#why does he smile then reminisce then berate himself for the reminiscence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meowzfordayz · 3 years ago

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layer by layer, smile by smile

Author’s Note: that feeling when you finally finishing writing a fanfic only to realize you’ve no clue what to title it ahhh. 😆

layer by layer, smile by smile

Hashibira Inosuke x Reader

Word Count: ~1,800

CW: explicit language, traumatic references

Emergency Request Fulfilled: so my request was inosuke (if possible id also like genya seperately but im fine with just inosuke) with a male (or gn reader idrc) who comes from a bad home and had kinda a crummy childhood (parents always arguing, lots of yelling, the whole package) and is kinda dulled down, not like emotionless, he just bottles it up and doesn't let people see. and after the final war arc, inosuke and the reader are in a relationship but the reader still doesn't open up much, and still flinches when door r shut too loudly and has footsteps memorized, y'know? and inosuke wants to try to get the reader to smile and laugh since he sees tanjiro and zenitsu do it but the reader hasnt, and he keeps trying without any luck but then when he finally admits defeat the reader chuckles a little and inosuke realizes he making progress and its just a really fluffy ending

~faqs~

Inosuke knows you by your smiles.

Your first smile: not entirely genuine, although not necessarily bitter or distasteful either. A smile of politeness and integrity — of thinning patience and vague disdain. He remembers, with wry fondness, how often he used to be on the receiving end of your first smile. Remembers how he’d do something stupid—say something even more stupid—inevitably resulting in insult or injury or both. The irony of your first smile was that: he knew it was supposed to deter his antics, a scolding gesture, yet he somehow felt encouraged, noticed, safe. How could anything go terribly wrong if you were there with your slightly arched eyebrow, narrowed eyes, lips pursed in exasperation even as they quirked just barely — the faintest trace of amusement and I told you so lightening your otherwise unimpressed glare. And, true to his gut, nothing ever went terribly wrong with you and your first smile watching over him berating him.

Your second smile: genuine, although not necessarily vulnerable or open either. A smile of camaraderie and flexibility — of appreciation and mellow joy. He doesn’t remember how long it took until he saw your second smile, but he does remember it wasn’t because of him. Not that he’s resentful of this, because he knows very well that he hadn’t earned it yet. Hadn’t nurtured that degree of affection, of familiarly, with you. If anything, though, he’s grateful for it, because even from his distant perspective, its warmth—how it reddened his cheeks despite your being totally oblivious to his nearby presence—guided, nudged him closer to you. Stirred an uncommon desire in his curious stare. A fleeting pondering of What if they were smiling at me? that soon became an undeniable I want them to smile at me.

Your third smile: Inosuke won’t explicitly admit it, but he remembers his heart stopping—a good thing—when you’d shared your third smile with him. After he’d witnessed your second smile, he made a conscious effort to get to know you. Formally introducing himself. Sheepishly reminiscing his impulsivity. Thanking you for Saving my ass on multiple occasions. You’d received his newfound interest somewhat skeptically, but certainly not coldly or with any firm sense of rejection. Eventually, of course, his not-so-subtle flirtation and kindness had led to you questioning him rather bluntly: is your behavior romantically inclined, or are you toying with me? He’d blinked rapidly—rather comically—as his hands moved in flurried, panicked circles, voice particularly gruff. “I’m not toying with you! Toying with you? Why would I do that? ROMANCE? I’m not romantic. But- I’m not toying with you. I like you.” You’d smiled your second smile at his rambling, your own nerves calming as you asked teasingly, “What do you like about me?” You hadn’t expected his silence — hadn’t expected him to properly gather his thoughts, determined to answer you honestly and completely.

“I like how your actions match your words. How you aren’t predictably easy, nor insufferably hard. How you carry and respect your fears. That they’re a part of you without owning you. You aren’t rash like me, annoying like Zenitsu, or heroic like Tanjirou. You fight. You survive. You try your best to let simply yourself be enough. And it is. You really, truly, are.”

