#who cares for plot actually | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

prime-adeptus · 1 year ago

Text

BAD IDEA (FORGET ABOUT IT, FORGET ABOUT ME) – QUANXI X READER

It’s a bad idea. You know it is. Even fucking worse now that you realise that you’re no longer doing this for sexual pleasure. You’re doing it for her affection, even if it only comes with her hand around your throat or between your thighs. Or, the one where you’re not lovers, just strangers, and you’re fine with it. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

CONTENT.⠀NSFW; female reader; friends with benefits, unrequited pining, angst, slight power imbalance (quanxi is mc’s superior), alcohol, mentions of medication, unhealthy relationships, hurt/no comfort, original character deaths, mentions of blood. Canon divergent, but takes place after the events of Part 1. ~6.5k words

NOTES.⠀my first fic of 2024 lets gooo baby HAPPY NEW YURI!!!! this is my contribution to my thank u, next collab :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! this is the most self-indulgent I’ve ever written but I hope you enjoy regardless;;

also on ao3 | @angelshub @bitchcraftinc @enchantedforest-network @ghostqueue

You never think twice.

It runs in the family, you think. Your father was an insanely reckless devil hunter, your mother was impulsive even in the worst situations, and your brother did things just for the thrill. It’s ironic that for people with a job that relies on survival instinct, they had none at all. Impulsivity runs in your family, and there will soon come a day when it will get you killed the same way it did with them. That’s fine. Death doesn’t scare you, not anymore. He’ll come bearing his scythe when his time comes, taking your soul to where it needs to be, and you’ll let it happen when it does.

Public Safety wasn’t your first option. Being a professional devil hunter wasn’t, either. You wanted to pursue something less violent, like someone who could help improve a community’s welfare. You wanted kids to grow up better than you did. But with devils roaming the streets and the lack of the ‘strong-hearted,’ it came as no surprise that you had to give up on what you’d initially hoped. You’re still pissed about it years later in your career. The younger you wanted to help the world.

In a way, you got what you wanted. It just wasn’t the way you wanted it to happen.

You think you’re more familiar with firearms and blades than you are with flowers and crayons now. Your hands, once soft and delicate, are now scarred and calloused, stained with the blood of those you had to slay and lose in combat. Your heart, once full of hope and kindness, is now cold as ice. The innocence and joy you used to have were cruelly ripped out of your hands and crushed into pieces you can never put together again.

But you don’t have time to miss who you used to be, nor do you have the time to dream anymore. You have to survive in a world where danger lurks in every corner. You will pass the days instead of living them, letting them hurt you and bury misery deep in your bones, but you will survive, if not by sheer determination or instinct.

The drink you’re having burns your throat. Though you weren’t previously a drinker, having seen how it changed people like it did to your father, there’s nothing else you can turn to. You never liked bars either, yet here you are, sitting all by your lonesome. People change, whether it’s out of their volition or against their will. You don’t know where you fall between those categories.

The longer you stare into space, the more you tune out the world around you. You feel as though you aren’t here, but somewhere else. It’s been happening more often than you’d like—zoning out, feeling like you’re not in control of your body, vulnerable. You’re more annoyed by it than you are concerned. You’re a professional devil hunter, bound to an organisation that could dispose of you without a second thought if you fail them. There is no time for weakness. Your training and years of work have taught you that the hard way.

By the time you come back to your senses, your glass is already empty. A frown tugs at the corners of your lips. You’ve half a mind to order another shot to feel something other than perpetual numbness and exhaustion, but ultimately decide against it. Your tolerance isn’t as high as Kishibe’s is, after all. Who knows what will happen if you bite off more than you can chew? You don’t, and more importantly, you don’t want to deal with the consequences.

With a sigh, you leave the bar. The bells above the door chime as the door opens and exposes you to the winter air. A chill runs down your spine, making you shiver involuntarily. You’ve never been fond of the cold. It’s miserable, it makes you lethargic, and it’s a pain to get through without getting sick. You hate the shitty apartment you live in and the equally shitty radiator that came with it too, but this time around, you actually can’t wait to be home. You suppose there are still some things to look forward to, no matter how mundane they may be.

“Hm. Didn’t expect to see anyone out at this hour.”

You turn to see Quanxi leaning against a wall with a cigarette between her lips and the same deadpan expression you’re used to seeing her wear. Instinctively, you bow your head in greeting, though she makes no move to respond to it. Briefly you realise how you’ve never had a proper conversation with her, only good mornings here and there whenever you happen to cross paths. This is the first time she’s properly acknowledged you as something else other than one of Kishibe’s many juniors he ‘babysits,’ as he would say.

The wind blows the nicotine in your direction, causing you to grimace instinctively. In an attempt to cover it, you clear your throat and reply, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I thought you didn’t like being out at night.”

