone who can wax lyrical with you. It’ll be for the best.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to say it, Jaskier. I can see now that it’s better if we part ways. Let’s not make things more difficult.”

Jaskier stares, gaping like a fish out of water. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, after all this time, after the mountain. Geralt wouldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t.

“You are leaving me here?”

Geralt looks as if he’s stricken. His shoulders tense like every time he wants to appear smaller.

“It’s for the best,” he repeats.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Wait, I thought you understood. I’m sorry, Geralt, for the past few days. I didn’t mean to… I wanted to apologize, so you know I didn’t mean it.”

The smile at the corners of Geralt’s lips is too sad.

“You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you to begin with—”

“Ask me what?”

“—Us traveling together again… It was only wishful thinking. There was never a second chance and I never should have gone to find you.”

Jaskier takes a step back, swallowing the lump in his throat. Suddenly the collar of his doublet is too tight and the lute on his back is too heavy. He has to look away from Geralt’s resolute face just to stop the stinging in his eyes.

“You promised…” he mumbles. “You promised not to leave again.”

Geralt falters for a second, his hand resting on Roach’s saddle as if to steady himself. When he answers, his tone is cold, colder than Jaskier can take.

“How can I keep you when everything catches your eye, Jask? You are not made to stay... Not with me. Not after everything that happened.”

Disbelievingly, Jaskier retreats. His hand fists around the strap of his lute case, digging into his palm. “Not made to stay? Seriously?”

“It’s for the—”

“If you tell me it’s for the best one more time, I swear, Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt calls out his name without heat like he’s placating an unreasonable child. Jaskier exhales in exasperation.

“Maybe you are right that it was only wishful thinking.” he forces the words out, his heart sinking. “For once it was actually my fault, and you can’t wait to ask for life’s one blessing again.”

“I—”

“Fine. Have at it,” Jaskier hisses. “I don’t care.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Jaskier lands the biggest lie he’s ever told in this mess. He drags his feet to cooperate, to take him away and put some distance between him and the worst disaster that’s ever descended upon his life.

Roach neighs, but the sound is far-away. Jaskier grabs at the doublet at his chest and wonders if the witcher-shaped hole within can ever be filled.

Jaskier doesn’t stop.

He walks into the bustling crowd of the market, heedless of cheery townspeople going about their day, and he keeps walking until the noise dies down.

Jaskier stops at the riverbank with nowhere to go, so he sits down on the ground and finally lets the dam break.

Crying does very little to ease the ache, and yet when the tears bring a release for the pent-up pressure in his chest. It’s hard to feel justified in letting the pain be cried away when he’s so aware of his own faults in the once-again ending of their companionship.

After all, Geralt couldn’t wait to throw him aside on top of that mountain when he’d done nothing wrong. What makes him think Geralt will tolerate him when he intentionally fucks things up.

Jaskier gasps for air, but only a whimper chokes out. How pathetic, to regret the most precious second chance destiny has ever granted him.

Now he knows for sure that he doesn’t deserve to cry, to let himself feel even just slightly better in the wake of his destruction.

Jaskier tries to stifle the tears with a hand at his mouth, and breathes. In and out, one breath after another. It’s like trying to contain a storm threatening to wreck through his entire being.

But he manages, after an eternity.

Jaskier sniffles one last time and wipes away the tear tracks. There’s a tremor in his hands but he pays no mind. The lute case is laying carelessly in the grass where he dropped it. He slings it onto his back and realizes that in a frenzy, he’s left everything else he owns in Roach’s saddlebags.

He could laugh at the idea of going back there, tail between his legs, as if being kicked out of Geralt’s life—for good this time—isn’t humiliating enough. His only hope hangs on the possibility that Geralt may have left his packs at the inn so they don’t have to face each other. Why would Geralt want to see him anyway? The witcher should be long gone.

Jaskier doesn’t make it too far when a streak of lilac pops out of nowhere.

“Oh! Here you are, Master Jaskier. You are a hard man to track down.”

The boy still looks too chirpy for Jaskier’s liking, too bright and too carefree. His mood is soured even further.

“Look, I’m not fit for company today.” Jaskier walks right past the young man, heedless of his insistence. “Mister—what is your name? Maybe you’ll catch me at the next festival if fate allows.”

The boy ignores his deflection and stops right in front of Jaskier’s face, which successfully draws his full attention and pisses him off completely. “I said—”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” The kid doesn’t relent. “I thought the witcher is determined to abandon you for the second time. Don’t you think he’ll stick to it this time?”

Strangely, the other man doesn’t look nearly as young up close. His face is youthful for sure, smooth and unblemished, and yet there’s an inexplicable weariness in his blue eyes. Now that Jaskier notices, these blue eyes look eerily similar to his own. With just the eyes, he could be looking into a mirror.

Jaskier wants to squirm.

“Did no one teach you that eavesdropping is rude?” He pauses, startled. “Wait, a second time… You knew—”

“Oh.” The man looks sheepish. “Can’t blame a fan for keeping tabs on you, can we?”

An overly zealous fan is nothing new, but somehow, this one sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Jaskier says, trying to back away. “I need to get back to town. You know, where the inspirations are, so I’ll find it in me to… um, compose more of those pieces you love so much.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself! You are not going back to him, are you? Twenty years! All the sweat and blood and singing his praises and this is what you get after all this time!”

The guy grabs at Jaskier’s arm, which he shakes off in horror.

“You know nothing about me. Or Geralt.”

“That witcher will never see you!” he exclaims. “I was there when your first ballad swept the continent off its feet, Jaskier. From that moment on, I knew you were special. What appreciation has that mutant shown you? Only insults and scorn.”

“Geralt is not like that, he—”

Jaskier freezes to the spot.

He forces his attention back to the boy’s face. His eyes are still startlingly blue, even more so in anger. There’s not a single trace of age at his temples, and yet…

“My first song was twenty-two years ago,” Jaskier states, something akin to fear creeping into his voice. “What did you say your name was again?”

At those words, the man’s face shifts. It’s like watching someone shed a layer of skin, a façade, and another being emerges. A much more powerful one.

“Does it matter?” When he answers, there's magic in the air, sizzling with power. The blue of his eyes shimmers under the surface, ever so slightly. Jaskier’s heart clenches.

Not human.

Definitely not human.

“We never got to know each other, well,” Jaskier stalls. “I think now it’s not too late.”

He has an inkling that getting away will not be an easy feat. He can hope to distract this… this creature long enough for a chance to run. His hand tightens around the strap nervously, and the man’s eyes follow the movement without a beat.

Shit.

Jaskier turns to run, to take the lute case in his hands as a weapon, but it’s too late. The next thing he knows, the case is thrown against the ground and he’s backed against a tree. The other man’s grip around Jaskier’s wrists is like a vice, securing his hands right above him.

Jaskier wants to scream, but no sound escapes his throat. His body shakes all over, out of control.

“The fae never reveal our name easily,” the creature hisses.

Those blue eyes are too sharp and there’s a scent growing overwhelmingly strong. Fae, as it turns out, smell like newly cut grass and wildflowers, like the forest.

If only Jaskier can live long enough to share the trivia.

And then, with both their hands occupied, the fae presses his forehead to Jaskier. He struggles but to no avail.

The touch is cold and something is slipping into Jaskier’s mind like an icy stream in the spring. It trickles probs at every corner of his memories.

“Oh, even now you are loyal to the witcher. You still believe he’ll save you, little songbird.”

Jaskier’s vision turns fuzzy. His soundless whimpering breaks into breathless gasps, like a wounded animal waiting for a mercy kill. At the back of his mind, he’s achingly aware of Geralt’s absence. His witcher in shining armor won’t come this time, not after all the—

“All the pretty little lies. Every single one of them, born out of love, misguided.”

However true that statement is, Jaskier doesn’t want to hear it. His love for Geralt shouldn’t be spoken with malice. He fights against the fae’s iron hold with everything he can muster.

There’s a crack of bones before the pain hits him, exploding from his wrists all the way down his arms. Jaskier sobs, the edges of his vision darkening, the shock threatening to pull him under. He still can’t make a sound.

“What can we do?” The fae’s voice comes from a distant realm. “How can we have your loyalty as the witcher does? Oh, how fierce you are, songbird. To have your voice at our court… Perhaps, more lies will do. Yes, it was your choice, what your heart desired. A gift from us.”

Jaskier can’t process anything he’s hearing. He’s too tired from the searing pain in his wrists.

“Just a few lies. They’ll be easy to roll off the tongue, and yet, such powerful weapons.” The fae retreats. “A gift of lies. Thank you for the inspiration, Jaskier the bard. We hope you enjoy it as much as we will.”

Without the brute force holding up his body, Jaskier sagas against the tree, his legs unable to support his weight. His lungs burn and his mind turns fuzzy, bereft of the fae’s presence.

Jaskier needs to move, needs to scramble away from this place. But before the sweet relief of freedom even hits him, magic seizes him again and, finally, finally, a world-ending scream explodes from his lungs.

The world goes to black soon after.

Jaskier wakes to someone shaking his shoulder, someone gentle.

His body pulses like a bruised nerve. The back of his head feels like it’s been trampled by a whole army and his neck creaks at the barest move. Jaskier’s nose is buried in damp grass and he chokes, which jostles his neck even more.

He groans miserably and tries to touch, only to be stopped by the burning in his wrists. He lets out a hiss.

Right, broken bones. Blue eyes that look the same as his. Fae.

“Careful… Fuck, Jaskier, what happened?”

A gravelly voice comes through the fog.

Geralt.

Oh, Jaskier can sob with relief. He arches his back, slowly propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes are so sore from lying on the ground face down, but the sight of his witcher is unmistakable.

Jaskier wants to call out for his witcher, but a sob is the only thing that gets out. He cradles his hands and finds his right wrist is swollen red and sensitive to the touch, but the left looks more or less the same. Only a throbbing pain tugging at his fingertips.

He reaches to the back of his head with his left hand, where the crick is prickling at his nerves, only to find a gash at his nape and hair caked with blood. He doesn’t remember hitting his head while falling. He doesn’t remember falling at all.

So, one wrist sprained, the other broken, plus a gaping hole in his head. Jaskier can cope.

If he doesn’t die from the embarrassment, that is. He whines pathetically, already exhausted.

“I told you not to move.” Geralt catches Jaskier’s tilting body. Amber gold flows with concern. “What happened to you, Jask?”

The question comes out soft, more of a whisper to the witcher himself than demanding answers. Jaskier’s lips wobble at the endearment. He needs to tell Geralt everything. Fuck his injured pride. Geralt came for him. This wonderful, beautiful, sweet man came to him after the disaster that is this morning and he’s still trying to help Jaskier.

All because Geralt is safety. He’s safety and home, and Jaskier needs to tell him—

“None of your business, witcher.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to register what left his lips, the venom that drips from these words so foreign. He’s never aimed at Geralt before. From the looks of it, Geralt is equally startled if the tiny crease by his lips is any indication.

“You hit your head,” Geralt says patiently, hovering close to Jaskier’s face in an attempt to check the wound on his neck. “It’s bad. Here, let me see—”

“Get your filthy hands away from me!”

The words fly out on their own volition. Jaskier flinches, the same time as Geralt takes back his hand as if burned. He closes his mouth with a pop and the feeling of something severely wrong weighs down on his stomach. That’s not what he meant, not at all. The only thing he wants to do is lean into Geralt’s touch and melt into a puddle. Whyever did his mouth betray his heart? Why did he…

Why did he…

…Lie?

His mind focuses on a sing-songy voice.

A gift from us.

A gift of lies.

It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown over Jaskier’s head. He sobers up immediately. The inspiration they took from him. The fae’s gift.

The fae’s curse.

Geralt’s brows are knitted together, amber eyes imbued with hurt. He is still crouched in front of Jaskier, hands fisted at his side and shoulders taut. He’s got the look now, that lost look that only appears when a mob drives him out of town with pitchforks and stones. Jaskier has seen that look one too many times.

And now he's the one causing it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, shocked, unsure.

Jaskier breathes hard and tastes the bile rising in his throat. Geralt doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have that hopeless look on his face or to be shunned by the world, by anyone, and least of all, by someone he’s let stay beside him for so many years. By the Gods, Jaskier needs to let Geralt know he’s the kindest person on earth and more human than any human. He’s Jaskier’s friend and protector, his dream, his heart—

“You are a mutant, a freak,” Jaskier feels the words slip out, too late to realize the mistake of opening his mouth. “No better than the monsters you slay.” The magic compels his tongue. He bites down on it but it’s only futile. “You feel nothing and give nothing but death to those around you.”

Jaskier recoils, tasting blood. In front of him, Geralt mirrors his movement. The entire time, the wolf medallion rests against his chest plate, Jaskier’s last hope, sitting still and unresponsive.

And Geralt…

He doesn’t defend himself.

Of course not. Geralt never defends himself against the stoning even when he can easily defeat most humans with his bare hands. There’s a faded scar near his hairline, a solid proof of men’s capacity for prejudice and violence.

Now Jaskier has joined their ranks.

Geralt looks like he’s been suck-punched in the gut, his eyes wide and crestfallen. And yet, wide amber eyes gaze upon Jaskier without accusation, only quiet acceptance. Jaskier shudders with disgust and fear, which must be the reason Geralt is backing away further.

“I’ll leave… If you—” he pauses, before standing up. “I see. This is goodbye, Jaskier.”

Don’t go!

“Get away then!”

Jaskier shakes his head, putting all the force he can muster into biting into his lips, scared of what may come out. His wrists burn but he has to force his mouth shut by pressing his palms over it.

Why can’t Geralt see that something’s wrong? Why can’t he see Jaskier?

See me! Jaskier pleads silently through the tears.

Geralt’s face falters as he spares one last glance at Jaskier.

Look what you’ve done to him, the sing-songy voice returns. This is your choice. You chose to lie, little poet. Be careful what you wish for.

Jaskier crumbles like a puppet with his strings cut. He barely contains the choked-out whimpers. The burning in his lungs is nothing compared to the anguish. He could die at this moment and it would be a sweet release. Hurting Geralt like this, it’s worse than a thousand broken bones and a million cuts on his skin. In the darkest corners of his mind, he wants Geralt to walk away from him. If Jaskier has to spew any more venom towards the man he’s loved for more than half of his life, he’d surely want to walk into the ocean and never come out.

He presses his ears to the grass and remembers the cold wind on the mountain. He was a fool to hope Geralt could come to him then. He is a fool now.

The witcher drags his feet away, one step after another, trampling the soft flora under him, and then—

And then, by some miracle, he stops.

Jaskier watches as his witcher turns around and rushes back to his side, his jaw clenched and eyes determined. His heart bursts with hope, but his fists press against his mouth harder. There’s more blood coating his tongue.