How long have you been stalking me? had been your intended quip, as you felt both charmed and shocked by his careful, thorough observations, but your third smile revealed itself instead. A gentle, promising, fragile curve of your mouth that he’d never seen before — a flicker of trust. Just for him. A bridge you hadn’t realized you were building stretching willingly, longingly, toward his transparent offer of companionship — of not romantic romance.

“I’m glad you feel that I am enough,” had been your quiet acknowledgement, “... exactly how much do you like me?”

“More than I like anyone else,” he’d declared, “Much more.”

Your fourth smile: becoming all too frequent. A layered, immaculate defense of fatigue and rigid control. Simultaneously communicating I’m fine and Leave me alone and I’m so fucking lonely. From the very beginning, Inosuke’s intuition recognized something tormented in your smiles: an interwoven thread stitching, holding, separating your hesitance and happiness, but he hadn’t fully comprehended its depth—the glint of steel in its zigzag—until he’d spent months loving, learning, you. Loving how sunlight illuminates your eyelashes, how you say, “Good morning,”; how you still shoot him your first smile whenever he irritates you, and how you soothe its sting with your second smile; how you know when it’s him (he’s positive you’ve memorized his gait), and how he can pinpoint the precise moment you switch from a neutral glance to his favorite, precious third smile; how you smell when you crawl onto the futon beside him, how you fall asleep touching him, sometimes just your fingertip on his shoulder or your knee brushing his thigh when it’s too hot, the intimacy of your proximity amazing him every time.

Learning that you’ve indeed memorized his gait, his heart splintering, clenching, throbbing when he learns why. Struggling to keep his anger at a simmer, knowing his temper and urge to protect won’t help as much he’d like — as much he wants or hopes. Because, “How do I make it stop?” he mutters frustratedly, rhetorically, as you sit wordlessly, tiredly, on the futon. “You can’t,” you sigh, “Not your job. Not your responsibility.” And he knows he can’t. Knows it isn’t his job or responsibility to fix your broken childhood — to stop its indefinite reach; knows he’s years too late, albeit through no fault of his own (what’s that saying? timing is a bitch) — knows the gears, grind, and trauma of one’s past aren’t something that can be halted or forgotten. Refined, perhaps. Processed over and over and over again into memories of lesser and lesser pain. But such integration can take a lifetime, and relative to forever, he’s had only seconds to support you.

“You should go to sleep,” you mumble into Inosuke’s chest, your eyelids heavy with the weight of too many ghosts.

His fingers pause midway down your back, “[y/n]?”

You nod apologetically, “I can’t fall asleep. Feels nice though.”

Barely reassured, his fingers continue their rhythmic strokes, mapping the tension in your back as he frowns, “Did something happen today?”

You readjust, tucking the kakebuton tighter under your chin as your eyes squeeze shut, reluctantly confessing, “Yeah.”

“Was it me?” he knows it might be selfish of him to pry, but if he can do anything more, less, better, then he needs to know if and when he fucks up.

“No,” you exhale raggedly, “Just dumb triggers that aren’t reasonable for me to-”

“Your triggers aren’t dumb,” he interrupts, gnawing harshly at his bottom lip.

“Quit chewing. I’ll be okay.”

Inosuke acquiesces with an endeared chuckle, fingertips starting to tap mindlessly at your hips.

“You’re that worried?” you snort, swallowing a giggle at the tickling sensation of his fidgeting.

“YES!” he bursts, “But I won’t bite my lip anymore.”

Maybe it’s the midnight hour draping false security across your fading resolve, or the tender indents of his fingertips pressing selflessly into your skin, or his earnest permanence: his dedication to being your partner—not the idealized, golden you—just… you, but regardless of why, you find yourself stripping. Stripping your comfort. Your nonchalance. The intricate tapestry of your heart unraveling as you pull at the singular thread distorting its image — the thread Inosuke could feel with his devotion, but not quite tug at considering his gradually improving how-to-be-in-a-romantic-relationship skills.

“The wind,” you whisper.

He doesn’t immediately grasp your utterance, unsure of your implication. In fact, he’s rather proud of himself for not immediately blurting What about the wind? like an insensitive idiot.