“I don’t,” you say with a wry smile. “Why are you out at this hour, Miss Quanxi?”

“I couldn’t sleep either.” With a sigh, she pushes herself off the wall and finds her place by your side. “I’ll walk you home. I’m going in the same direction anyway.”

You have a feeling she’s not going to take no for an answer, so all you do is nod and go along with her. It puts you on edge, being so close to someone you’ve always held in high regard. It’s also strange, in a good way, to be alone with a woman like her. Up until a few moments ago, you didn’t even know she was aware of you at all. You find that you like having her beside you like this. It makes you feel safe, protected, and in a way you can’t pinpoint why, like you belong.

The apartment building looms overhead and stands among electrical lines and small stores. The lightbulb in front of the elevator flickers before it goes out, leaving the hallway too dim for your liking. Anxiety starts to bubble at the pit of your stomach. You don’t know if it’s because of the dark or if it’s because of how close she’s standing to you. As your finger hovers over the button, you glance at her and blurt out, “Would you like to come in?”

She blinks as if she wasn’t expecting you to say that. She probably wasn’t. Heat rises to your cheeks and paints them with shame. You tend to speak before you think, which has both worked in your favour and against it.

(You never learn.)

“It’s cold outside,” you try to reason. “You could come in for tea, warm up for a bit before you go. I’d feel bad if I let you leave without anything.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

Your face burns. You should’ve thought she’d say no. You should’ve thought more. Of course, the Quanxi has no reason to stay and chat with you. She’s not the kind of person to do such a thing. She’s stoic, unapproachable, and–

“But if you insist, I’ll come in,” she says, interrupting you just before your brain is about to go into overdrive. “I could use a break anyway.”

She follows you into the cramped elevator without another word. It’s hard to keep your cool as you’re all too slowly taken up the building. With trembling hands, you unlock the door to your apartment. Your nerves are going haywire for reasons you can’t begin to fathom. You ignore them the best you can.

“Tea? Coffee?” you ask. You like to think you’re pretty good at keeping your composure, but you’re not so confident tonight. It’s fine. You’re being considerate, nothing more, so there’s no need to be so nervous. You’re just being a good host.

“Tea is fine.”

“Alright. Um, have a seat. I’ll be done in a minute.”

She takes off her shoes at the doorway before stepping into the living area, glancing around wordlessly. You hope she doesn’t mind the mess on the coffee table, even if it’s only receipts, newspapers and some blister packs you keep forgetting to throw out. Normal, mundane things. You haven’t had the time or drive to organise your place lately. You wish you did. For anything in general, really.

You’re surprised how stable your hands are this time around as you carry the tray towards where she’s sitting on the couch. She takes the mug with a barely audible thanks and you take your own. The couch isn’t small by any means. It’s old, yes, but it’s more than enough to seat two people. For some reason, it feels like it’s smaller. You’re close enough that your knees brush against each other. You try not to think about how this is the closest you’ve ever physically been to someone in years.

You almost want to scoff at that. It’s never occurred to you (or rather, you prefer not to think about it) how deprived you are of warmth and contact. Every day consists of you passively following a monotonous routine. People like you don’t get the chance to be close to someone, physically and emotionally, not when they can be taken away from you in the blink of an eye. You should be used to it by now.

You don’t think you can ever be.

“Is it okay?” Your voice is soft, hesitant. “It’s not too sweet?”

“It’s fine.”

You don’t know if Quanxi is one for small talk. You highly doubt it, but still, you find yourself chattering away. You talk about almost forgetting your keys in the morning, about how friendly your neighbours are despite their intimidating appearance, about the dog that greets you every morning and every time you come back.

Self-consciousness suddenly threatens to consume you whole when you catch how much you’ve been rambling in your flustered state. You can’t tell if she’s actually listening or if she’s only humming and nodding along so you’d stop eventually. Maybe you should.

The sudden silence makes her look at you curiously. “What’s wrong?”

“I, ah, nothing.” You shake your head. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

“You were talking about your last mission,” she offers. You’re almost disappointed that she had been listening to you. “The bodyguard one.”

You didn’t expect that.

“Right… I’m sorry, Miss Quanxi. I didn’t realise how long I’ve been keeping you here. Would you like me to see you out?”

“I don’t mind. You sound interesting.” She places the cup down and leans back against the cushions, getting herself comfortable. You aren’t sure if you should take it as a compliment or something. “And Quanxi is fine. I’m not Kishibe.”

“Of course! I’m sorry, Miss—I mean, Quanxi.”

Names have always been important to you; hers isn’t any different. But as her name rolls off your tongue, you find that you like how it feels. Familiar, like you’ve been saying it for years. In the back of your mind, you wonder if she knows your name—she hasn’t uttered it once since she spotted you outside the bar.