“I can’t,” Geralt states as he kneels next to Jaskier’s curled body. The betrayal in his eyes ebbs away and in its place is something…tortured.

Jaskier shakes his head, or is he trembling again? His vision swims with blood loss. He won’t be able to stay awake for long.

“I can’t leave you here, Jaskier,” he muses to himself, frowning deep. “Shit. You are bleeding again.”

Jaskier scoffs into his fist, almost hysterical.

“You are in shock, and you are about to pass out. I don’t know what happened, but your wrists are a mess. Jaskier…” The name comes out like a prayer. “I heard your wishes. Loud and clear, this time. I know you loathe my presence in your life, but… I have to make sure you’ll get better. Please, forgive me.”

Geralt tries to gently pry Jaskeir’s hands away, but he struggles blindly. Through the haze of his mind, Jaskier’s last thought reminds him to keep his mouth closed.

“Forgive me,” Geralt mutters in anguish, “I can’t let you hurt yourself because of me. Forgive me, just one more time.”

His hand makes the familiar sign of Axii, and everything turns…soft.

The pain is gone, the magical hold on his tongue too. Jaskier loses himself in the mellow sensation of giving up control. The ground disappears under his body and his head lolls against Geralt’s chest.

“I was wrong.” Regret rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest. “I was the curse that befell you. After all the hurt you’ve received by my side, Gods, and I still can’t keep myself away from you. I will not make the mistake of forcing myself into your life again, Jask. Allow me a few days to see you safe, and then... Never again.”

The vow is so wrong, but Jaskeir is powerless to protest. He catches a broken whisper before darkness claims him for the second time on the same day.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. For my heart.”

Jaskier welcomes the oblivion that drags him under, as well as the nightmares that follow.

I'm...sorry.

One more chapter to go. Hopefully this time I won't have to up the chapter count. Some real communication and comfort are on the way! <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @a-kind-of-merry-war @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #lying spell #cursed jaskier #miscommunication #mutual pining #jaskier fucks up real good in this one #and bears the consequences #geralt x jaskier #again i'm sorry #i meant to end it with geralt walking away #and thought #in this economy?#but somehow this is... worse?#hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #hurt geralt #everytime i hurt geralt's heart i go 🥺🥺

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cdroloisms · 3 years

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yk, I always thought of c!dream to perfectly fit the saying “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” and every time I think about it I get even sadder send hepl

hello !! it’s been a bit, so sorry anon, but ty for ur patience :D

but yeah !! that saying REALLY fits c!dream - he’s someone that has done a lot of awful, unjustifiable things, but they were all for a Reason, as much as people like to think otherwise. he’s said so before, repeatedly - it’s all for a vision of the smp as it “used to be,” one “giant family” that can be happy again. and obviously, what he does isnt right, and will never be right - but in the end it’s all in a very twisted attempt to find a home he lost, which makes his character all the more twisted and tragic, yknow?

sometimes i wonder what an earlier dream would say, after seeing how far he’s fallen, which is what really led to this oneshot - it’s a bit messy, but i like it nonetheless. c!dream is a disaster that makes me Very Sad

tw: derealization, implied torture, hallucinations, injuries, dark content, mentioned abuse, manipulation, emotional distress, implied suicide, panic attacks, self-hatred

“Was it worth it?”

Dream blinks, looks up; this is new. He’s no stranger to hallucinations, of course - they’d started somewhere around the first week or two of solitary, and had only grown in frequency and duration as time went on, but this has never happened before.

The figure standing - well, sitting in front of him is hazy at the edges, indistinct, little more than a splash of green and grey, blown out at the edges by the bright white highlights from the lava lighting them from behind. Even so, Dream is all too familiar with the craftsmanship of the iron armor they wear, with the bright green hoodie tucked underneath that he’d once worn like a second skin. The figure’s face turns just enough to catch the slightest sliver of a mask.

“Well?”

“You’re me,” Dream says - breathes, really, his throat too sore for the words to be much more than a labored exhale. The other Dream turns, the lava throwing shifting shapes in orange and red all over his chestplate, his mouth visible and pulled into a frown underneath the bottom edge of the mask. Dream touches the cracked surface of the one sitting on his own face reflexively, feeling the jagged hole on its left side surrounding his eye, the edge pulled over his chin to keep as much of his face obscured as possible.

“Well, I mean,” the other Dream’s hands come to the edges of his mask, easing it over to the side of his face in a practiced motion; his eyes burn brilliantly in the dark room, green and furious and bright. “I wouldn’t exactly say that, now.”

Dream knows that this man isn’t him - well, isn’t him anymore, doesn’t have the burn scars that trail all over his body, doesn’t know the feeling of his stomach turning itself inside out in pain and emptiness, doesn’t know how it feels to have an axe dragged painfully, slowly over his skin over and over and over and over until he’s screamed his throat raw. This is the ghost of a man that has not lived and died a million times, that does not know the feeling of blood on his hands better than he does kindness, that can think of other faces and feel something other than shattered ribs and remembered pain.

“Was it worth it?” The other Dream watches him, eyebrows furrowed, insistent. It’s hard to remember that this was once him, that he has a face made of skin and muscle and bone instead of porcelain and leather even with the bruises and dried blood beneath his mask reminding him otherwise. The expressions on his face, the ones that must be on Dream’s own face, feel foreign, like they belong to someone that isn’t him. Maybe that’s the point.

“You’ll need to get more specific,” Dream’s voice cracks, throat protesting at the strain pulling at the still healing wounds from within it. Dream takes the pain, boxes it up, files it away; he’s becoming pretty good at that. “Was what worth it?”

The other man throws his arm out in an arc, gestures vaguely at the entire cell. “This! All of this- this prison, what you did to Tommy, what you did on Doomsday, what you did in the vault.” His words burn with a dangerous fury, and Dream closes his eyes. It’s not real. It’s not real. “You ruined everything! You destroyed our home! Everything is gone and it’s all your fault!”

“Don’t-” Dream’s voice cracks, shatters in on itself, and he swallows around the pain and pushes on. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing as me.”

The other man scoffs, a fiery light dancing in his pupils. “As if. This is all your fault. You didn’t have to exile the kid. You didn’t have to blow up the community house. And you sure as hell didn’t have to manipulate a fucking teenager, you sick fuck.”

The voice morphs, overlays with the echoes of voices he hasn’t heard in what feels like an eternity. His back burns, stings; his head pounds furiously and threatens to plunge his world into darkness. Through it all, green eyes stare at him, twin flames in his ever blurrier vision, looking for all the world like a god handing down judgment.

“You know you would,” Dream mutters, each word dropping and shattering on the ground like broken glass, “if you had to sit in here for just a chance at bringing them together, you would. If you had to burn the whole damn server down for them, you wouldn’t hesitate.”

The other Dream shakes his head, teeth bared. “Don’t you dare pretend that you did this for them. Don’t you dare pretend that you don’t deserve this.”

I deserve this. I know, I know, I know. “But you would.”

The hallucination’s shoulders rise, fall; it’s hazy, shimmering from the heat, but the eyes glow ethereally and feel more real than anything in the cell.

“You’re an idiot, you know?” He laughs, and Dream tastes iron and ash and salt. “You’re so fucking stupid. You- you thought that the problem was Tommy. You blamed everything on Tommy because you couldn’t see him as anything other than the person that ruined our server and you’re so fucking stupid.”

The voice distorts, echoes in on itself; a half-hearted whisper of wrong wrong wrong rises in Dream’s mind and melts under the fury of the other’s glare. The image shimmers, shifts, and the other Dream- is he even Dream, anymore? - smiles humorlessly, stepping closer. It’s not real, Dream knows, because the image is hazy and flat and wrong but his mind echoes with the sound of shoes scuffed against obsidian and a netherite blade dragging against stone and the book, Dream, and we’ll stop-

“The real problem was you. It was always you. You were the one that ruined the server, you were the one that blew up the community house, you were the one that destroyed L’manburg. You are the one that everyone hates, that everyone fears. You are the villain, Dream, a monster. You’ve always been a monster. Now that you’re gone? The server is finally at peace. You were the problem.”

“And- well, Dream,” The figure leans over, lips right by Dream’s ear, and when they speak their voice is sweet-sharp, all-too-familiar. Quackity. “I guess you should’ve fuckin’ offed yourself when you had the chance.”

He flinches back, eyes squeezing shut, hands scrabbling around his neck. His lungs heave and he tries to suck in air but he can’t there is lava in his chest like everything inside has been torn apart like the words have ripped through him like he’s no more than wet paper and he chokes and stutters on the exhale and it’s not real it’s not real it’s not-

(That night, long after Quackity leaves with a fresh bouquet of bloodstain blooms splattered over his shirt like a field of blooming poppies, after the Warden leaves from forcing another round of health potions down his throat, Dream curls around his ribs in the back corner of his room, watching the lava fall.

Was it worth it?

He laughs, low, bitter, every inch of him feeling scaped raw and open and hollow, thinking of a world without himself in it, of a sky and earth and family with the ugly parts cut neatly away. He thinks he must be a wither skeleton, watching as everything his fingertips touch crumbles away into black rot and ash, breathes in and out and hears the same echoing rattle from deep within his chest. Was it worth it?

It must’ve been, he tells himself, even as the sound of a drop of brilliant purple magic falling against the obsidian makes his muscles seize, leaves him cowering under a blow that does not come. It must’ve been worth it, because-

What was this all for, if it wasn’t?)

#tw derealization #tw torture #tw hallucinations #tw injuries #tw dark content #tw abuse #tw manipulation #tw emotional distress #tw suicide #tw panic attacks #tw self hate #queue <3 #q stream aftermath #long post #my writing :D #my asks !!

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goblinbugthing · 2 years

Text

Nebulis walked alongside the Elven girl, who had her spear prodding his back gently, just enough so that he could feel it through his layered clothing and corset. Whenever he slowed, she pressed the tip of the blade into his back a small bit harder, egging him on.

After a while of walking in an uncomfortable silence, the duo arrived at their destination; in front of them, a natural path led into a clearing in the bushes and trees, where a village was built. Nebulis didn't say anything; he didn't want to annoy the Elf any more than he has by just being present. "Come along now," she said, and pushed him forward, urging him to continue walking. He complied, and they moved through the village, earning strange looks from the other Elves and Faeries inhabiting the area.

"We have arrived, nuisance," the Elven girl spoke. Nebulis turned towards her when he heard the uneccessary insult. She didn't return the look, so he directed his vision bakc to his front, where a large tree stood, a hole in the front of it which led into a large, well-decorated room. The girl pushed him inside, making him stumble slightly, digging his claws into the ground to steady himself. She followed him into the hollow tree, shoving her way in front of him, and she called out to someone.

"Queen Solaris, we have an intruder. I do not know what to do with it."

"Hold on, just a moment, dear!" another voice responded, followed by rushed footsteps down the spiraling stairs. Another person entered their sights; A tall Faerie, about six feet with long, leaf-green hair and dark brown, almost black skin, with eyes the colour of gold. "This must be Queen Solaris," Nebulis thought, greeting her with a shy wave. "Oh my, you are quite the specimen," Solaris spoke. "Are you Draconic, perhaps?" "Ah, no ma'am, I am a Creator entity," he responded, The girls' eyes widened. "Creator entity?" the Elf questioned. Nebulis turned to her. "Yes." "What is such a creature?" Solaris asked him, and he turned back to her.

"Well... I am the creator of this world. Some would refer to me as God, but the true God is Lord Galactica, who is my creator," he explained, and Queen Solaris' eyes lit up with intrigue and excitement. "You are the child of God?!" she exclaimed, walking up to him and taking ahold of his clawed hands. "Oh, my, it is an honor to meet you, my lord! I have been awaiting a visit from you for so long!" "I-- ah, thank you?" Nebulis said, unsure of how to respond to the sudden enthusiasm coming from the Queen.

She let go of his hands and spoke. "Oh! Hold on, just a moment, my lord! I have prepared a gift for you!" she said before jogging back up the stairs, returning moments later with a shining object in her hands. She held it out towards him, and he studied it for a few moments before taking it into his claws. A golden crown, adorned with many different gems. “A crown?" he said, twisting it in his hands, taking in all its details. The gems were carved very carefully, made to be perfectly symmetrical; two multicoloured stones were set at the front of the crown, placed in such a manner that made it look like a heart, with a diamond-shaped ruby underneath.

"Yes, my lord. You are the child of The Great One, are you not? That makes you royalty--royalty that rules the entirety of the world, all across the sea of stars!" Solaris said, ending with a small, polite bow. How odd, a Queen bowing to someone she's never met. "It's only fitting for royalty to have a crown," she continued, gesturing to her own shining accessory. The Elf beside him nodded. "She is correct," she said. "It simply isn't right for you to not have a crown, Prince..." she trailed off, realizing she doesn't know his name. "Prince... ah, what is your name, my lord?" she questioned, awaiting his response.

Nebulis hesitated for a moment. "Should I really give them this information?" he thought. He'd already told them quite a bit about himself, including his origins and creator. "Mmm, whatever. I've told them so much already, knowing my name wouldn't hurt anyone," he concluded, placing his new crown atop his head. His flaming hair flicked around the metal, giving it a beautiful shine from the multicoloured glow. "My name is Nebulis. Pleased to meet your acquaintance."

#oc #lore #oc lore #original characters #original story #original work #art #my art #writing #HELL YEAHHHH #NEBULIS LOREEEEE #more of it!!!!!!!#yey

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jitterbugjive · 3 years

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Something I wish more people would understand is how unhealthy and misguided I was in my early 20s. I came out of a life of mental and sexual abuse, for a bit I had a much older boyfriend than me that I didn’t realize until fairly recently was grooming me since I was 14. I was a hyper sexual teenager due to the exposure I had in childhood and I sought people out constantly to ERP with, even adults, without really thinking anything was wrong with that. I had an old friend who started running away from home to look for random adult men to sleep with so my understanding and feelings towards that kind of situation got all twisted and confused and I didn’t know how to help my friend. I had another friend who was pulled in to a 3 way by another minor and an adult, and the other minor was also the sort who actively looked for adult men who would be sick enough to sleep with her. And my best friend had a sister who was also exhibiting this behavior despite my friends’ many protests, because their mom didn’t give a single fuck about anything. I had an older babysitter, by older I mean in his 60s, who would bring up conversations about sex with me and show me porn on TV from when I was 10-13. I was dealing with unchecked PTSD which made me overly reactive, prone to fits of anger and anxiety.