“It slammed the front door shut,” your fingers curl embarrassedly, digging harmlessly into his biceps, “I thought I was there, or they were here. I felt paralyzed,” your lips scrunch as your fourth smile overwhelms your expression, “Pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic!” Inosuke promptly growls.

“Inosuke, I-”

“You aren’t!” he pokes your side.

“But-”

“You aren’t pathetic, or dumb, or unreasonable.”

“You’re not-”

“I’m not listening?” he raises an eyebrow, “I am! I’m absolutely listening! I am the king of listening! I listen to how you approach hardship with unwavering toughness, to how you’re upfront about your feelings, to how much you care and commit.”

“Then-”

“I also listen to how ridiculous you can be. Nobody gets through this adventure unscathed, yanno? And you aren’t a fool, hazard, or burden for putting one foot in front of the other.”

“But I walk backwards!” you finally manage to exclaim.

“SO WHAT?” he scoffs, “Walking backwards is cool! Mobility and versatility is important!”

Your lip twitches as you search for his burning gaze through the palpitating darkness, desperation welling in your throat.

“I don’t know what to say,” he groans, subconsciously cradling your trembling form, his eyes sharp as they hone in on yours, “This stuff takes a lifetime, and my wisdom isn’t infinite.”

You’re shaking now, a bundle of erratic shuddering, concern quickly carving itself into Inosuke’s ribs.

Damn it, “[y/n]...”

Fuck.

What else can I do?

How else can I-

And then you laugh.

It’s a rough, confusing sound.

But, They’re laughing?

“[y/n]?”

“I’m f-fine,” you gasp between inhales, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“You’re crying,” he remarks tentatively.

“Because you’re- You’re so- You’re so sweet. You’re so unbearably sweet.”

“You’re scaring me,” he gulps.

“I guess I can be ridiculous,” you concede, wiping your nose in the crook of his neck, ignoring his displeased grunt, “Thank gosh I’ve got you to remind me.”

“You’ve always got me,” he shrugs.

You whine lowly, a strangled noise clinging to the roof of your mouth.

“Was that sweet?” Inosuke’s eyes widen as awareness strikes him, shy smile softening his anxious wrinkles.

“Yeah,” you squeak.

He can’t see your third smile as you continue nuzzling into his embrace, but he’d know its feeling anywhere — even smooshed against his sternum as it currently is. And just as he can feel it delicately teetering into the plush of his adoration, so too does he know you’re probably going to fall asleep ~imminently. It’s a constant, meticulous cycle—loving and learning you—and as you melt into the steadiness of his muscles, he knows he’s slowly, surely, glimpsing the unpublished prequel to your strength and persistence, discovering the bonus chapters of your doubt and reservation. Knows he can’t actually read for shit, but hell he’s at least going to learn to read you. And if it takes his lifetime? Then so what? Sign me up.

“G’night ‘Nosuke,” you murmur, “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

You pinch his chin Love you most.

He kisses your head Impossible. That’s my job.

#inosuke hashibira #hashibira inosuke #inosuke x reader #hashibira x reader #one shot #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

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hello-everyfandom · 4 years ago

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“How do you know that you won’t fall out of love with me?”

Warnings: N/A

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Words: 2.5k

Summary: Your love language is Words of Affirmation

(This is a continuation from my series “Love Languages”)

Growing up in Malfoy Manor was less than loving. Although the Malfoy’s had the extremely upheld ideal of family, loyalty, and honor, Draco’s upbringing was not so much about comfort and love but the constant pressures of being perfect. Perfect. Always perfect. From his young ages, he was expected to always be pristine, polite and most of all: quiet. A young Draco spent a lot of time outdoors, trying to hide from the pressures of his family, climbing trees, and touching the breeze, enjoying the small moments of being alone. He basked in the safety of being outside in the open until one day when he accidentally got dirt on his trousers. That afternoon, his father berated him, yelling and harshly reprimanding him. How dare he decide to dirty himself, to look less than ideal. As his father scolded him, his mother stood in the background, arms crossed to hold herself. By the end of Draco’s familial slaughter, his father decided Draco needed something more than verbal punishment. That was the first time Draco had been hit by his father. He could still feel the sting, even as a teenager, and the bruises from his father’s hand, gripping his wrist tightly, seemed to stay forever. From then on, Draco suffered, molding himself, hurting himself to become the Malfoy definition of “perfect.”