Somehow, that makes you sadder than you should be.

“You live alone?” she asks. Your mind goes blank for a moment. Is she interested in you? No, that can’t be. She’s just making conversation. She probably pities you for the fact that you’re the only one doing the talking.

“I do. Have been since I was seventeen,” you say, cutting off your train of thought before it gets worse. “I don’t have a girlfriend either.”

You don’t realise what you’ve blurted out until Quanxi hums curiously.

Why did you say that? Why do you say anything?

“You don’t?”

“No,” you mumble. You avert your gaze to the side, nervousness taking hold of you once more. “Are you… Interested? In me?”

When you finally look back at her, her face is only inches away from yours. You stare at her wide-eyed. A myriad of emotions swirls deep in your chest as you stutter and stammer, your lips parting then closing like a fish out of water.

“Maybe,” she answers, and the apology you were going to say dies on your tongue.

Your heart is threatening to burst out of your chest with how fast it thumps in the confines of your ribcage. Despite the winter outside, it feels hot—you feel hot, like you’re standing by a burning flame. You think you’ve short-circuited when she gently tilts your head up with her fingers and leans in to kiss you with a softness usually reserved for a lover.

And because you never think twice, you don’t hesitate to comply when she urges you to sit on her lap. Your arms wrap around her neck and it doesn’t take long before the kiss turns more heated, before you start grinding against her. Cold digits trail across your skin and crawl between your thighs, smoothly unbuttoning your trousers to reveal what they’re searching for.

Hesitantly, you pull away to catch your breath. You can hardly understand what’s happening, and maybe you don’t have to, but there’s a deep longing to hear it directly from her.

“Miss Quanxi!” Whatever you’re trying to say gets interrupted with a gasp as her fingers dip past the waistband of your panties. “What are you—”

“Helping you relax,” she replies nonchalantly. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how tense you’ve been since we got here.”

You’re not sure you can handle seeing how attentively she’s watching your expressions right now, so you squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help, not when you can feel everything at once, from her heated expression to her sinfully adept fingers.

There’s a voice in the back of your mind telling you that this is wrong, unfair, but when she brushes over a spot that has you shivering against her hand, the thought ebbs away like it was never there at all.

You don’t want her to stop.

Maybe the strange heavy feeling within your chest is just anxiety from not being in a situation like this for a long time. Maybe it’s what your classmates used to call ‘butterflies in your stomach’ because you’re with someone you admire. Reason slips out of your reach with every curl of her fingers against your walls, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you’re reaching the edge. The sight of her doing something to you that only lovers do to each other isn’t helping your case, either.

Her name leaves your lips in a pathetic whine. “Quanxi—”

“Let go,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your cheek, “Let me take care of you.”

Your orgasm washes over you like the sea crashes against the shore, rendering you breathless and teary-eyed from how overwhelming everything feels. She doesn’t relent until you weakly wrap your hand around her wrist in a poor attempt to stop her from breaking you any further. She eventually pulls her hand away and brings her fingers up to your mouth, imperceptibly smiling at how you take them in without question. Seemingly satisfied, she withdraws and lets you slump against her body, tuckered out and boneless.

“Look at you,” she coos, her voice dripping with endearment. She’s probably used to saying these things and getting these reactions, and as bitter as you may feel about it, they have your heart racing nonetheless. You’re not used to praise. In your entire life, you’ve only been satisfactory, yet here she is praising you for doing nothing except surrender yourself to her. You part your lips to speak, only to be interrupted.

“Don’t worry about me.”

It’s almost worrisome how she can tell what’s on your mind so effortlessly. With a huff, you bury your face in the crook of her shoulder. You doubt you can look her in the eye without saying or doing something embarrassing.

“But…” you mumble out.

“I can take care of myself.”

You frown, though you don’t argue with the finality in her tone. Your body gradually relaxes as she runs her fingers up and down the length of your spine. It’s getting difficult to stay awake when you feel so sated, so safe. Eventually, without realising it, your blinking slows down and you start to drift off in her arms, growing blissfully unaware of the world around you.

—

You wake up in your bed dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

Quanxi must’ve carried you here before she left. Your vision slowly adjusts to the change in lighting as you look out the window by your side. It seems that people have already gotten their day started, judging from the cars moving down the road and the dogs barking in response to the disturbance they bring. You’re groggy and your thoughts are unclear, leaving you more wearied than you’d normally be. A dull ache rings in your head, growing stronger when you push yourself out of bed and trudge to the bathroom to freshen up.