My point is, back then I didn’t have any kind of professional help or anywhere I could go for answers on things I didn’t understand or had a limited understanding of. When I ask the question ‘what do you do if a kid is seeking out adult sexual attention’ it’s not because I’m trying to blame kids for this, it’s because it scares me when kids are unknowingly, maybe even knowingly, exposing themselves to danger for whatever screwed up reason they may have. And no one wants to talk about that kind of situation, so I couldn’t find any answers. I couldn’t find an appropriate way to process my feelings on the matter, my understanding of it, the way I viewed it, I couldn’t find what the correct way to feel or deal with it was. Again, because no one wants to talk about it. With my naivety and personal experience, I at first held resentment towards kids like that, because I remember being put in danger because of them or they put my friends in danger, and those kids seemed very sure of their choices even when they were perfectly aware it was wrong. One of them I knew, even as an adult, didn’t ever think anything was wrong with what they did, they didn’t come with that regret you hear most people talking about. I regret the way I’ve reacted to these situations and I regret the way I phrased things when I was trying to come to terms with this issue that I’d been honestly traumatized by.

Another thing I didn’t understand in my early 20s was appropriate boundaries, because I wasn’t given appropriate boundaries as a kid I only knew one big basic thing: Don’t do anything sexually explicit with minors.

And when it came to RP, I thought that meant PG13 content was okay. I thought if there was a fade to black, or a time skip, or an implication, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. Now, there are literally only 2 instances I can think of where there was any sort of implication of sexual acts between characters with a minor, I still made sure nothing explicit was shown or explored and I was of the impression that I was just letting the other person have fun because that’s what they were in to. And that was a mistake. Not as big of a mistake as it could have been, mind you, but I’d never cross that line. I thought I had a good line drawn in the sand but I didn’t really understand where it was supposed to be. Because if we’re gonna be honest here, looking back I know now even romantic fluff RP between an adult and a minor isn’t okay, even if it’s through characters and not as ourselves.

I know now how much of an emotional impact RP can have on a person, considering most of my romantic relationships started with RP. When you have a character you deeply connect to interacting with someone else’s character, it’s really easy to start mistaking your character’s feelings for your own. You could believe because your characters get along so well that maybe the two of you can get along romantically too. I’m not saying that RP shouldn’t lead to romance, but that it can easily blind a person from how their RP partner really is. So it’s dangerous to RP with kids like this. I should know, my abusive ex that groomed me until I turned 18 in order to date me certainly had me convinced we were meant for each other just because our characters clicked and my character happened to be a representation of myself.

Something I’m really ashamed to admit as well is a serious misjudgement on my part, where for some reason I assumed bodily fluids weren’t NSFW. Probably because I’ve seen people get away with censoring out naughty bits but leaving the spunk in an image, or just drawing the character with spunk on them or something. Point is, people were getting away with it not being flagged as porn, and my dumb brain was like ‘okay so it’s not that bad’. I need to make something clear here, I don’t entirely remember what happened or why it happened, but it’s true that Bedeviled Derpy had a post that showed spunk in 2 of the images and it was drawn from some sketches of mine by a teenager. I don’t believe I would have requested such a thing, I certainly didn’t script it to say ‘draw spunk here’, in fact the sketches don’t show any indication of a mess anywhere. I just remember being given the finished images with the spunk being added, and I was dumb enough to think “oh yeah this is totally okay for a SFW blog” and my brain didn’t even register like ‘hello yes a child drew this maybe ask them to remove the spunk also spunk isn’t sfw or child friendly in any way shape or form’

Some people, maybe only a handful, or more, I don’t know, but some people have this assumption that my mindset in all of this was like “Hahaha I’m taking advantage of a minor” and that’s just... not it?

I’m a colossal dumbass, I admit that, and I was really irresponsible, but it was NOT because I had any intentions on preying on a child. I just don’t do that.

The things I said and did, I did out of ignorance, and most of the bad stuff people talk about me saying was from 5+ years ago, before I got any help, before I had anyone to walk me through these incredibly complex emotions and opinions that were ingrained in my head since childhood.

I just wish that people could see I had no malice or ill intent, I wish people could realize they’re way overthinking my actions and taking things a lot more personally than they were ever meant to be. Maybe if they could see this for what it is rather than assuming I’m a villain who purposefully did everything wrong, they could learn to move on in a healthy way.

I understand I did a lot of harm and there’s no undoing that.

But I do NOT deserve to be accused of pedophilia. Pedophilia has literally ruined my life and my perception of the world. I’m a victim too, and just because I became an adult doesn’t mean I suddenly know right from wrong. That’s not how becoming an adult works. You’re allowed to make mistakes as an adult, being an adult doesn’t mean you won’t make mistakes any more. Yes it’s easier to say to someone ‘you were just a kid, it was a mistake, you didn’t know any better’, but adults have a hard time knowing ‘any better’ too. We’re always growing and learning and I’d like to think people are smart enough to see that I have grown in to a better person.

I hope people can find it in their hearts to forgive me, but I fear some people are too far gone down the rabbit hole of being convinced that everything was on purpose and from malice, that I’m some evil mastermind who thrives on manipulation and taking advantage of kids. I’ve only ever associated with 2 minors since becoming an adult and I have no intention of associating with any more that aren’t directly connected to my family or my friends.

Anyone who actually knows me would know I have a 0 tolerance for IRL pedophilia, when I found out a member of one of my groups was showing nudes to minors he was immediately kicked out and I kept tabs on the situation to make sure he’d be caught by police. When a member in my server was exposed for ERP and orbiting with a minor, I kicked him out too.

I worry about kids to a point that it’s part of my PTSD, I have anxiety attacks just worrying about how a kid might be getting harmed, the last thing I want to do is bring harm to them.

And I did cause harm, I didn’t know that was what I was doing, but I did, because I wasn’t mature enough to understand how to interact with kids as an adult. And again, I’m just incredibly sorry things had to even come to this. I’m not lying when I say I think about this every single day, and sometimes spiral in to really bad anxiety because of it. It affects me heavily.

I want to move on.

And I want the people affected to move on too.

Because dwelling on this isn’t going to do anyone any good.

#apology #important

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neonponders · 3 years

Text

I’m so sorry that I don’t remember who originally posted about Steve accidentally calling Billy, Daddy, and Billy - naturally - going feral for it.

But daydreaming about this helped me sleep so ~ enjoy! (If anyone knows the post I’m talking about, I’ll happily add a link to it in a reblog and the ao3 notes.)

Read on ao3 here.

Featuring reunion/aged up trope ~ (I didn’t really keep canon in mind for this, but if you want it to be post season 3, that’s fine.)

It’s a strange twilight zone, meeting someone again. Being complete strangers with a history.

Not the best history, either, so Steve just had to laugh to himself while he sat on Billy Hargrove’s couch. The guy looked up from the kitchen counter across the open floor plan. “What?”

And Steve might be internally combusting a bit-

A lot.

Because Billy’s hot. Like...Steve can actually appreciate it now. It’s not the first time he feels like a fool for being too slow. Billy was a looker in high school; easily one of the guys who completed puberty first and knew it. Made him an asshole for it. And people liked assholes.

Steve guessed he just didn’t do it right. Being the mean guy. But that was far behind them, now, and Billy’s late twenties were doing him favors.

Steve supposed if young, spry, Adonis Billy came with being a complete dick, then he could appreciatively leave him behind. Because Billy wasn’t a complete dick anymore. And the man strolling back across the room with a pair of whiskey sours was definitely, 100%, burning a hole through Steve’s jeans better than the show-off from high school ever did.

Steve reckoned Adonis never got laid nearly as much as Zeus or Poseidon anyway, which he only knew from Robin’s ramblings about her Greek theatre class. Steve earned a distinct wrinkling of her nose when he said, “Lettuce? Adonis is symbolized with lettuce? Yeah, no. Aphrodite, that cougar, fell for a twink while Daddy Poseidon was getting whoever he wanted with his beard and all.”

Robin had barked a laugh but chided, “Please don’t ever call Poseidon, “Daddy,” ever again. Oh my god.”

Joke’s on her, because now she referred to the gods and heroes by whatever name Steve gave them.

And the joke was on Steve. Because he was definitely the twink in this new situation he found himself in.

Billy had always been stacked. But the guy walking through the university gallery to make Steve’s heart stop beating in his chest was something else. He wasn’t even bigger, really. Something just...happened as soon as a person could see 30 closer than 20. Steve had first noticed it with Robin, because they spent the most time together. Obviously that crush had been snuffed out with her gentle coming-out to him years ago, but Steve still had eyes in his head. Robin aged really well. Steve had begun to wonder if he was aging nearly as gracefully.

Billy, that bastard, strolled right up to him with a freaking mustache of all things, invited them to lunch the next day - where he had switched to clean shaven - and now sat on his couch in his newly built apartment complex with a sweating, rattled Steve. He had neatly pulled him aside before the three of them parted the restaurant to invite Steve over for drinks that evening.

Steve was unprepared for the sculpted scruff on the man’s face now. He’d never seen a guy switch facial hair styles like he was changing shirts. Frankly, he didn’t know anybody who could just grow it that easily.

Steve gulped loudly around his whiskey sour.

It was Billy’s turn to laugh under his breath. “You okay? You never answered me.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, a little out of breath. “I’m just...reeling, here. I think the last conversation we had involved a fist fight.”

Billy laughed again and Steve’s eyes trailed over the shirt fitting perfectly around his built shoulders. Maybe Billy is bigger. In like a...domestic sort of way. Like he still had all his muscle but didn’t throw a fit over a bowl of pasta. Steve is still taller. Steve still had that, at least, but he sure felt like his second puberty hadn’t graced him yet.

Billy was talking. Pay attention, Steve.

Something about Robin. Steve replied, and hoped he was answering close to whatever Billy had said, “Robin teaches there and some of her students were in the exhibition. It’s an art nerd thing. Everybody’s involved, even if it’s not your subject.”

Steve couldn’t tell if the pause was Billy processing or if Steve had been completely off the mark. Deflect. Reroute! his brain told him, so he asked, “Did we ever ask how you knew about the gallery?”

“Max goes to school there.”

“Oh,” Steve chirped bluntly. “Small world.”

Billy hummed a sound low in his chest. Something vibrated inside Steve and he closed his eyes in a hard blink, grasping at flimsy straws for composure. Billy finished, “I was in the area. Definitely a pleasant surprise to see your familiar face.”

“My Lego head?” Steve gestured vaguely at himself. “I guess this block always did stand out.”

Billy huffed a surprised sound, like he hadn’t expected that, but he let it tumble into easy laughter. “You look good. I never saw you with short hair.”

His fingers pushed the arching swoop of Steve’s fringe behind his ear. The briefest touch across his temple finishing on his neck...

I’m going to have a heart attack.

“Thanks. That goes for the both of us.”

Just like he almost missed never snatching a chance with high school Billy, Steve only kinda missed never getting his hands on that mullet. Only to know how soft that hair actually was. Not like Billy needed it, of course. Truly absurd, how he rocked any hair situation on his head that wasn’t shaped like a Lego person’s.

Steve finished his whiskey in the next gulp.

He could feel Billy’s laser blue eyes notice this, and then he stood from the couch. “I’m getting us some waters.”

“Okay,” Steve chimed dumbly. Feeling dumb.

Jesus Christ, it’s Scoops all over again. You suck. You suck-

“Poseidon liked a twink too, you nimrod,” Robin had teased back. “His name was Anteros.”

“And he dies too, right?”

“Nope. He’s basically Poseidon’s husband and chauffeur.”

“Aw. Good for Daddy P.”

Billy returned. “Are you one of these people who likes seltzers?”

Steve blindly took the can while his thoughts slammed mutinously into, Daddy B. B is kinda cute. Shorter-

“Thanks-

Billy.

-daddy.”

Steve opened the can before it sank in what he’d just said. Carbonation gently kissed his skin as he held the can to his lips but didn’t drink. Some may or may not have landed in his lap before he lowered it to see Billy’s unreadable face.

“Oh my god.” Steve rushed to place the can on the coffee table and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Did you...?”

“Don’t say it,” he pleaded, removing a hand as if to physically defend against the words in the air.

“Steve-”

His words came muffled from where he hid inside his hands. “Oh my god. I’m gonna throw up.”

He stood up - to go where, he didn’t really know. Probably best to just leave at this point. Way to choke. Way to absolutely choke, Harrington. You don’t even know if Billy’s bi and you just deep-dived into WEIRD-

“I’m really sorry,” he rushed as he stepped around the coffee table.

“Steve.” Billy gripped his arm and pulled right back onto the couch as if it were easy. Steve more than landed in his spot, he landed flush against Billy. His thigh felt Billy’s warmth, and his lips stayed parted to keep breathing when he realized how close their faces were.

Billy this close was something else, and Steve didn’t have the brain power to navigate it.

“Say it again.”

So it took him a long minute to absorb that. Was he seeing stars? So much for breathing.

“Huh?”

Steve’s lashes sagged heavily over his eyes when Billy leaned tantalizingly close. Either of them could stick their tongues out and taste the other’s lips.

Don’t, he commanded his mutinous subconscious.

“Say it again, Steve.”

He wondered which was louder: his thunderous heart or the racket in his brain trying to turn rusty gears. He whispered against Billy’s skin, “I didn’t mean to say it.”

A hand, gentle but there, found Steve’s nape. “I’m telling you to say it on purpose.”

Was he making fun of him? Steve couldn’t tell. He hadn’t spent more than a handful of hours with him. But his voice made that thing in Steve’s body vibrate and his brain had officially declared itself a lost cause.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Steve closed the gap - tiny as it was - and involuntarily moaned at the softness of Billy’s lips. The hand on his nape tightened and another came to hold the front of his throat; not pressing against his windpipe, but Billy’s fingertips held Steve’s jaw in place and his palm surely felt the drumming of Steve’s heart.

Steve’s tongue couldn’t help itself. He touched the plush skin of Billy’s upper lip, ever so lightly-

Billy groaned, wanton and hungry as he pushed entirely into Steve’s personal space. The latter gasped at the sound, and then he really did see stars as Billy’s tongue fucked against his own. He tasted sour and sweet and the citrus mixed with Billy’s natural taste in such a way that Steve tilted his head for more, pushed right back into Billy’s space.

Steve’s body rotated enough that his knee bumped into Billy’s. Then Billy was gripping that joint hard enough to bruise so that he could pull Steve all the way around to straddle him. Steve clumsily climbed onto his lap, grateful for the influx of air as Billy planted wet kisses and pressed his tongue into Steve’s pulse. He didn’t really know what the boundaries were anymore. This was explosive and sudden and Steve sat, unsure, higher up on Billy’s thighs-

“Ahh!” he burst when Billy gripped his hips and yanked his pelvis flush against him. Steve’s moan clipped short into a small ache of pain. The way his jeans tightened with the stretch of his thighs crimped into his already throbbing erection.

Billy opened his jeans. Steve’s voice escaped with his gasp when the colder backs of his fingers touched his belly as he dipped into Steve’s underwear. He stood up on his knees to give Billy the room to free his erection, and Steve couldn’t help the moan that exhaled out of him when he sat back down, feeling Billy’s soft shirt against his red cockhead.