When Draco fell in love with you, part of him was ecstatic. He had you. The kindest and flawless human there ever was. He was merely enchanted with your sweet nature. He would question, every morning, how such an amazing creature, like yourself, could be any type of enamored with him. But part of him was terrified. More than terrified. There was a deep seeded insecurity that lied within his chest. You, the light in the dark, was his one happiness, his one source of love. Draco Malfoy knew he wasn’t good enough, not for someone like you. He could not handle the idea of you seeing him as anything less than perfect. The moment you whispered those three words, the words that would make him swoon, he vowed to be the perfect boyfriend. He vowed to become the man you absolutely deserved.

Draco’s insecurities, his faults and fears did not need to be said out loud. You knew of his childhood and had heard through the grapevine of the Malfoy’s ferocity and less than ideal traits. Even before you met him, you knew Draco Malfoy was deserving of love. Most students in Hogwarts, besides the ones in the Slytherin House, seemed to despise Malfoy for his bullying and constant insults. However, you saw him as who he was, a boy who has been nothing but hurt.

Therefore, it was your own duty to compliment every aspect of him. Your words of love were endless and you loved to see the way Draco’s neck blushed while he attempted to keep himself cool. You loved to surprise him by finding different ways and different things to compliment him on. While Draco would roll his eyes or scoff, you knew he thrived off of it. Other times, you’d comment on his nice penmanship or his ability to cast difficult spells. It came naturally to you as you were raised in the most loving, passionate and encouraging family. You wanted nothing more than to spread that compassion to your boyfriend.

If Draco was honest with himself, he couldn’t help but stand, anxiously, on his toes. He was constantly worried about disappointing you, hurting you, being anything less than perfect. Insecurities in the shape of heart murmurs kept him up at night. There was an ache, a hurt, a fear that nearly rendered Draco breathless.You were, by far, the most radiant person Draco knew. Equal parts funny and sweet, sarcastic and kind. And, much to Draco’s exasperation, many of the other boys at Hogwarts knew this as well. And, to make his insecurities and self doubt even worse, you were Draco’s first relationship. Draco was not yours. Many boys, since first year, had fancied you and you had even dated a few. This was always a sore spot for your boyfriend who seemed to be jealous of any past relationships you had. The jealousy and insecurities made Draco more fearful, worried even, that you’d slip away.

You sat in the empty classroom Draco had found for the two of you. While other couples took to the Common Rooms, corridors, courtyards, and even sometimes the Great Hall to inflict PDA, Draco preferred utter privacy. He felt that wherever he went, people gawked. Instead, he much preferred being alone with you. He wasn’t sure if it was because in private rooms he could kiss you whenever he wanted or if it was because when you were alone he did not have to worry about other blokes staring at you.

The afternoon sun streamed through the class windows, casting streaks of light onto the table in front of you. You were perched on the wooden bench, sitting on your crossed legs, a book held leisurely in your hand. Draco sat next to you, leaned over his Alchemy essay on antidotes and blended potions. Though the essay was difficult, Draco felt relaxed, resting his hand on your bare thigh and rubbing shapes on the skin. He listened to your steady breathing and the crinkling of the paper as you turned the pages.

He only turned to look at you when you let out a long sigh and snapped the book shut.“Good book?” Draco asked, looking at you from the corner of your eye.

“Oh yes, I think it has to be one of my favorites.”

“Is that why you look so grumpy?” he leaned to dip his quill in more ink, his hand never leaving your thigh.

You laughed and shook your head, “No no, I’m not grumpy. But, there is so much drama in it and it renders me rather exhausted sometimes.”

Draco hummed, “How does a silly little thing like you become tired from books?”

“If you knew me,” you ticked your tongue, “you’d know I become tired from nearly everything.”