Your mind feels like it’s shrouded with fog. You’re beginning to think going to the bar yesterday was a mistake. You tend not to dwell too much on the consequences of what you do, only what satisfies you in that moment. It’s a bad habit you can’t seem to get rid of. But it’s far too early to think—in fact, you’d rather not do it at all—so you clumsily grab the shower valve and let the water wash away yesterday’s events. It takes a couple of tries to find it, but you make it nonetheless. A curse escapes you at the unexpected cold that has you jolting awake against your will. You suppose you did need that rude awakening.

The word ‘mistake’ seems to echo in your mind louder and louder as you struggle to properly button up your shirt with sluggish hands. You’re pretty sure one of your socks is mismatched, but you don’t really have the energy to change them. You glance at the bottle of painkillers in your cabinet. You never quite liked taking these things even if they’re supposed to help you. You didn’t like having ‘too much’ in your system. A bit ironic, considering all the supplements and medication you’ve had in your lifetime.

Bitterly, you take them. You can’t have something so inane affect your efficiency at work.

The headquarters is already busy when you arrive. Camaraderie isn’t a thing here, so the atmosphere already feels stiff and awkward. You suppose it’s reasonable, having gone through a few losses yourself. In a world like this, you simply can’t get attached to anyone. You shouldn’t. After all, they can be ripped out of your hands, ripped apart until the only proof of their existence is their blood stained on your skin. It’s not ‘hating the world’ or ‘being unapproachable;’ it’s a way to protect the other person. In a way, it protects you too.

Your mind reels back to last night now that you’re more awake. The way she held you. The way she just knew your body like the back of her hand. The way she kissed you. Only lovers touch each other like that, your mother used to tell you, but you’re not lovers even if it felt like it. The intimate moments you shared threaten to bring tears to your eyes as they play through your mind again like a film reel. The memory of her lips against your skin, of her holding you as if you were made of porcelain. They’re likely nothing to her, but they’re everything to you.

So how are you meant to brush off something like that so easily? When you’ve never had or let anyone touch you in such a way? What is it about her that had you caving in without a second thought? What is it about her that has your emotions going into overdrive?

The coffee nearly burns your tongue and leaves behind a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. Now isn’t the time to be thinking about this. And sure, maybe the coffee wasn’t a good idea either, but what does it matter? All you have to do is work, hopefully stay alive, and come back to a boring life after a long day of saving the city. What happened last night was only a one-time thing. There’s no reason to mull over it again.

You unceremoniously toss the paper cup into the trash. Coffee was not a good idea.

The day, although surprisingly uneventful, is spent writing reports and being in the worst mood you’ve ever been in. Thankfully you didn’t need to talk to anyone, save for Kishibe who dropped by earlier to see if you were still alive.’ It was oddly kind of him to do. You’re more used to him being distant or plain merciless like he was to the chainsaw boy and the blood fiend. It’s nice to have someone look for you, think of you, even if it’s for such a grim reason.

You were tidying up for the day when your coworker approached you with a smile on her face. ‘Do you wanna come get drinks with us?’ she had asked. Seeing as you didn’t have plans for the rest of the evening—you never do—you agreed. A couple of drinks won’t hurt.

It’s not that difficult to spot your colleagues and seniors in the izakaya. It’s hard to miss them, actually, when one of them is excitedly calling your name and waving you over. They’re already drunk. You understand them, you think. You generally dislike feeling inebriated and what comes after, but with the current path you’re on, it’s the only source of comfort you have.

You grimace. You really have become your father.

The table is cluttered with beer cans and unfinished plates of snacks. Kishibe sits silently in the corner. He’s opted to bring his own drink this time around and barely acknowledges you with a glance. There are a couple other seniors you don’t recognise. With a bow that feels more perfunctory than it does respectful, you greet them and quietly slide into the booth.

Quanxi sits across from you, calm and collected like always. She doesn’t say hello to you with the same enthusiasm that her colleagues had, though she does nod and subtly raise her glass at you. Flustered, you blink, you purse your lips, and then finally you get it together and smile at her, the same way one would when seeing an old friend. Sure, that isn’t what she is, she’s just your senior, but you’d rather stay on her good side. You’ve seen how she dealt with that Hirofumi boy when they both came back last year. As attractive as you found it, you also don’t want to end up being someone she regards coldly.

You shake your head. Why are you worrying so much about what she’d think of you? All she did was acknowledge your presence. Luckily, one of your colleagues (someone you recognise, thank god) notices you and starts to ask all about your day. It’s enough to keep you busy. It’s also surprising you aren’t drained yet, considering how much more talkative they are compared to you.

“This is why I’m trying to help you out of your shell!” they playfully chide once you trail off, feeling self-conscious. “We want to get to know you better! Don’t be shy. Come on, tell me. What have you been up to?”