Steve shivered as Billy’s hands slid up and around his body, mapping out Steve’s topography and shoving his shirt as high as Steve’s collarbones. Steve felt like a lewd wet dream: an exposed, panting mess on Billy’s lap. His heart ricocheted around his ribs with the sharp tickle of stubble, and he whimpered as it scraped over his nipple and chest.

“Your shirt,” he heaved, knowing he was dripping precum. “Billy-”

“Call me what you did before.” He reached into the back of Steve’s jeans and gripped a handful of his ass that had Steve lurching forward and bucking into the softness of that shirt and tummy, the warmth of Billy’s body. Steve whined when Billy held him down, unable to move.

“Say it. Whatever you want. Just say it for me.”

Steve bought a little time by kissing him, hard. Hard enough to make Billy lie back into the couch, his head tilted up to moan into Steve’s mouth. Steve’s lips nuzzled the side of his lips and began an exploratory trail across Billy’s cheek and jaw, down to his throat.

“I just...wanna feel all of this on me. I wanna feel your beard so much I’ll still feel it tomorrow... Daddy.”

Steve’s voice pitched to the ceiling when a hand gripped his hair. Billy’s other hand released his ass cheek to push encouragingly on Steve’s lumbar the same time he drew Steve’s earlobe into his mouth. Steve gripped the couch upholstery behind Billy’s shoulders as he bucked against him, rutting like a teenager. Billy’s own jaw fell for his moan to escape when Steve’s ass and backs of his thighs moved over his own cock trapped in his pants.

Steve tried to slow down a little, to rub against him without making the fabric chaff. “Daddy, what do want?”

If he didn’t feel Billy’s heartbeat before, he sure as hell did now. Steve felt it against his hands as he sought to know the contours of Billy’s shoulders and chest. He watched Billy’s swallow through the gorgeous neck that lay open to him as Billy gazed up at him. One of his hands traced the gently twitching artery on the side. Steve began to pepper slow, audible kisses against his face. When he landed on Billy’s lips, Billy kissed back, and when he wandered all the way up to Billy’s temple, Billy let him. Only his hands moved sluggishly between Steve’s thighs and his waist, seeking skin underneath his shirt.

Steve came back down to whisper against Billy’s lips, “Daddy?”

It was a blur of movement punctuated by Steve’s surprised yelp of glee as Billy threw him onto his back on the couch. Billy kissed the laughter out of his flushed, red throat, growling in satisfaction at how those bubbles of mirth sank into breathy moans.

“I’ve wanted you for years, pretty boy.”

Steve’s brain didn’t absorb that so much as his body did. Pinballs of emotion and sensation darted to and from his groin. He lifted his leg to rest across the back of the couch and to give Billy access to whatever he wanted.

Strong hands moved carefully - fondly - over Steve’s thighs. A stuttering breath left him when Billy clutched the backs of his legs. A sweet ache to have the muscle squeezed there.

“Don’t hold back on me now, baby,” Billy taunted, pressing his hands into the couch on either side of Steve and aligning his bulge with Steve’s hole and undercarriage still inside his jeans. “Let me hear you.”

Steve’s other leg wrapped around him and he lifted his pelvis to grind against Billy’s front. Billy’s bravado melted into an anguished, blissed-out frown as he shut his eyes against the sensation. When he opened them, Steve held his cock in hand, pumping himself in time with his pelvis rolling up to meet Billy.

It was sloppy and desperate and Steve didn’t think he ever did this even as a teenager. It had all been a small town rush to get hands or mouths on skin and get rid of the stigmatizing V-card. Except when Steve was in love, and allowed to take his time...

Steve didn’t know if he was in love now. But as another wave of ticklish warmth darted through him, Steve laughed a little.

“What?” Billy asked, not unlike the first time.

“I just...I just like this, that’s all,” Steve admitted. “You feel good. You smell good. Ahh! I’m close.”

“Let me see you, baby. Let me taste the mess you make.”

That didn’t so much as nudge Steve off the cliff as it drop kicked him into his orgasm.

“Hahh! Daddy, I’m there! I’m there...”

The mind-halting knot of sensation burst inside him with a force that let Steve not even care that he craned his face toward the arm of the couch, moaning and splashing his hair over the upholstery like a romance novel cover.

He realized somewhere in the middle that Billy had grasped his cock and was the reason his climax kept going. Milking little dribbles of cum out of him. Steve hadn’t cum like this in years, and he lay riveted to Billy hastening his rhythm to chase his own cliff edge.

The furrowed brows of concentration on Billy’s face were wiped off by Steve gripping his shirt and yanking him down for Steve to taste him, to plunder his mouth and feel that soft material against his own bare, messy torso.

Billy shuddered and pushed, pushed against Steve like he meant to bury his cockhead inside as he came. The visual sent an aching thrill into Steve’s core, knowing how Billy looked when he came and knowing that he’d cum inside. It made Steve eager to feel the pressure of his thrusts and the aftershocks when he pulled out to repeat it all again.

Steve had just cum like a seventeen year old and wanted to go all the way, with Billy’s hands all over his backside and his scruff against Steve’s ass cheeks-

Billy’s hand brushed over his hair and eased around to cradle his head. “What are you thinking behind those big eyes?”

Steve blinked drunkenly up at him even though it certainly wasn’t whiskey giving him this high. “My eyes?”

“Mmhm,” Billy hummed through lips pressing into a content smile. He hovered over his elbows, still framing Steve in but not crowding him. Fingertips pressed little swirls over his scalp, drifting around his ear. “I like your big, doe eyes.”

No one ever commented on his eyes. His hair, obviously. His butt. His shoulders. His moles. Billy gazed down at him, searching through Steve’s thoughts. The way he always had, really.

“Thinkin’ about you creaming me instead of your pants.”

Billy turned his head to the side so he didn’t laugh directly in Steve’s face. “Only if I’m not dreaming this time.”

This time.

God, Steve liked what that implied.

His arms came around Billy’s shoulders, loving the broadness and weight of the man on top of him. He kissed him softly, bumping his nose against Billy’s and eliciting a groan while Billy tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

“Again,” he begged through the kiss. “I want you again, Daddy.”

#i've never written a daddy kink before #i hope it's okay u_u #harringrove #neonponders #pondermoniums #ficlet #daddy #daddy!kink #my greek mythology nerd is showing #steve out here being a service top even when he bottoms

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mementomori-demimonde · 3 years

Text

Old Wounds

Hidden Scars: I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI.1 / XI.2 XII - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII - XVIII - XIX - XX

Bonus Chapter (21):

Three years ago, you broke up with Miranda.

Or, to better say, three years ago, Miranda broke up with you.

After escaping Victor’s grasp and embarking on the flight headed to England, Miranda thought it was best for the two of you to be constantly moving around.

She easily procured fake IDs and documents and, as Mrs. & Mrs. O’Brien (so lame that you loved it), you checked in the most expensive hotels and made a mess of the room, only to be off the next day. Every bill was paid and the staff generously tipped, even though the money didn’t certainly come from your pockets as you didn’t have any: you found out it was fairly easy to transfer money around and trick the systems; at least all those hacking software lessons had proven useful, though you weren’t up to anything illegal - it was a matter of survivance, that was what you told yourself.

Life was wild and exciting, every morning you were someone slightly different while remaining the same, every night you got lost in the scent of her, only to be woken up by her fingers exploring your body.

Miranda was never satiated. And while it was only a matter of sex, before, there was something addicting, now, that flickered between the two of you.

It was something you thought was unbreakable. Something so rare to be born in such a hostile condition that it would be so hard to kill that nobody would even try to.

You thought.

Miranda lit up the day you reached Glasgow.

You could see her eyes gleaming, you could see her sharp fangs shining at the pale light of the sun as she dragged you around, showing you this and that, telling you about her childhood while turning a child herself, innocent and carefree and happy enough to be pulling you in and kiss you in the middle of the road.

You stayed in Glasgow for five months after that, because she thought you were both safe.

You decided to rent a small apartment next to the theater because, apparently, Miranda loved the theatre and you loved discovering things about her just as much as you loved watching her glow as she watched the show and the people acting or the orchestra playing.

You even convinced her to take yoga classes and, except for a couple of smashed glasses when she thought a waiter was ogling you, and an exploded pillow when her football team lost to the rigors, she seemed to have learned how to manage her anger pretty well.

Even her part-time job as a dog-sitter helped her keep her calmness, even to balance with the frustration she would accumulate during her other job as a consultant; of what, you never worked it out completely, you simply knew it was something to do with finance, probably internationally. Miranda didn’t like to talk about it excessively - the pay was good, she seemed satisfied with it - so you let her be.

As for you, when the first opportunity came out, you accepted it right away: as a receptionist of a luxury hotel, you had a fair amount of working hours, perfectly timed with Miranda, and you were able to bake breakfast for the both of you, pack your lunch boxes and be back before her to prepare dinner when Miranda didn’t surprise you, instead, with some take out and a lit candle.

She uncovered a nice, unexpected side of her, but sometimes she still was the scary old Miranda, even when it wasn’t necessary, to your opinion.

Whenever she acted bad, you served her a banana on a plate instead of a nice dinner you baked, to commemorate the first meal she had you eat. Miranda would pout, eat the banana in silence, and ask for forgiveness between the freshly cleaned sheets. This worked the other way around too, of course, with the exception that she enjoyed herself a little too much, sometimes, prolonging the punishment to something more than just a banana for dinner. Either way, everything was solved in bed. Not that you complained about this method, of course.

You thought you couldn’t be happier; but you thought you could never be any less happy either, and, of course, you were wrong.

It was a casual question you blurted out without much thought.

One night, you were watching a cheesy movie on tv, just for the fun of hearing her complain while she had her legs slung over yours, silently demanding for cuddles she would never admit to be requesting. As the couple on the screen kissed and cried happily, you said “have you ever thought about marriage?”

Miranda froze. You tried to explain that it meant nothing in particular, it was just conversation, but something in her eyes had changed.

She never answered the question.

Days went by and you could tell that something had painfully shifted between the two of you.

You tried to take it back, make her forget with some rough nights, just like she used to like it, but nothing worked.

Miranda wasn’t the same.

And then, one morning she was simply gone, without a single explanation.

After twelve days of waiting, you made peace with yourself that Miranda wouldn’t be coming back.

You started to hate everything you loved so quickly that even going out in the streets and hearing all those people talking Scottish made you sick, so taking the next decision wasn’t too hard, after all: you told Cecilia to mind the tabby cat Miranda pulled out a stray dog’s jaws and brought home for you to heal, vacated the apartment hotfoot and accepted the job as head manager of the hotel subsidiary in Rome, Italy.

After a few weeks, you realized the change was exactly what you needed: Rome was amazing, you like the people and, most of all, the food. You even decided to join a gym so you could keep eating the delicious meals the hotel chef cooked for the staff and when the weather was good, you went for a run, early in the morning, enjoying the sight of the city lazily waking up. Late in the night, before going to bed, you would flick your tear-drop-shaped dagger and put it in the top drawer in the nightstand, only to wear it the next day, because now you felt naked without its cold blade pressing against your leg. You dropped the habit of wearing it on your thigh - it wasn’t practical with your work attire - but strapped to your calf or pocketed inside your boot. You hated yourself for it, but it couldn’t be helped. You tried to convince yourself it was just in case you had to defend yourself - it was sensible since you had to walk by yourself most of the time.

All things considered, you fit in well.

Your apartment is good, with a nice view on the Tevere, the pay is almost double the one in Glasgow and you can allow yourself some treats, from time to time, whenever you feel too blue to stay in the apartment by yourself.

You contemplated the idea of getting a pet for a time, but you decided against it since that too would awaken sour thoughts.

You tried to date for a while, but nobody was enough.

Nobody compared to her.

Despite everything Miranda did to you, her memory was latched to your brain like a plague.

It still is.

Sometimes, only some heavy drinking can get her out of your head.

You weren’t on duty tonight, and while you’re coming back from a peaceful stroll, your colleague calls: there has been a great fuss in the hotel; he tells you about ambulances and police cars hurrying with the sirens blaring to arrest some psycho that attacked a woman in her room. A guy was shot, but you don’t register much about the events, nor do you ask for further information, eager to drop the argument and avoid some unpleasant memories rising in your mind. Guns, people attacking other people, blood… It’s all in the past.

Hurrying up the stairs and fishing in your purse for the keys, you barely notice that the door lock is slightly scratched.

You don’t pay attention to it, nor the way your key slides inside the hole, until you step inside your home, pawing at the switch, and the light doesn’t work.

Immediately, all your senses turn on, your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, your ears eager to capture the smallest sound.

It’s the hair on the back of your neck that puts you in alarm. Rising for an imperceptible breath of wind, they notify of the imminent danger.

The next thing you feel is a strong arm wrapped around your throat, and a warm body pressed against your back.

The attacker clearly knows what they’re doing, but you do too.

Everything she taught you is stuck in your brain, branded on your bones.

In a flash, you lift your dominant leg just enough to grab the knife.

You plunge it into your attacker’s thigh without hesitation.

She - it’s a she - grunts in anger.

The hold of her elbow softens, her arm slides from your neck, her body moves abruptly from yours as she limps away, leaving you alone and scared, but in complete control of yourself.

“My, my. I am getting sloppy.” The voice sends chills down your spine. It’s warm, it’s smug, almost amused, and familiar. Terribly familiar.

Your heart, despite yourself, throbs painfully.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes from your lips.

“Good.” She says, “very good, m’eudail.”

Whatever doubt you might’ve had, now it’s completely gone. It’s not your mind playing tricks, associating a familiar event with a lost person, this is happening for real. Running away from England to another country, taking a new name, a new identity, rebuilding your life almost from zero has served you nothing: she still has found you.

“Miranda?”

Three years.

Three years you haven’t heard from this woman.

Three years you’ve tried to push it out of your head.

Three years of pretending it was just a nightmare.

Three years and she’s back as if it’s nothing, standing in your apartment like she owns the place. She does, in a way. Miranda still owns you, in the first place, whether you like it or not: it’s not your choice to make. Until Miranda decides to let you go, you’re hers. It’s inevitable. And you know, you feel it in your guts, that Miranda will never let you go.

Some exchange rings, some jump over an old broom; your ‘until death do us part’ was a carving in the shape of an M - not on wood or marble, but on flesh - and you wonder how could she be so scared of marriage in the first place if she, too, has made a promise for life.

She comes into the light pouring in from the windows: it’s sunset, and the streetlight has just been lightened up.

Like it’s no big deal, you watch her bend down and wrap her fingers around the handle of the knife and, with a quick motion, she pulls it out from her wounded flesh with minimum bleeding.

With a wince, you notice that her trousers are already stained with dried blood, mixing with the fresh one.

She straightens her back and bares her teeth into a crooked smile, her split lip glistening with droplets of crimson. It looks painful. She doesn’t seem to mind one bit. Her cheekbone is blooming with blue and purple, her throat bears a sore line around. Miranda wears her bruises as if it was makeup, proud and confident. And, oh, so beautiful like the night before she left.

You can’t help but feel concerned, which only adds to your frustration: you shouldn’t care about her, you shouldn’t feel so strongly about the blood running down her chin - she probably deserves it, and more - but you do care.

You watch her, powerless, as she stumbles toward the couch and lets herself fall unceremoniously on top of it, grunting as her bruised body slackens against the soft pillows. Her shirt is stained as well, her knuckles scraped.

“You’re beaten up.” You dumbly point out.

She lets out a dark chuckle and lolls her head back. Your eyes are drawn to the rhythmic movements of her throat as she swallows. You can almost taste the iron inside your own mouth - how many times she’s kissed you after a training session, how many times your sweat mingled with hers when you wondered if you were fighting or fucking.

It all felt so long ago and, still, it hurt like it was yesterday.

“Tried my best, but you can’t expect the featherweight to win against the heavyweight without a significantly favorable weapon. He was just a bigger psycho than me: came out on top, in the end.” Miranda murmurs, a smug expression deforming her features. “Victor, on the other hand-”

The name has your head spinning. His ugly mouse-face comes to visit on the blurry surface of your mirror every time you shower, the rough lines crossing your back are a distant yet a painful reminder of those days of imprisonment, confined in that small room with Miranda, uncovering her past, her job, her boss and his despicable ways. Those marks hurt, but not as much as it hurts the one on your left shoulder - not until now.

“You’ve gone back to work for him?”

After all you’ve been through, after all the pain he inflicted, after she promised to have him killed because he took it out on you, Miranda decided to still work with him. Betrayal didn’t even compare to what you felt.

How many things can change in three years? You lived a lifetime in two months, since Miranda kidnapped you. Three years, right now, are an eternity.

Miranda’s smile drops. Her blue eyes wander aimlessly around the room, stopping in a dark corner. They aren’t focused, but it’s easy for you to see the regret blaring in her lost gaze.

“It was what I am,” Miranda murmurs, her voice emotionless, “it was the only thing I knew.”

There’s a pregnant silence between the two of you. It feels like forever before you move your first step toward the couch, your gaze fixed on her as if you were trying to control a snake about to snap its vicious attack.

You know Miranda won’t move, not to attack you anyway, but you’re cautious when you speak.

“You’re talking in the past tense.”

“He’s dead now.” Miranda breathes out heavily. Her voice almost overlaps yours, as if she’s completely zoned out, not listening at all, unaware of her surroundings, as impossible as it seems. “I killed him, gave him what he deserved.”

The sheepish look she gives you is the sparkle that lits your flame. It doesn’t matter if Victor is dead now, the memories still haunt your dreams, and Miranda has gone back to work for him.

You feel cheated on, betrayed, and you still don’t know what she wants from you. Frustration builds up from within until you feel like exploding.

You would smack her and shake her by her shoulders if she wasn’t so bruised - and if she’d let you, of course, before succumbing to her strong arms and be stopped by force.

“Miranda, why are you here?” You would ask her to leave, tell her you can’t stand her sight… if only that was true. Angered beyond words by her persistent silence, you walk to her with heavy steps, until you’re in front of her, for the first time, towering her small figure on the couch. She looks frail, harmless, submissive, but you know she’s not any of those things. “Miranda-”

“Shut up.”

You don’t know how she’s managed that - if she’s pulled you down by the collar of your shirt, or hooked her fingers in your belt, or even hit the back of your knees with her foot - but you’re falling right onto her, like the controlled destruction of a building, collapsing right where the demolition expert planned. You try to catch yourself with one hand on either side of her head, fingers clawing the soft pad of the back cushion, even if it’s not necessary: of course, Miranda has caught you first.

Although ‘catch’ is not entirely correct. Her greedy fingers are grabbing your head, pulling more than supporting, and before you can realize what’s happening, her lips are on your mouth.

Oh, God, how much you missed her.

It’s not a nostalgic kiss, she’s not asking for forgiveness or awakening long-lost memories. Her lips are urgent, almost aggressive.

It’s like those three years never went by, as if a lot of things never happened: this one isn’t Miranda, but the mysterious woman who kidnapped you in the alley; she’s back to that unhinged creature that tortured you in the most pleasant ways, who turned a cage into paradoxical heaven where wrong was right and the pain was pleasure.

Too easily you fall back into the addicting spiral that bound you to her. You’re completely at her mercy, once again, with no power nor will to pull yourself out of it. Despite everything, you want more of her kisses, you want more of her touches, you want more of her, no matter if she’s rough or brutal - something of Miranda is still better than nothing.

Hungry hands travel fast from your face to your neck and, for a moment, you prepare to hold your breath thinking she will wrap her fingers around your throat to have you squirm in her lap, desperate for air, just to assert her total control, but you’re wrong. Miranda doesn’t stop: she paws possessively at your breasts, teasing your nipples through the coarse fabric - you hate a little how your body seems to react regardless of your mind, answering to her touch in all the right ways.

You always take minutes to remove your uniform, Miranda hasn’t taken more than one to leave you in your undergarments, confused and wondering if you were actually wearing something before she claimed ownership over you and your body, like always, like she was entitled since the beginning.

Her mouth travels fast, in tow, she nibbles and lavishes, sending electric sparks to your core.

You don’t dare speak, afraid that the spell will break, that you’ll wake up from a dream even though you don’t remember falling asleep, even if it feels real, so real, almost too real that you can’t bring yourself to renounce it.

The tip of her nose tickles the valley of your breasts when she kisses her way down your stomach and belly, her nails scratch dully at the small of your back, pulling your knickers down in one move.

You’ve never noticed how chill your apartment can be. Or maybe you’ve never been so hot before, within these walls.

Her mouth knows exactly where to tease you, her tongue touches all the right places and only in the right ways. Her body remembers everything, and at the same time, it feels new. She tastes you, pursuing the depths of you, almost as if she wants to drown right there and then.

Bare and vulnerable, you don’t even perceive the typical powering position on top of her; Miranda is always on top, also when she’s not.

You can only arch over her as she draws a hurried orgasm out of you, leaving you raw and trembling, your mind spiraling from contentment, nostalgia, and a deep sense of guilt and then back again, when her tongue doesn’t stop until she isn’t satisfied with a second climax, and a third.

It’s easy to lose count when Miranda is having her way. It’s easy to get lost and losing track of time and of yourself, it’s easy to set aside everything to chase her with your hips, desperate for everything and in everything.

She doesn’t allow you to catch your breath when she’s done. You barely catch a glimpse of her when she pulls away, working her jaw to relieve the soreness that has surely set in her muscles, but her eyes are elusive, disappointing you when you hoped to look at her and find the woman you know.

It’s just another confirmation that she is still somewhere else, at least in spirit.

You’ve learned to know her strength, despite her petite size, and yet you can’t prevent the surprised gasp that escapes your mouth when she pushes you off of her and into the couch on your front, so fast that you gape at the pillow below.

You struggle to adjust your head and tilt it to the side when you feel her climb on your thighs, her ripped legs grabbing yours with vicious force when she lowers herself, and despite being fully clothed, you can feel the heat from her core right below your bottom, where she sits.

You swallow in anticipation, shiver when her nails rake at your skin, and then, then everything stops. She pauses.

You feel all the tension leave the room like the fog lifting from the streets.

Her legs are looser when she shifts lower on your thighs, her hands are softer when she glides her fingers up the small of your back and they linger, for a moment too long, across your shoulder blades.

You want to say something, even say her name again, listen to your own voice calling Miranda while still striving to breathe, wearied by the pleasure her skilled tongue has brought you. But as soon as you take a small breath to speak, a startling weight on your back knocks the air out of your lungs.

You take a moment to comprehend that Miranda has leaned on the top of you, her chest rises and falls rhythmically against your back, her breath tickles your left shoulder and you blink at the fact that her cheek is probably resting on her carved initial, and not just by chance.

You mentally count three seconds in, three seconds out. Her warm breath sends shivers down your spine.

“Had to find you.”

It’s a murmur, barely a whisper, so small you even doubt you heard it for real or just in your head.

“What?”

You try to squirm from below, eager to watch her face, read in her eyes if she’s making fun of you in the cruelest of ways or not. Her voice has tricked you on many occasions… or not. Maybe it was her eyes. Maybe it’s better for both of you if you can’t cage into each other’s eyes.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, relax your muscles, stop your hands from scrambling in the purchase of a steady surface to push yourself up and Miranda off of you.

It’s better this way: she won’t talk, otherwise.

“Thought I could do it.” She sighs, her lips move on your skin, leaving a moist halo around her lips. “Thing is… that I could.”

“You’re talking about-”

“Glasgow.” She snaps. You feel her clenching her jaw tight. “When we lived together.”

“You’re scared that you could live normally?”

Silence.

“You don’t understand.” She huffs. “People like me can’t usually walk away whenever they please and forget about their pasts.”

“But you did.” You retort. “We were fine.”

Miranda chuckles. It’s a bittersweet one, and it ends quickly.

“I was doing fine before you came.” She clarifies. It clarifies nothing, but you don’t dare to interrupt, fearing she’ll just walk away for good. “There’s a reason why so many have failed. No one was able to ruin me while I ruined them. No one was you.”

You can breathe easily now that Miranda has rolled off of you.

You turn to your side quickly, eager to follow her with your eyes and make sure she won’t take the door and never come back after such a declaration. Rare have been the times you’ve heard Miranda talk in such ways and you can only imagine what is the prelude for: something fatally bad, or something impossibly good.

In the forced darkness of your apartment, the blue of her eyes glows at the dim reflection of the streetlights.

Her voice echoes in your head.

When you initiate the kiss you’re surprised she doesn’t pull back. She doesn’t even complain. She doesn’t grab your face or the back of your neck, she doesn’t claim the lead.

It’s startling, and it’s a foreign sensation you’re not used to, at all.

You barely register the soft rustle of fabric as you chase her taste and mingle it with yours.

And then finally you feel her hands on yours, her slender fingers reaching for yours and sliding almost perfectly in between, like pieces of a puzzle.

She swallows your breathy moan.

You haven’t expected your hands to be drawn closer to the warmth of her body. She lets her fingers move to your wrists, she lets them loop around the protruding bone there - she doesn’t squeeze, she doesn’t pull nor push - leaving your pads free to roam over her stomach, through the small crack of her shirt, gliding over the taut skin of her abdomen. You feel new bumps, new scars perhaps.

She squirms when you push a little too hard against her hip bone.

Or, maybe, she doesn’t exactly squirm.

You feel her adjust, raising her pelvis off the couch, but not to ease discomfort.

Your fingertips slip easily beyond the band of her high-waist trousers.

Miranda doesn’t move.

She’s even stopped the kiss, letting you decide.

It’s an open invitation - a request, perhaps - to touch her, properly, like you’ve been asking, for weeks, silently, before you decided to voice your thoughts and your feelings.

Everything went downhill from there.

Your breath catches, the long-awaited moment feeling so terrifying, now, that you can’t bring yourself to just stop thinking and follow your guts, your innermost desires, to claim what has been denied to you for so long.

Miranda wouldn’t have hesitated. She didn’t hesitate to take when she wanted and could.

Thing is, you’re not her.

You pull away from her in a blink, your fingers tingle with unsatisfied electricity when you hide your face in your hands.

“Miranda.” You growl. Your voice comes out muffled from behind your palms. You’d want to yell at her, berate her, but it only comes out desperate, you sound on the verge of crying. Maybe you are. “What are you doing?”

Her hands are touching your wrists again. She’s gentle. More than she’s ever been. She forces you to unpeel your hands from your face.

In the dim light from the streetlights, her eyes shine again. They seem full of unshed tears, but you don’t want to fool yourself with dull illusions that don’t belong, with every possibility, to either of you.

Miranda doesn’t talk. You know it, you can see it, there’s a whole universe of things she’s dying to say, and still… she doesn’t speak.

You let out a shaky breath, sit lower on her legs, your gazes locked.

“Miranda, what’s your point?” You try again, softer this time.

She opens her mouth to speak then, only to close it soon after with a frustrated sigh.

You can’t endure more of it. You’re too spent to keep playing.

Miranda speaks only when you push yourself off of her, trying to stand up.

“My point is- I’m done.” She huffs out a disbelieving chuckle as if it’s the first time she’s told that, to herself even; the first time she’s truly grasped the idea and made it final. “I’ve got tons of money now and I can leave it all behind.”

“Miranda-”

“We can leave it all behind.” She corrects. One of her hands slithers to the small of your back, pushing you down to keep you near. It’s confident but for the first time, somehow, it’s not possessive. “Start over, for real.”

You swallow a mouthful of sand. Your head is spinning. You even wonder if something has possessed Miranda’s body and has turned her into some normal person who is actually repentant and is willing to start over.

How much can a person change in three years? Does it also apply to Miranda? The rules of mortals apply to such mysterious creatures like her?

You’re about to ask for a moment when you hear a distinct mew.

“What the fuck-” You startle, snapping your head toward the kitchen. It’s hard to see, but there’s definitely something on the counter. A box, maybe a crate. With something furry poking out. “You brought the cat?!”

Miranda’s lips are crooked into a sheepish smile when you look back at her.

“Please?” She whispers. Her voice is velvety against your lips, so close you could answer with a kiss. “What do you say?”

Maybe you will answer with a kiss.

Maybe.

#miranda croft x reader #miranda croft #tfa #the flight attendant #fanfiction #reader insert #ao3 #archive of our own #bonus chapter #complete #four lines #hidden scars #old wounds #michelle gomez

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biderboy · 3 years

Text

Complete Me || J.P

a/n ; i don’t really like this one but i was upset when is wrote it so.... (queued fic!!)

tw: mention of drowning

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humans fit so perfectly together

their fingers tightly intertwined, their lips locked together, the curves of their bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces

perfect fits.

it’s almost as if humans were ripped in half, each having a pair lost somewhere in the universe

two half’s of a soul

two half’s of a heart

two. together. perfect.

it was lovely, the thought of there being someone so meant for you

the universe shaping someone to be your other half

the universe putting its love and trust in two people, making it know that there is someone

that you aren’t alone, you were never alone, you just have to find your other half

it’s a little cruel though, to rip someone away and expect humanity to get together and fix themselves

cruel, to think a single person would be able to find their other within a lifetime, a million even

cruel to have someone meant for you, but not with you.

and cruel, to make everyone the same. to make it seem as if one person is your other because they fit, but their soul won’t intertwined with yours

cruel.