“I’ve been—”

Whatever phrase you were thinking of immediately goes forgotten when you feel someone’s foot brush against your ankle. You’re nearly seized with panic before you make eye contact with Quanxi and realise that it’s her doing. Somehow, it doesn’t do much to calm your racing heart. She seems so nonchalant, casually smoking her cigarette as if she isn’t threatening to make a mess of you with something so simple.

They furrow their eyebrows in concern. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah! Sorry,” you reply sheepishly. “I’ve been… well, busy. There’s a lot of backlog I still need to catch up on.”

Quanxi doesn’t do much after that, something you’re thankful for. Perhaps she took pity on you. Tearing your gaze away from her, you turn back to your colleague with a strained smile. You hope they won’t notice how you’ve tensed up and how your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

“W-What about you?”

It’s even more surprising that you can still speak while feeling so tongue-tied. Your conversation partner starts to chatter away, talking about everything and nothing, which you try your best to stay invested in. It makes for quite a good distraction, and Quanxi doesn’t tease you again until your colleagues begin to leave one by one. Until you’re eventually left alone with her.

You bite the inside of your cheek nervously. Her surprising you earlier could’ve been an accident, so nothing is stopping you from going home. You should go home. It’s not like she wants you to stay, right? She’s probably waiting for you to leave so she can do the same thing. You try to think of a polite way to excuse yourself, but nothing comes to mind and the words are stuck in the back of your throat.

“You’re thinking too much.”

You’re sober. Sober enough to be able to function, but not enough to notice that Quanxi has moved to sit next to you with her hand on your thigh. She leans in close to press a kiss to your neck, an invitation. A promise. You watch as her lithe fingers teasingly skim across your inner thigh, dancing dangerously close to your core. Your eyes remain on her hand, how it feels pressed against you, so warm and perfect—

“Not here,” you breathe, “H-Home.”

The night passes by in a blur. Before you know it, she has you on her bed, your cheeks flushed and your clothes torn from your body. Everything feels warmer, stronger, and you don’t know if it’s because you’re tipsy or if it’s because you’re pent up, but it doesn’t matter. You can’t think of anything, not when she keeps taking your breath away time and time again with every roll of her hips. Moans and broken syllables of her name leave your lips, doused in lust and whatever remaining modesty you have left.

Once isn’t enough for her. Your thighs are trembling as she pushes you into the blankets, keeping a tight grip on your shoulder as the sound of her thighs slapping against yours fills the room. The lewd noises leaving your body make your cheeks burn, and you wonder if she can feel how warm they are against her thighs when she finally lets you return the favour with your tongue. You’re sloppy and unpracticed, you know you are, but when she says your name and tells you that you’re so good for her, your heart soars.

Eager to please, you stay for what feels like an hour before she has you on your back and her fingers inside you once again. She doesn’t stop until you’re a teary-eyed, trembling mess beneath her. She doesn’t stop until your voice is hoarse from how loud you’ve been. Sleep comes easy to you that night; once more, you nestle close to her side and drift off, completely spent. The same way you did last night; only this time, she doesn’t hold you.

She’s gone by the time you wake up, and her taste lingers on your tongue as you leave her apartment feeling satiated but hollow.

—

You don’t know when meeting up with Quanxi just to fuck became a regular thing, but it did.

It’s a bad idea. You know it is. Even fucking worse now that you realise that you’re no longer doing this for sexual pleasure. You’re doing it for her affection, even if it only comes with her hand around your throat or between your thighs. You know it’s a bad idea when you always leave her place feeling used. Emotions have never been your strong suit—you’re not made to think, you’re made to do—but the whirlwind and the paradox have set you a few steps back. From what, you don’t know; all you know is that you can’t move on without her, without something more from her.

It bothers you how you both go back to work and act like you don’t know each other. It bothers you how she doesn’t even notice you when you happen to walk by. It bothers you how she feels so distant even though everything you’ve ever done with her has been things only lovers do. It bothers you how much you feel like you need her to satisfy you in more ways than what she’s currently doing. It’s not meant to be something serious. You’ve known that the moment she kissed you.

A distraction is all you are. A vice, like her drinks and her cigarettes and the other women. Something she has readily available to her, and because it’s Quanxi, you let it happen. You think she’s worth the turmoil in your mind. Why wouldn’t she be? She knows your body like the back of her hand, knows what you like, knows what you need. You’ll grin and bear it, accept the love she gives you on sleepless nights, and come whenever she calls.

Work has been busy enough for the past week or two. You were sent on a mission to somewhere in the south, ordered to exterminate a cluster of fiends and granted temporary leave after one of them managed to give you a nearly fatal wound. You don’t think she even knows that you were at the hospital until you had enough blood in your veins to heal again. It’s fine. Of course it is. She’s as busy as you are, if not more, and she has her own things to worry about.