“you complete me” is what james used to whisper, gently pressed against you, hand in yours, lips against your head.

it was love, surely. but you never said it, the words heavy on your tongue and twisted around your head.

you loved him, he loved you.

but the three words never seemed to fit, never seemed to stick. too bland, not wide enough to describe just how much the boy had meant to you

“you complete me”

as if you were not whole, without him. a hole in your heart, your left side empty and cold, an ache in your soul.

and he filled it.

if there was a human meant to fit so completely, so wonderfully, and so comfortably in your life, it was james.

and you were his.

if two humans were meant for each other in every sense, it was you guys.

until it wasn’t.

love was tricky, love was harsh, love was cruel and achingly desperate to work.

but love did not always win, love would pull and twist and cry and beg.

love would drown you and save you right before your lungs collapsed.

love was stupid, and trusting.

love was hopeless and blind.

love was holding onto something that ached to be let go.

love was this.

humans were made to fit together.

but souls were meant to intertwine.

and no matter how hard you begged, james’ soul didn’t intertwine with your own.

his hands felt at home in yours.

his lips fell sweetly against your own.

his words muttered and wrapped around yours.

his body, every curve, every dip, crevice and scar, fit beautifully so.

his laugh entangled with yours.

the stars above you shined so brightly next to his sun.

everything fit.

but he was not yours.

his soul ached for someone the same way the ocean ached for the moon.

and that someone was not you.

that someone had red hair, and bright eyes.

that someone made him smile in a way you had never been able to.

that someone took his grace and entangled it with her own.

that someone looked at him and saw the sun.

that someone, was the human james was ripped from. that someone was his other half.

and you were nobody in compare, and who were you to step in the way?

despite the fact that your soul ached for him.

despite the fact that you felt your stomach twist and your heart fall apart in your chest.

despite the dull feeling, like an angel missing it’s wings, that fell upon you.

you let him go.

human were made to complete each other.

james completed you.

but you did not complete him.

and you reckoned you’d rather feel empty than watch him feel the same.

after all, the universe ripped him away from you once, it had every right to do it again.

#sorin is gone queue !#james potter #james potter fic #james potter angst #james potter x you #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter blurb #sorin writes

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shihalyfie · 3 years

Note

How would you describe the relationship between each respective goggleboy and 'rival'? Ive seen different interpretations but im curious what you think! Not to mention that the fans are sometimes arguing over who the 'rival' actually is, like with Daisuke where some people say its Ken and others say its Takeru. (I dont think there are actual rivals in the show, except for maybe Manga!Kiriha who outright says he will be just that with Taiki.)

One thing to keep in mind is that the word "rival" has kind of integrated itself into anime lingo as a full-on English loanword, so it comes from expectations of anime tropes more than anything. While even official staff has used that word in talking about Digimon, as you say, it never really fit to begin with, because not only has Digimon TV anime never been a particularly conventional shounen series in many ways, that term was also mostly coined in light of series where that term made a lot more sense. As in, they were more likely to be actually competing over something (in sports, or something tournament-based like card games); in that sense, a "rival" would be someone who might be antagonistic by being on the other side of the field, but would have a mutually positive relationship with the other person overall because the competitiveness would keep both of them on their toes and allow both of them to improve together. Digimon is not the first time this term has started getting overapplied to contexts where it doesn't really fit at all (it's been going on in Super Sentai for years), so people generally have a greater perception of it broadly meaning "two characters who have differing opinions on how something should be done due to their differing personalities, and sometimes fight over it", but in Digimon especially, it really does seem like trying to smash a square peg into a round hole.

The short answer: Xros Wars is probably the only one you can make a real argument for.

The long answer, in detail:

Adventure: I cannot emphasize enough that Adventure, being a series that was really big on that whole trope subversion thing, is a series that casts the trope of "rivalry" as "getting in a lot of fights" as a bad thing -- it's actually pretty unsubtle about it, because the word "rival" itself is explicitly used in Adventure episode 44, by Jureimon trying to manipulate Yamato. Or, in other words, "hey, if you saw someone who's supposed to be your supportive friend as someone you had to constantly compete against for no good reason, wouldn't that be really messed up?" Adventure does not even bother with or remotely believe in the idea that fighting somehow is a sign of how good friends you are, at least, not as long as that fighting is a sign of genuine hostility and refusal to communicate (which is why Yamato punching Taichi in 02 doesn't count). Every time Taichi and Yamato got in a fight back in Adventure, it was heated and ugly, and everyone in their presence was horrified, and once they sorted out their issues in Adventure, their appearances in 02 and Kizuna involved properly talking things out and making an active attempt to understand each other's feelings. There's a bit of bickering between them due to said opposing personalities, but it's never over anything serious (see the contrast in Kizuna between them having a bit of a minor row at the beginning, but high-fiving right after and spending the rest of the movie practically counseling each other).

02: Straight-up does not exist. Daisuke may have seen Takeru in that way due to the Hikari issue at first, but he was really running in circles getting absolutely nowhere about it, Takeru was mostly like "okay, you have fun with that," their only major argument about anything was the very serious issue in 02 episode 11, and it still resulted in Daisuke trying to understand Takeru's feelings. I think all of it boils down to Daisuke himself just not having that kind of personality to begin with, because he's friendly and supportive before anything else, and the whole thing with Takeru became a non-issue after a fashion (way before we even get into Kizuna, at that). Ken has the word "rival" sometimes applied to him in official franchise media, but nobody ever believes it. Sure, Daisuke and Ken have fairly complementary personalities, but they seem to both be aware of this fact and actively using it to help each other. It's very, very, very hard to imagine them ever getting into any kind of fight the way Taichi and Yamato used to in Adventure. It's just not happening! They're "best friends" who enjoy each other's company and actively hang out, and...yeah, that's it.

Tamers: Also does not exist! I know a lot of people really try to say it's Ruki because she's the one with the lone-wolf attitude and aggravated Takato at first, but my impression of Takato's attitude with her wasn't out of any competition but more that he'd like it if she didn't try to pick fights with him. Which she does actually stop after a while, mind you, and you could even make an argument that she's more of a foil to Jian than Takato, because Jian's the one who was completely pacifist at first, with Takato caught in the middle. In the end, Ruki never actually attains a particularly close relationship with Takato compared to Jian, nor does she really keep up a particular competitive streak with Takato; she kind of pops in and out at her leisure because of her more independent streak, and Jian ends up more of Takato's right-hand man (which is why the franchise presumably picks him as the secondary character to feature whenever they do "secondary characters"), but neither Takato nor Jian are prone to conflict and the entire trope is just fundamentally absent. The Tamers trio, is, ultimately, a trio.

Frontier: Takuya and Kouji are probably the first pair to really look like a proper execution of the trope, and at the very least they align pretty perfectly to how it's known in Sentai: a more hot-headed, aggressive lead with a more cool-headed and cynical right-hand man, where they end up often prone to conflict over dispute on how to best lead the team. However, while it's much more of a conventional execution than Adventure (since Adventure had Yamato actually be more prone to being an emotional fuse bomb whereas Taichi was often too chill more than anything), there being any conflict isn’t gone into that deeply beyond just "their personalities are complementary", and in that sense it's not far off from Adventure itself.

Savers: The series kind of baits you into thinking it might go this way when Nanami taunts Tohma about how he had to resort to a Masaru-esque tactic to beat her (it's one of its early red herrings about Tohma supposedly betraying the group), and it does have traces at the start because of how blatant of a foil Tohma is to Masaru, but one thing important to consider is that while the "rivalry" of what's being competed over is barely even relevant in most Digimon series to begin with, Masaru and Tohma don't even have a "group" to lead -- they're the employees under DATS who are being given orders from above, and are dealing with situations as they come. Masaru ends up leading the charge a bit, but he's not actually a leader in any shape or form, and Savers is more of a story of Masaru's coming-of-age than anything else, so while the series mostly has to do with his personal philosophy more than Tohma's, it ultimately lets the two of them pursue their lives their own ways. Masaru's worst bout of infamous anger is at being hurt over Tohma's apparent betrayal, not against him personally.

Xros Wars: I would say this is the only series to date where the term "rivals" properly applies, and it's because they're fighting over something concrete: the Code Crowns, and eventually Digital World territory. So in this case, for the first two parts, the answer is obviously Kiriha; Nene was a rival at first, but after various events happened she allied with Xros Heart early into Death Generals, and while Taiki and Kiriha had a relationship of mutual respect, Kiriha still considered him an opponent over what they were competing for until eventually the Xros Heart United Army fully came into formation. In the manga version, Kiriha does invoke the word "rival" in the above sense of competing to polish one's skills, but ironically, its version of the Death Generals arc involves them being much more in-tune with the same goals, so it might actually apply less because Taiki kind of responds with "uh, sure...?" since he's not nearly as interested in self-improvement. In Hunters, while it initially seems like it might be Yuu, the answer is really Ryouma, and note that Ryouma never really forms a particularly close relationship with Tagiru; it's just that he's the person most at the forefront for competing with Tagiru in the Hunt, to the point he's the first person chosen to wield the Brave Snatcher and turns out to be a bit of a foil for Tagiru in terms of actually having admired Taiki this whole time.

Appmon: Also does not exist. Rei tried to do the whole schtick in terms of competing for the Seven Code Appmon at first, but Haru was having none of that and immediately reached out to him emotionally, worrying about his welfare, and although Rei had a bit of a detached relationship with the other Appli Drivers thereafter, it really was friendly more than anything, just a bit awkward. Haru and Yuujin aren't even on the table, since their relationship is "best friends" akin to Daisuke and Ken.

Adventure: reboot: Also does not exist, considering that Taichi and Yamato bickering over the best way to approach things is limited to the very beginning of the series (and one of those times was with Yamato and Sora, not Yamato and Taichi, at that). In fact, I think most of these kids have been acting separately for most of the series anyway...?

#digimon #shiha's ask box #timelessanimo #digimon multi series talk

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dinosaurtsukki · 4 years

Text

[ wedding gifts | feat. akaashi keiji ]

pairing: akaashi keiji x f!reader

word count: 1.3k words

contains: um, angst, jumps in between memories

a/n: wanted to use the whole wedding gift saying (something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue) thing as a prompt. /might/ make this into a series thing but depends how i feel abt it haha

▸ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ◂

I. something old

the candy ring pop that akaashi gave you when you were twelve. the lollipop had already been eaten, of course, but you still kept the green, plastic ring piece. sometimes you take it out of where you keep it on your nightstand drawer and fit it over your ring finger.

“i’ll marry you when we get older!” you remember akaashi promising you, right before slipping the ring pop on your finger. you were probably ten years-old back then. akaashi was still in his ‘dragons phase’ and carried one of his favorite books with him to school. he still barely knew how to tie his shoelaces but you never minded squatting down to tie them for him.

neither of you really understand what it means to be married. as far as you know, it just means spending time together and living in the same house. of course, you nod your head and agree. akaashi giggles before going on about how you’ll be wearing matching pajamas until you’re both older.

the lollipop dyes your tongue red and you could see it sticking out between your lips in the bathroom mirror while you rinse off the ring piece. you usually throw these away after eating them but this was different. ‘akaashi gave it, so i have to keep it’, you reason with yourself, shaking the piece of plastic dry.

you and akaashi are much older now and even though he’s grown out of his dragon phase, you still gift him a little dragon keychain that he still keeps on his bag. he probably doesn’t know that you’ve kept the ring until now, nor the fact that your hands would touch his for a moment too long.

‘does he remember?’ you wonder, gazing down at the ring on your finger. it would be kind of stupid if he does, even more so for you to hold onto it.

II. something new

the spare key to akaashi’s new apartment. he’s too cautious to leave it under the doormat to his house, saying that ‘everyone knows that’s where to keep the spare key by now’. so instead, he gives it to you. after all, you live near enough to his place. after all, you would always come if he needed you for anything.

and yet, akaashi never accidentally locks himself out of his house or loses his key. but you keep it anyway because akaashi’s apartment for you to come and go as you please. you cook too much pasta for one person but enough for two so akaashi always has extra noodles in his cupboard.

“guess what that guy in my class did today?” “i accidentally got my wrong coffee order.” despite how long you two have known each other, conversations never run stale. you feel like akaashi’s couch has begun to have a dent in the cushions because you always sit there.

and yet, you can’t bring yourself to talk about what’s been weighing on your mind for the past few years. afraid because you don’t want to accidentally create an ocean between the two of you and yet not content with the unnamed boundary between the two of you.

so you content yourself with the extra key hanging from your chain, with the extra noodle in the cupboard, with the comfortable dent in the sofa that’s been molded in the shape of you. you tell yourself that maybe someday, these would no longer be extras but normal parts of the life you and akaashi share.

that is, until he says the thing you’ve been dreading most to here. “i think i met someone,” akaashi says, almost shyly. his fingers are splayed across the rim of his mug his gaze focused at the window. another conversation stems from that, but one that you have trouble listening to as you feel the key burning a hole in your pocket.

III. something borrowed

akaashi’s volleyball team jacket from way back in high school. you can’t help but stare at the way it fits around her shoulders perfectly when akaashi drapes it on her. as much as you want to, it’s difficult to hate her. not when you see how much she makes akaashi happy.

you make akaashi happy too, just not in the way she does. but he never neglects you, never cancels out on the plans you two have made together, never leaves you waiting outside his apartment door. it would have been easier if akaashi would ignore you or if the girl he was dating was a terrible person. you’re left swinging between joy for the two of them, and sadness to your self.

“you and akaashi sure have known each other for a long time,” she says. your eyes linger on the jacket around her shoulders and how her arm is partially resting on akaashi’s.

“we’ve practically known each other since we were in daycare,” akaashi smiles softly at you. “hey, remember that time we met? when you pushed me off the swings in the playground?”

you can’t help but laugh at the memory as you recount your version of the story. in the back of your mind, you think of the green plastic ring in your nightstand drawer and the ache in your chest grows.

you lean your forehead against the car window when he drives you home, admiring how the yellow streetlights give akaashi’s skin a bronze tint, the way his dark brown hair curls in all the right places. he’s chewing his lip, meaning that he’s worrying about another deadline and you wonder if it’s alright for you to give his wrist a gentle squeeze now.

“thanks again for coming,” he smiles when he walks you to your apartment. you don’t want him to go just yet. you don’t want him to go at all. would the existing bond between you and akaashi be enough for him to consider you, his closest friend, at all?

“is something wrong, y/n?” he asks. you bite your lip, and finally say what you’ve been wanting to for the past few years.

IV. something blue

the bridesmaid’s dresses are the same shade of blue as akaashi’s tie. it’s one of the things you helped choose when wedding planning rolled around. it’s your favorite shade of blue, one that matches the irises arranged on each of the tables during the reception. everything in the wedding venue is picture-perfect and you can’t help but take mental snapshots to remember forever.

if only it was for you.

like the decorations and the flower arrangements, you’re dressed in blue from head to toe, fixing a smile on your face as you watch akaashi’s bride-to-be walk down the aisle in her white gown. even though you’ve prepared for this day for months, years even because you knew deep in your heart that akaashi would ask her eventually, you still can’t stop the tears from escaping from the corners of your eyes.

and as much as it would pain you, your eyes finally land on the expression on akaashi’s face. the smile there could only mean that he’s feeling a happiness that’s beyond words.

the rest of the ceremony goes well, even with you pausing to dab at the corner of your eyes. everyone assumes that you’re crying from happiness for your best friend.

of course, you deliver a speech to the newlyweds, one that took you weeks to write with more than a few crumpled up drafts ending up in the trash bin. it’s so easy for you to recall things like when they first met, how cute they were during those first few months of dating, how you knew deep down that they would stay together for a long time.

you and akaashi lock eyes and there’s a small, sad smile on his face. you try not to think about the green, plastic ring that you had just thrown away, or the apartment key that you could no longer used after akaashi moved out, or the fact that you haven’t seen his old volleyball jacket in so long.

at the end of the reception, akaashi offers to wait with you outside while you hail a taxi home. before entering the car, he touches your wrist for a few seconds, eyes locking with yours.

“thank you for the wedding gift.”

▸ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ◂

taglist (check out my post for details on being part of my taglist):@montys-chaos @miyumtwins @strawberriimilkshake @pocubo @sugawara-sweetheart @akaashisbabydoll @laure-chan @therainroguefanfiction @atetiffdoesart @stephdaninja @oikaw-ugh @charliefredb @dramaqueenweeb1469 @tremblinghearts @applepienation @doodleniella @haikyuu-my-love @waitforitillwritemywayout @kattykurr @atsumusdomain @goodfoodxoxoxo @ah-kaashi @guardianangelswings @definitely-yours @amberalisa @whootwhoot @liz-multifandom-hotel @kac-chowsballs @procrastination-lady

#haikyuu!!#hq x reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi #haikyuu!! angst #hq!! angst #hq angst #haikyuu!! drabble #hq!! drabble #haikyuu!! one-shot #hq!! one-shot #haikyuu!! writing #hq!! writing #haikyuu!! imagine #hq!! imagine

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aquaticstyles · 4 years

Text

from the dining table

I know I said I was posting at 7, but I finished earlier than expected :) 5k inspired by the song we all know and love, From the Dining Table. Hope you all enjoy reading! I really liked how this one turned out. As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated!!!

“Whatcha doin' out here by yourself?"

You nearly jump out of your skin and send the wine sloshing in your glass splashing onto the freshly cut grass at the sound of his voice.

You hoped—you prayed that you could get through the night without running into him. You were here to celebrate your good friend and her new husband, not re-open old scars. Yet here he is, right in front of you, dressed to the nines in all black, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders and slim waist, chestnut locks styled haphazardly and intentionally all at once, new, foreign stubble on his upper lip and jaw making him that much more ruggedly handsome, chest hair peeking through the opened buttons of his shirt, and a white rose clipped to the lapel of his jacket.

He looks good. He looks really good, and you would like to die.

You would very much like to bury yourself in a hole.

He seems so familiar, traces of an old lover lost in the gold flecks of his eyes, but you don't know him, at least not anymore. He's a stranger now, an array of old photographs and journal clippings scattered throughout your memory. He went from being your person, to a person--from being the one person you could talk to for hours upon hours tangled in the sheets, the moonlight from the open curtains dancing upon miles and miles of bare skin, without ever growing tired, to the one person that sucks every word out of you, leaving you speechless, an awkward shell of the confident woman you used to be around him.

You would have followed him anywhere, blind, heart thumping beneath your chest, relying solely on his palm in yours to guide you through the dark—to the ends of the earth, tiptoes over the edge, ready and willing to plummet thousands of feet downward.

The breeze that floats through the air and brushes against your arm adds more goosebumps to the ones already present due to the man next to you. Everything around you is calm—the ocean to your right, waves slowly reeling in and releasing back against the shoreline, the sun setting in the horizon, creating warm hues of tangerine and pomegranate in the sky and sparkling on the endless canvas of blue below, the palm trees rustling gently, the soft chatter of guests behind you in the distance. Outside, there's a whirlwind of serenity, but inside, there's a hurricane crashing against your rib cage.

"Oh, I, um, had a phone call," you confess. You barely got the day off to come to the wedding, and your phone has been buzzing nonstop with work emails, texts, and voicemails.

Yes, you had to take a phone call, but you also needed a minute. A minute for yourself. A minute to reflect, on both past and future.

A minute to inhale--his palm in yours, your cheek pressed against his chest, his temple resting on top of your head, swaying slowly in the kitchen, Frank Sinatra's 'One For My Baby' echoing softly, pulling you closer to him if possible, hushed whispers of "I love you" from two hearts beating in unison.

A minute to exhale--love letters, broken promises, his (your) favorite t-shirt, borrowed books, his handwriting still in the margins, tokens of his thoughts, postcards, one for each new city he inhabited while he way away from you for months on end, pearls, a Frank Sinatra vinyl, your ring stretched and bent from his pinky, anything and everything that was part of him, tucked away in a cardboard box in your attic, collecting dust.

Weddings are supposed to be joyous; they're supposed to remind you of just how amazing life can be, particularly when it's spent with someone you love, but you can't help but feel lonelier than ever.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you wanted with him.

"Still always working," sparkles dance in those eyes of his, morphing every coherent thought in your head to mush. It's criminal how relaxed he is. It's almost as if you're old friends catching up, as if all of the history between the two of you simply no longer exists. He's smirking at you, making your insides turn to jelly and your brain slosh around in your skull. He seems entirely unfazed as he strolls closer to you, the whiskey in his glass barely moving from how slow he progresses. He's honey, the golden sugar dripping lazily from a swarming hive.

You look good. You look really good. And he notices.

His eyes trail from the very tip top of your head, to your cherry red toenails, and you immediately shrink in on yourself. He studies your appearance, long locks of hair he used to comb his fingers through flowing in the slight breeze and cascading down your back, thin straps holding up the loose, silky fabric of your sundress, heart-shaped lips glistening, coated in your favorite lip gloss (He thinks the longer he stares, the more he can taste them again—the more he can feel the sticky substance transferred on his own lips, remnants of your sparkles imprinted on him), freckled cheeks paired with a rosy nose, results from a sunburn (You're tanner than he last saw you. Has your skin always been this golden?), a new tattoo on your inner right forearm, a compass, so minute that one would have to be staring to notice (Which he was, and he did).

Then he sees it.

That all-too-familiar gold band wrapped around your right middle finger, catching the light reflecting from the white wine in your glass.

The ring he gave you.

The one he saw in Japan and had to buy because it had you written all over it. The one he left on his pillow in your shared bed, waiting for you once you had successfully stretched and rubbed the sleep from your eyes while he was off to an early studio session. The one he had engraved, "H.S." on the inside of, a little piece of him always with you. The last token of him you couldn't bring yourself to rid of, a time capsule from a past love.

As soon as you realize he's spotted it, your grip on the glass in your hand tightens. Harry's eyes immediately snap back to yours—after all this time, you still wore the ring. Why were you still wearing the ring?

In a desperate attempt to distract Harry from asking that question you knew was swimming around in his mind, you clear your throat, "Still always working," you force a tight-lipped smile and rock on your heels, "that and you know I'm no good at dancing." You nod your head to the crowded dance floor alive with couples drunk off the mini bar behind the two of you.

Harry's hard expression softens, accompanied by a dimple as memories of your horrible dancing come flooding back. He releases a warm chuckle, one you haven't heard in ages that echoes in your eardrums longer than you would have liked, "Can't argue with that, 'member you almost broke m'big toe a couple times." His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip from his glass, the amber liquid gliding down his throat with a faint burn.

The space between the two of you progressively decreases as he moves closer and closer, until suddenly his shoulder is only a couple inches away, daring to brush against yours. You're both facing the ocean now, backs towards the roaring crowd. You close your eyes, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore easing the anxiety coasting through your veins. You inhale slowly, enjoying the feeling of the wind brushing against your cheekbones, cooling off the nervous heat Harry has caused. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Harry turns his head and watches you with your eyes fluttered closed, admiring your side profile up close with no shame, because how could he not? He hasn't seen you in person for over a year—it's like he's seeing you for the first time again. He fights the urge to tuck a stay piece of hair behind your hair, something he would have done without thinking if things hadn't gone completely downhill. He wants to memorize how you look in this moment, the exact position of every eyelash, the exact angle of the slope of your nose, just in case he has to go another 12 months without seeing you again. But boy, he wants to see you again. And again.

You keep your eyes closed, your lips turning upwards in a faint smirk, "I saw you at Target the other day," you open your eyes and turn to look at Harry, only to find him already fully fixated on you. Has he been staring at you this whole time? "Rolling stone? That's big."

He grins at your flustered look of shock; he was caught, but he's not embarrassed at all, not trying in the slightest to hide how much you have captivated his attention, "Uh yeah," Jesus, your eyes are beautiful. Your eyes didn't look this beautiful when you were together. Did you do something to your eyes? No, that's impossible. Is that a new piercing in your ear? You hate needles. Did you pierce it yourself? What else has changed about you? Harry, focus. What did you say again? Oh, yeah, Rolling Stone. "Doesn't do well for my narcissism though."

"Hmm... I can imagine," you take a sip of wine, returning your eyes back to the horizon, this time focusing on a pack of seagulls gliding through orange creamsicle skies. You can't stare into his eyes for too long without thinking of everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. Each time you look into his eyes, it's like reliving every conversation you ever had. His words, a gallon of feathers poured on top of you, soft tufts brushing against your skin. His words, a gallon of daggers poured on top of you, sharp metal piercing your skin.

Silence overwhelms the two of you—filling the void of words needed and wanted to be said.

Harry clears his throat and finally looks in front of him to the breathtaking sunset melting into the skyline, almost as breathtaking as you. Taking a big gulp of his whiskey, he prepares himself for the words about to spill from his mouth. He has to ask, because you're here, in person, live in stereo, and when will he have an opportunity like this again? This question has been swimming in his brain for months; it's been eating him alive, the unknown mystery of the situation. He's dying to know if you've heard that one song.

"Have yeh listened to the album?"

He chose the absolute worst time to ask this question, right when you were taking a sip from your glass. You nearly choke on the liquid sliding down your throat, erupting into a coughing fit as soon as you get a breath of air. Harry's eyes widen, immediately angling his body towards yours, a look of alarm flashing across his features. You hunch over, sending cough after cough into your free hand. A warm palm rests on your back between your shoulder blades, causing goosebumps to rise, and as soon as he's about to ask if you're okay, you wave your hand, brushing off your near-death experience. You cough one last time, your raspy voice hesitantly admitting, "Um yes, I have."

Harry furrows his eyebrows, analyzing your face to make sure you're actually okay and before he can stop it from happening, he's rubbing small circles into your back. He hovers his body slightly over yours as you cough one last time into your elbow. You mouth "I'm good" inaudibly and send him a thumbs up. You finally straighten back up, brushing your hair out of your face and blinking slowly a couple times, God, that was embarrassing, way to keep it cool.

When your posture returns to its natural state, and his palm on your back is no longer appropriate, Harry removes his hand and pushes it into his pocket. He silently curses himself for not grabbing intertwining your fingers together and squeezing your palm once—that was something he would always do when you were together. It was his thing. When you would be out shopping and the paps would show up inconveniently out of nowhere, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he's sorry, before dropping it. When you would be eating dinner at your parents, laughing about who knows what, his knee brushing yours underneath the table, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he loves you, before dropping it.

Silence returns again and you're both back to your original positions overlooking the sea. Bass thumping, "cheers!", clinking, birds chirping, leaves rustling, waves crashing, heavy breathing, congratulations, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!", his rings tapping against his glass, the soles of your shoes crunching the grass, heart pounding.

The loudest silence breaks, "Figured one day you'd at least g'me a call back."

If you weren't sure if that last track was really about you, you were completely certain now. Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me you're sorry too. For the first time since he's been in your presence this evening, you regain a sense of confidence, your nervous jitters diminishing with your next statement.

"I didn't have anything to apologize for."

And you didn't. Not when he was the one that left, when he was the one that decided he didn't want to love you anymore, when he was the one that chose his life over the both of yours. It hurt. It still does. So why would you call him and tell him that you're sorry too? Sorry for what? Loving him too much? Because you loved him too much. He was the love of your life, the man you wanted to marry, the man you wanted to be the father of your children, the man that completely and utterly captured your heart and sewed it together with his own. But he left. And you had to figure out how to live without him, how to do the dishes when he wasn't drying, how to dance when it wasn't his records playing in the background, how to kiss when it wasn't his lips that were folded over yours, how to love again when it wasn't him that you were loving. You had to do it all. Alone. Pick up the pieces he scattered, put them back together, and super glue them.

Then he put out his debut album. And suddenly he was everywhere, from magazines, to billboards, to tv shows, to recommended YouTube videos, to Instagram, to twitter, to even Facebook, there he was again, closer to you than he had been in months, yet still light years away. And all of those pieces you super glued? Yeah, they became completely undone again, and it didn't help that you decided to actually listen to his album. It was one thing to see him everywhere, but to hear him again, hear that voice that once felt like home, it ruined you.

That song ruined you.

You remember the day that song was inspired from, every single detail.

You had a particularly busy day at work, and you decided to have a spa night. A bubble bath, a bottle of rosé, a face mask, a couple bath bombs, and a pizza was exactly what the doctor prescribed. You had just stepped out of your steamy wonderland, your body covered in your favorite, fluffy robe, soapy suds still clinging to damp skin, completely content in your cotton bubble and slightly buzzed from the glasses of wine you consumed. It was nearly 3 in the morning, and you just sat down at your vanity to apply your various lotions and serums when the phone rang.

Who on earth is calling you this late at night?

You shuffled your slippered-feet to your bedside table, glancing over to see something you never thought you'd see again.

His name.

Harry Styles

Flashing on your screen.

Nearly giving you a heart attack.

You froze in your tracks, eyes widening, mouth hanging open, breathing halting, heart beat slowing and thumping louder than ever in your ears. It felt like the entire world was put on pause, every car on the busy street outside your apartment stopped, traffic lights stuck on red, clouds frozen in place in the sky, every form of life on hold. You miss the call, not that you could have answered anyways; you were completely and utterly paralyzed.

Another notification: Harry Styles Voicemail.