You haven’t seen her in a while. Not at work, not at the bar you frequent. It harrows and relieves you at the same time because you feel her wherever you go. You walk in crowds hoping that she’ll be among them. You stay out hours after the work day ends hoping that you’ll bump into her. You keep your ears open hoping that you’ll hear something about her, or if you’re lucky enough, hear her calling your name. You don’t know how she’s woven her existence into your life this much, nor do you know what you want from her. But it’s not that necessary to put a stop to something you need, is it?

It’s fine if she doesn’t need you for anything else beyond sex. It’s fine that your love (is it even so?) goes unreciprocated. It’s fine if you feel cold in her embrace, and it’s fine that she’ll never be yours the same way you are hers. If this is a ‘bad idea,’ then you’ll make the most out of it—anything to keep you happy, anything to please her.

As long as she still knows your name, and as long as she still wants you, it’s enough.

It’s a particularly rough day when you leave an abandoned building with blood on your sleeves. You know your job isn’t done yet. There are reports you have to write, some civilians you need to check on, but you’re not confident that you can keep your impatience and anger under control. You’re tired, miserable, and you’re wondering if those pills do help you or if you’ve been lied to again. A cold shower and coffee weren’t enough to wake you this morning. The so-called soothing balm did nothing to heal the ache in your neck, and things went downhill insanely quickly. Today’s mission was the worst one you’ve ever had. You couldn’t save your partner in time. Their life was syphoned out of their body as they cried—no, begged you to help them, and all you could do was watch it happen.

The weight of your sword on your back feels heavier when you think of your failure today. A good craftsman never blames his tools. Can you say the same thing about yourself? Your weapon is an extension of you. The blade hasn’t dulled, but you have. It makes you feel even worse to know that you aren’t competent at the one thing you can do. If you were, you could’ve saved your partner, the one before that, and the others you lost along the way. Their blood will always be on your hands no matter how much you clean them. You’re quite sure there’s still a splatter on your shirt, but you are so, so tired. Stains are the least of your concerns.

The path to the bar is more familiar than it should be. You can barely register the worried and fearful glances people send you as you walk by them, exhausted and dishevelled. Hell, the bartender isn’t even shocked when you take a seat. He’s seen you more times than he can count. Not as many while you’re looking this beat up, though he takes it well enough. Wordlessly, he brings you your regular order. He doesn’t bother you again after that.

The burn barely fazes you anymore. You settle down the glass a bit harder than you should’ve, making you wince. You don’t want another thing to go wrong today. Quite frankly, you just want it all to be over, so you can retire, rest and visit the places you’ve always wanted to go to. Maybe get married, have a family, or adopt a pet. What a normal entails isn’t that known anymore. You’ll take anything at this point.

“Rough day?”

Quanxi leans on her side against the counter, running her gaze up and down your form. It should make you feel embarrassed, what with the current state you’re in, but you don’t think you can even care anymore.

You chuckle humorlessly. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

It doesn’t occur to you until moments later that this is your first time seeing her in weeks. A part of you feels relieved to know that she’s fine, she’s here, and another part of you is in disbelief that she still wants to talk to you despite the state you’re in. You can’t decide whether that’s endearing or pitiable.

“Wanna talk about it?”

You’ve already made several bad decisions, what’s another one going to do? You can drink the whole night, or you can do something that’ll make you feel good and forget for a little while. You cut to the chase, staring down into the glass. “My place or yours?”

She blinks, bewildered, then she speaks up again, “You can come to mine.”

The world doesn’t come back to you until you’re in her apartment again, already out of breath as you try to keep up with her hungry kisses. They’re addicting, borderline overwhelming, but you always crave for more, more, more. Her hands are on your hips and tonight she touches you with a gentleness that wasn’t present in your other trysts. Her touches are featherlight, treating your body like it’s made out of glass, and for some reason unknown to you, it’s more than enough to make you break into tears.

You pull her closer, your arms wrapped around her waist as you sob into her shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, only rubs soothing circles on your back and lets you cry your heart out. Conflicting feelings make their way into your heart, holding it tight within its suffocating grasp. You want her to say something, but at the same time, you don’t. You want to ignore everything, have her make you forget, but you also don’t want to.

Then you can finally breathe. Your cries turn into sniffles. Your breathing is shakier than it should be, but it gradually calms down. Her collar is stained with your tears, marked with your vulnerability, your weakness. It’s hard to speak. The silence kills you inside, breaks down every wall you’ve put up around you. You crumble before her, your nails lightly digging into her back as she gently lays you down on the bed. You’re still holding on to her when she tries to get up.

“I’ll get you some water,” she says. You think it’s the softest she’s ever sounded. Your hand lingers on hers for a moment before you reluctantly let her go, too worn out to ask or argue.