Then you're breathing again, quick, sharp puffs of air in and out. Are you dreaming? You squint your eyes shut tightly and pinch your wrist. This has to be a dream. You open your eyes, the same notification illuminating your screen. You're not dreaming.

God presses play on the world, your surroundings slowly returning back to their normal pace around you, your bubble bursting as you frantically pull your phone from its charger, typing in in your passcode at the speed of light and going straight to the neon green cube on your dock. A shaky thumb taps on the voicemail, hitting the speaker button. There are a couple seconds of static, and for a moment you think maybe it was an accident, a butt-dial, a complete misunderstanding. Please let this be an accident.

Key word: moment.

Because as soon as you think you can forget about this, go back to your nightly routine, and have a peaceful sleep, his voice is booming through the speakers, and you're paralyzed again.

"Um... Hi, it's Harry," the ghost of the man you used to know lets out a nervous laugh, "But you knew that didn't yeh? Probably why you didn't answer..." there's silence, two seconds, five seconds, eight. "I'm in Japan. It's noon here, and m'drunk, alone in my hotel room," his voice is deep, raspy, tired. "'Member that ring I gave you? I'm stayin' a couple blocks away from that shop. Y'loved that ring. Think tha' was the last good thing I did."

Your eyes shift to your right hand, the one that's not death-gripping your phone, the one that holds the piece of metal he's referring to. A lump grows in the back of your throat, and suddenly it's becoming harder to stand. You collapse on the edge of your bed and gulp. Tears pool uncontrollably in your eyes, falling onto the robe that now feels like pinecones suffocating you.

"I saw Mark befo' I left. Ran into him at the grocery store," Mark, your co-worker, your friend. Mark didn't tell you he saw Harry. Why didn't he tell you he saw Harry? Why is Harry talking about Mark? Why did Harry call you? Why did Harry leave you a voicemail? "I asked him how you were, and he said you were fine. Are you fine?" No. "Cause I'm not. M'not fine at all."

You shut your eyes in pain, wincing at his words. Waterfalls flood from your eyes, and you hate it. You hate that this is affecting you so much. You hate that he still has a hold on you. You wished you could not care; you wished you could simply say "fuck you forever" and forget him. It's been 6 months since the breakup, and you want more than anything to move on and forget him.

"Love I-" You bite your tongue at the pet name, almost drawing blood. When was the last time he called you that? 'Love'—the equivalent of a knife plunging into your chest again and again. "I fucked up... and I miss you." And again. "God, I miss you so much." And again. "And m'sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." And again. "Th'worst thing I ever did was what I did to you."

You're fully sobbing at this point, your phone thrown across the other end of your bed, his voice slightly muffled by your duvet. Your hands are tangled in your hair, elbows resting on your knee caps, shoulders shaking as you hiccup, wave after wave of his words hitting you. Little do you know, Harry is on the other end of the world doing the exact same thing—hands pulling his hair, hunched over on the edge of his grand suite's expensive mattress, an almost empty bottle of whiskey to his right, tears staining the carpet beneath him.

"And I know this is late. M'a fuckin' idiot for not saying it until now. I just..." He breathes out a sigh, and you pinch your eyes shut even tighter. No, he's drunk. He doesn't mean it. He's drunk. He doesn't mean it. Don't fall for it; you've been doing fine. You're fine... right? "I needed yeh to hear that. Need you to know I'm so sorry for hurting you. I did th'one thing I swore I'd never do."

Relaxing your grip on the roots of your hair, you sit up at his words, the words you have waited to hear him say for six months. Why don't they sweep you off your feet like you imagined? Why don't you feel different? You had thought about this moment over and over, the moment he would finally own up to his mistakes, finally apologize for all the shit he put you through. You imagined him showing up to your doorstep with a dozen sunflowers, your favorite, a speech prepared on how much he still loves you and how much he is sorry for everything. After, you would launch into his open arms, sinking back into his quicksand, enveloped in his love all over again. Everything would fall back into place; you would be whole again. What you didn't expect was a drunken voicemail, making you want to crumble inside yourself until all that is left is a pile of bones, useless. It felt as if there was a surprise epilogue to your joint ending—you were experiencing the break up all over again. What was supposed to give you life, hope was slowly taking it away each second the voicemail continued.

"I'm dying, love." Me too. "Can I still call you that?" No. "M'dying without you. Just... Please call me. Please let me show you how sorry I am. Need to hear y'voice. I'm so sorry. Call me."

His voicemail remains in your phone. You never called him back. You've lost count of the times your finger hovered over his contact name, nearly jumping into the deep end, just for you to take one step backwards on the diving board. One particular night, after taking another step back, you decided to write down everything you wanted to say, everything you wished you knock on his door and scream at him until you lost your voice—all of the heartache, the sorrow, the stress, the hope, the anxiety, every single emotion you felt since it ended. You wrote twenty-two pages. They're now hidden in your bedside table, addressed and stamped, never sent. Harry didn't call you again; that was the last time you heard from him, over a year ago now.

Silence welcomes itself again. Comfortable silence is so overrated.

Shoulder brushing against yours, Harry stands still, digesting your last words. I didn't have anything to apologize for. There was a time when he would have completely disagreed with that statement, clearly, given the lyrics to his last track on his debut album. Then, he would have argued that both of you had dipped your toe in your downfall, each equally responsible for how things crumbled apart. Now, however, he sees how it was him that was in the wrong. He was the one afraid of the commitment you wanted from him—part of him could never fully love you like he wanted to. A couple hundred therapy sessions later, he's sorted his shit out, and he sees just how much shit he put you through, as if someone had sat him down in a theatre, showing him your love story from your perspective. You don't owe him an apology; you were perfect, always giving him your all, every single drop, every single ounce of your love from an endless fountain. He was the one that left. Hewas the one that broke you into small, jagged pieces.

But he's selfish. He still misses you so much. He misses your hand encased in his, your laugh at his terrible jokes, your lips on his cheek, your faint snores that only erupt on Friday nights after a hard week at work, your face buried in his neck, chest on top of his and legs entangled in his on the couch, your finger poking his dimple, your face scrunched in concentration as you painted his nails, your records playing in his house (the ones you said he had to borrow, but if he scratched them, he was a dead man), your hugs (the way you would make him feel itty bitty in your embrace, enveloping him into your open arms after he was away for too long), your mind, always alive and itching for those deep conversations that always arise at midnight in his bed.

That's why he came to the wedding in the first place. He was originally booked to shoot a music video, but he quickly cancelled at the possibility of seeing you here. And that's why when he finally spotted you, off in the distance, speaking into your phone away from the buzzing reception, he knew he had to talk to you. He didn't care if it re-opened closed wounds; he was selfish and he had to talk to you. He missed you.

"Listen-"

"I-" Harry speaks up at the same time you do, beginnings of sentences clashing together. Your eyes meet again, shoulders turned towards each other now. He grins, bunny teeth making an appearance at the mishap regardless of the obvious tension that has invaded the air between the two of you. You envy that trait, his ability to make any situation comfortable and relaxed despite its origin. "You first."

"No, um you go," you mumble out awkwardly, finishing off the remnants of wine in your glass in a rather large gulp to ease the nerves. You know Harry, sometimes better than he knows himself, and you know that he would have never approached you if he didn't have some motive on his own. You had to shut this down—there was no way you could go down this road with him again, not when just this conversation was enough to ruffle your feathers, making you feel like a traitor in your own body, someone you don't even know.

"How 'bout we both go?" There's a cheeky look in his eye, and if you look hard enough you could see a tinge of excitement, hopefulness, "On th'count of three?"

Not daring to quirk upwards, your lips remain straight, and you nod.

"One," You can do it. Just tell him you want to basically forget he exists. "Two," You can do it. Just tell her you still love her. "Three."

Two similar heartbeats.

"I still love you-" Sweet sugar crystals, an honest confession from candy land.

"I think it's best if we don't see each other again." An exploding cannon, sinking his battle ship.

Two entirely different headspaces.

The next morning, you wake up with a massive headache, one that was undoubtedly brewing as you cried yourself to sleep the night prior (it might also have to do with the entire bottle of wine you consumed as soon as you slipped off your heels in your apartment).

You notice it's technically no longer morning when you check your phone, squinting in pain at the sudden brightness, the numbers 1:25 yelling back at you. Thank god it's Saturday; you haven't had a hangover of this intensity since college and there is no way you could possibly go to work like this.

Slowly slipping out of the warmth of your numerous weighted blankets, your socked feet hit the plush carpet, and you bend down and open the bottom drawer of your bedside table. Tied up in a pink bow are four envelopes, addressed and stamped, waiting to be delivered to the man whose hopes you crushed. You reached for the stack, running your fingers along the edges, reading over his name, tracing the letters with your fingertips.

With the letters firm in your grasp, you rush to your front door, making sure to slip on your robe; you don't want anyone to drive by you putting these letters in your mailbox in nothing but a t-shirt and undies, after all.

You're finally doing it, diving into the crystal-clear water that was once forever still. You're going to mail all twenty-two pages, every emotion. This is it, the last period to the epilogue, the ending of this book, the closure the both of you so desperately need.

As you reach for the handle, you pause, noticing the one thing you nearly forgot about—that gold band. You slip the piece of metal off your finger, observing his initials engraved on the inside for the last time. Untying the bow holding the envelopes together, you slide the ring onto one end of the cotton-candy colored ribbon and retie the knot, the ring now attached. Inhale, one moment to reflect. Exhale, one moment to say your final goodbye. You swing open the door, and right before you can make another move, something stops you. Looking down at your doorstep, a bittersweet smile breaks out across your face. He was saying goodbye too.

A dozen sunflowers.

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

My Works:

~Most~ of my works are SWF (open to minors) but again, anything tagged "NSFW" is not written for minors. While I do primarily write for she/her readers, I do also write for gender neutral readers. Please read my guidelines before you request a fic/blurb.

SFW FICS

forever is the sweetest con: after a successful case, which is hard to come by the BAU, the team (season 3 team) celebrates with drinks at the bar. things go arise when penelope convinces a normally reserved y/n to sing karaoke. (Angstish Fluff)

sweet valentine: a 22 year old spencer reid finds himself thinking about his firsts...and the one first that he has yet to accomplish. (Fluff)

cutie pi: spencer reid’s second favorite holiday isn’t really a holiday, but it’s sure a day that he’ll never forget (Fluff and terrible math puns)

you kiss my face and we’re both drunk: Who would have figured that a normally serious genius with an eidetic memory would be a silly, forgetful drunk, or drunk Spencer realizes how much he loves Y/N. (Fluff; CW: Drunkenness)

49%: If there’s one thing that Spencer hates more than rejection, it’s spontaneity. But sometimes the things (and people) we love outweigh the things that we hate. AKA a series of events leading up to a weekend wedding between the BAU’s finest Dr. Spencer Reid and his partner in crime, Y/N. (Fluff)

i’ll take x-pecting for 200, alex: Dr. Spencer Reid plays a trivia game at the request of his wife, Y/N, but he’s in for more than some heaving hitting questions (fluff)

take my hand and drag me head first: Spencer Reid is a scientist and scientists love predictability; but love isn’t predictable, it’s fearless.

wrap your arms around me, baby boy: Sometimes love at first just might be the thing that’ll make you want to get married with paper rings.

i can’t help it if you look like an angel: Spencer is not that kind of doctor, but he’ll always come when Y/N needs him, even if germs are involved.

Las Vegas Boy: Y/N surprises Spencer at their joint Bachelor/Bachelorette Party with a song she’s been working on.

band-aids don’t fix bullet holes, but your kisses do: in a standoff with an unsub, reader makes a choice: her life or spencer’s. (Angst/Fluff) french toast waffle sundays: coming home to reader from a stressful case, spencer needs a little reassurance that he’s as wonderful as reader thinks he is. (Angstish Comfort) open me carefully: reader finds her hopelessly in love with spencer, who unfortunately for them is hopeless when it comes to love. (Angst/Fluff) the moment i knew my future was sweet: spencer plans a surprise birthday party for reader, who comes to the realization that spencer is the one who’s always been there for her (Angst/Fluff) crawl home to her: The only thing that’s keeping spencer alive is the memories of his heaven. maybe someone how a faithless man will escape death’s grasp on faith alone. (Angst) you die in my nightmares, but i’m dying to dance with you in my dreams: tired of being tired, reader takes leap instead of counting sheep :) (Angst, Comfort

fools in love: He can explain how String Theory works. He can figure out Riemann Hypothesis. He can recite all the numbers of pi until he’s blue in the face. Yet somehow, Spencer Reid can’t figure out what to do for his first first anniversary.

and i will hold on to you: They’ve never been apart for holidays since they started dating. That was until Spencer Reid found himself behind bars for a crime he’d never think of committing. Growing and healing, Spencer realizes that it’s not the holidays that matter, it’s the person. Because with that special person, who’s laugh he can recognize anywhere, even cleaning up the empty bottle the next morning is magical. (Can be read as a part 2 to take my hand and drag me head first)

though i can’t recall your face, i still got love for you: Spencer’s always been ambivalent about his birthday, but self proclaimed lover of birthday’s Y/N attempts to change that.

I Can’t Say Anything to Your Face: Lunchtime is Spencer Reid’s favorite time of day and not because of the crappy endless coffee, dry sandwiches, or the occasional chocolate donut. Spencer’s favorite time of day comes in the shape of a little post it notes and fits perfectly into his heart.

Right Where You Left Me: Y/N never expected to see him again. He tore her heart out and left her in the dusty heat of a Las Vegas diner. She never wanted to see him again, but sometimes the heart wants what heart wants.

Don’t Thank Me For Loving You: Spencer and Reader have been dating for a total of 4 weeks. If someone asked, Spencer would be able to tell them the exact amount of time he’s been in love with Y/N. So why does he get so nervous to share a bed?

is this gonna be graded?: Y/N’s last assignment is simple, write down everything that you’d want to try. The options are endless and that just might be the end of her. (Smut; MINORS DNI) you can hear it in the silence: Sneaking around can be fun, but sometimes the silence is just too quiet, or falling in love with your best friend. Worship This Love: Y/N doesn’t think she can get jealous easily. She knows that Spencer is almost as head over heel for her as she is for him. But still, seeing the pretty detective grab Spencer by the tie is enough to send her into a jealous stupor.

It’s a Love Story, Baby: Secret relationships can be fun, but sometimes the love runs so deep that it’s just begging to get the spotlight. Love like that is difficult, but it’s the realest thing Spencer and Y/N have ever felt. The Doctor Is In: Reader knows that they shouldn’t have dairy, but it’s hard to resist the creamy sweetness, especially when an equally sweet husband wants to have a relaxing vacation.

3 Fics, 2 Authors, 1 Week!: This is the link to @shemarmooresfedora & my masterlist for our 500 followers co-celebration! Be sure to check out her amazing fics!!

#masterlist #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction

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