When she comes back, she crawls into her side of the bed. No words are shared as you curl up close to her. Her heartbeat steadily lulls you to sleep while she pulls you closer with her hand on your back, tucking your head beneath her chin.

And just like last time and the time before that, you wake up alone.

Your head hurts. Your body aches all over, hurting with the smallest movement, but you manage. Some water spills when you drink, which you haphazardly wipe away with the back of your hand. The clock on the wall tells you that you’re late for work, but you’re far too weary to move. Instead, you nestle deeper into the blankets, blankly staring at the nightstand as the city continues to live without you.

She didn’t leave you a note. Why would she? She’s not your lover; she doesn’t have to tell you anything. There’s a sense of urgency in the back of you should leave too. That there’s a busy day ahead of you, there are people and families you need to get in touch with, and there’s some loose ends that you need to tie up. It will get worse the longer you stall, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to care about it.

You don’t feel anything. You want to feel happy, angry, sad, anything, but you just can’t. Not when you’re on your own and the only company you have is the quiet. You don’t feel anything unless you’re in pain. You don’t feel anything unless you drink until you black out. But with Quanxi, you feel alive. With her, you don’t feel like a machine. You don’t feel like a killer, stained in the blood of those you failed to save. You’re someone she likes, at least enough to keep around for as long as she has. You’re someone she looks for when she needs you.

It’s not love. You know it isn’t. You don’t think she’ll ever love you the same way you love her. You’re not that oblivious to ignore what this truly is—pure unadulterated lust and desire, something to relieve stress whenever it arises. Days ago you cried until you had nothing left because you wanted more. Now, you just ignore it all. If it makes you feel good in the moment, makes you feel like you’re worth something, who are you to deny it?

You know you make bad decisions, ones that lead you to consequences you deal with alone like this one. You don’t care anymore. You never think twice. It’s just how you’ve always been.

You never think twice, but as the bed gets colder, you wonder if it’s about time you did.

#peep how it’s ironic that mc who claims they “never think twice” actually hesitates and thinks a LOT #is that the consequences catching up to them or the instinct telling them to slow down? who knows #i didn’t think too much about the plot i just wanted a lesbian situationship that eats someone from the inside #while the other party doesn’t care or doesn’t notice at all lololol #quanxi x reader #chainsaw man x reader #angelshubnetwork #bitchcraftinc #ghostqueues #enchantedforest-network #cw alcohol #not sfw #wlw x reader #all

192 notes · View notes

pearlofthewoods · 1 month ago

Text

Spuffy band-fic ramblings (long-post)

I think about this scene so frequently because…"Well, I sing.”

Yes, of course he does. That man was a poet, he could write such gorgeous lyrics, and no one can tell me Spike wasn’t an active part of the rock scene in the 70s.

Honestly, a whole Spuffy band fic has been marinating in my brain for like a good 6 months now, (like seriously, it even has its own playlist, that’s when u know it’s getting real)… but since I’m only a baby writer I wanna get some writing practise in before I embark on the project, so that I can do it justice.

However as I literally cannot keep these thoughts to myself, allow me to invite you into my brain for a while.

(Be warned I'm basically spoiling half the plot of a future fic under the cut so scroll away if u only wanna read it when, or if, it gets written.)

So in my fic idea, there’s a huge underground vampire music scene (particularly in LA), since because vampires are immortal, they’ve lived through so many different eras of music that they have a really deep understanding of music history. They’ve seen so many famous bands live etc (which obviously is one of the few human experiences open to vampires, since so many gigs take place at night and are tied to nightlife culture).

I’d also say that since vampires have no need to work, if they can get their hands on instruments they'd have plenty of time to practise/dedicate themselves to the craft.

One head-canon that I have comes from the idea that Billy Idol “stole Spike’s look” from him. What if he stole something else too?

Bear with me here.

Vampires don’t age, so they could never risk becoming famous in the human world, since people would very quickly notice that they weren’t human. Vampires need to keep a relatively low profile. They also can’t really make money easily from music by playing for other vamps, cause it’s quite unlikely the vampire scene has much money flowing around. Why would it? Everyone can just steal/mug to get what they need.

So in the vampire music world, they’d mostly just be playing for each other to stave off the boredom of eternal life, but with no worries about finances or putting food on the table.

And dear God that music would be experimental, with none of the usual restraints of human life.

Like I think their music would be very interesting/ outside the mainstream. Perhaps they’d play stuff from entirely different decades which had completely gone out of style, but not amongst vampires who never aged/got uncool (unlike the humans who played it)….

Vampires would also have so many different first-hand musical influences that they’d create the most weird and wonderful sounds. Think Spike’s Victorian musical upbringing mixed with jazz mixed with rock, mixed with… well, you get the picture.

And tbh I think some people would try and capitalise on that, on that raw vitality. Perhaps there’s a demon who records demos secretly in the crowd or steals entire songs and sends them to someone in the know in the music industry. And since vampires don’t exactly have passports, social security numbers or any real documented presence at all, there’s nothing they can do about it. Like what if, in this fictional world, Billy Idol didn’t just steal Spike’s look, but his music too? Frankly, it'd explain the resentment.

Anyway, in my head Spike hasn’t played music for a while, he took a break to look after Drusilla and then got wrapped up in the scoobies and their shenanigans.

But after Buffy dies? He needs somewhere to put all those emotions. He needs to write goddamn it, he hasn’t felt heartbreak like this for a long, long time. He’s not used to death, he doesn’t know how to deal with it. No vampire does.

So when he’s drinking away the pain in Willy’s one night, some demons he used to know are down from LA and offer him an open spot to sing with them at a new demon club. Spike’s about to turn it down, but they tell him things have changed. Like Wolfram and Hart, demons are all in business now, and this new club will pay.

Spike doesn’t need money… but Dawn does. Tara and Willow won’t tell him anything, (they don’t want to be put in the moral position of whether to accept mugging-proceeds from Spike), but he knows that finances are tight. And this is something he can do for Dawn, and in a way… for Buffy.

So Spike joins a band!

I think he’s probably pretty famous from his past in the 70s vamp rock scene, but this time he wants to change up the music genre. He wants a fresh start. It’s the nineties goddamn it, and he’s certainly not the same vampire he was twenty years ago. He’ll play, but he’ll play on his terms.

I imagine his newer music to basically be Jeff Buckley’s (my fave 90s musician), which I know might seem a bit melancholy for Spike, but with his current grief, it feels quite appropriate.

Tbh since I basically know nothing about music and can’t even imagine lyrics for toffee, I'd probably even just give him Jeff’s discography and call it a day. It’s fanfic I can do what I like. Grace? Spike wrote it. Job done.

For example, the lyrics to “Opened Once”?

"In the half-light where we both stand

In the half-light you saw me as I am

I am a railroad track abandoned

With the sunset forgetting I ever happened

That I ever happened"

Half-light = the twilight, the safest time of day for vampires (to quote Edward Cullen, sorry lol). also a metaphor for the place between the vamp world and the human world. A place where Buffy and Spike "both stand", as she’s the slayer and he’s a vampire that can’t hurt people.

‘You saw me as I am’ - After Buffy's resurrection, Spike’s the only person who truly understands what she’s been through, and the experience of crawling out of your own grave. They meet each other where they are.

‘Railroad track’ - ‘railroad spike’. Railroad is a pretty unusual and archaic way of phrasing that word. At least where I’m from. ‘Railroad spike’ is too good of a coincidence.

‘Sunset forgetting I ever happened’ - Spike doesn’t get to live in the daylight. the sun (and the sunset) are both out of reach for him without the danger of dusting. He doesn’t fully feel like a true vampire anymore, but the human world won’t accept him either. In fact, his human life was so long ago that even the sun itself has forgotten William Pratt.

I also think Spike/ Jeff Buckley is a fitting parallel since, if I stick to major-canon events, Jeff’s unfortunate passing very early in his career would also fit roughly timewise with Spike’s death at the end of season 7.

The last unfinished album that Jeff struggled so hard to write? The one Spike wrote when he was getting over his ensoulment and entirely reevaluating who he is, and what that means for his music.

Unfinished final album? Yes. Unpublished? No.

Because when he accepted wearing that amulet, Spike had a pretty good idea he was going to die. So he did something a vampire never plans to do. He wrote a will.

If he’s dead, there’s no more worries about fame exposing his immortality right? So his music is published posthumously in the human world (with some bullshit about his talent going undiscovered by the industry during life).

And combined, the proceeds pay for Dawn’s college bills, and lift all of Buffy’s financial worries from her shoulders.

In the end, that’s Spike’s last gift to Buffy, his music, his poetry…and it finally allows her to rest.

#no disrespect to Billy Idol or Jeff Buckley lol #I just wanna steal their music for fic #cause I have not a single musical bone in my body #also feel free to let me know if u have any thoughts/ideas about the fic cause I'd love any suggestions <3 #I've basically given away all the plot but who cares lol maybe I'll just delete this post before I come round to actually posting it #But if I put the idea out there now #then I just might have to commit #and if it never gets written? Then one day someone else who finds this post could take on the idea themself. I don't mind.#sharing is caring #and then at least the story would exist in some capacity #spuffy #spuffy band fic #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy summers #btvs #spike btvs #pearl's fic ideas #Spotify

33 notes · View notes