Draco let out a chuckle and put down his quill. “I do know you, well enough to know you become grumpy when tired.”

You opened your mouth to protest but paused to realize that your boyfriend was annoyingly correct. “Damn you,” you huffed and leaned back before picking up your book again.

“Exactly.” Draco’s smile was small but still prominent. It was silent again as you began flipping through the pages once more, easily letting yourself fall into the plot and dramatics of the story.

“Love,” Draco shook your leg lightly, “Do you have any extra parchment paper?”

You raised your hand to shoo him away, “In my bag, help yourself and let me read, I think they are finally about to kiss.” Draco shook his head, clearly amused.

Entranced in your book, you didn’t notice Draco’s hands shaking. A piece of parchment held tightly in his fingers.

“What is this?” Draco’s voice was strained.

Peeking up from your book, your eyes moved from Draco’s hand to his distraught and angered face. “It’s,” you stuttered and quickly sat up. “Draco,”

“What. Is. It. Y/N.” Now, Draco was standing. Eyes skimming through the words over and over again.

“Honey,” you swallowed. “It’s really nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing, Y/N.” Draco said, his voice a painful mixture of hurt and outrage.

“Truly, it really is nothing. I was going to tell you about it-”

“But you didn’t.” Draco seemed to snap.

“But I forgot.” You shook your head.

You knew exactly why Draco was upset. By your parchment, crumpled up in the corner of your book bag, was an old love letter.

Before, as you were walking to Care of Magical Creatures, an old boyfriend, William Franklin, of yours had stopped you. Your fourth year boyfriend greeted you with a smile and you smiled back as your break up was neither malicious nor horrid. The two of you had split up merely because you fell out of love and decided to remain friends instead. William was exactly that, just a friend. And when he approached you, he teased you, handing you the old love letter you had written him in fourth year. It was a pathetic letter, one a lovesick little school girl would have written, but it was enough for Draco.

William and you laughed it off, you called him a “Nasty bastard,”

And he returned the insult as well as whistling and said “Malfoy’s got his hands full, poor bloke.”

However, Draco did not see this as two friends reminiscing on cringey memories, he saw it as the girl he loved, effortlessly, proclaiming her love for someone who wasn’t him.

“Darling,” you sighed, standing and brushing off your skirt, “Please, don’t be upset.”

“Don’t be upset?” Draco asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

You moved slowly around the table, knowing Draco needs both space and company when the two of you fight. Everyone in the world knows, couples fight. All healthy couples, all loving relationships are not without some mode of arguments, bickering or debates. However, you wouldn’t really call your arguments with Draco even arguments but rather heavily emotional conversations. It took a while to understand Draco’s argument style, sometimes he was harsh and critical, others he was quiet and sarcastic. But you knew Draco’s defensiveness stemmed from the demons of fear and self-doubt.

“This is ridiculous, what the fuck is this, Y/N?” Draco shouted. The veins in his neck began to bulge and you could see his eyes narrow, his heart pumping. You didn’t flinch.

“Let me explain, yeah?” your voice steady. Your arm raised slowly to take the letter from him, but Draco pulled back harshly. “It is an old love letter.”

“I can see that it is a love letter.”

“No,” you shook your head again, “It is an old love letter. Old.”

“And yet you still have it?”

“Yes-”

“So you’re off just dreaming about some other fucking wanker then? You keep this to remember your old better boyfriends?”

You took a deep breath, “No. I don’t. William-”

“Don’t say his bloody name.” Draco groaned. You stopped to hold in laughter, although it seemed rather insensitive, you couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity.

“Draco,” you clenched your jaw to stop yourself from laughing, “he gave me it during class. I had wrote it back in fourth year. Darling, have you read it? It’s mortifying, not romantic.”

“But-”

“But nothing. There is nothing to it. No secrets, no affair, no sneaking around. Nothing. Just two old, old, old friends laughing about something extremely embarrassing.”

As you said that, you slipped in the small space between the table and him. You gingerly took the parchment out of his hands and placed it on the table. Draco watched as you put your hand on his chest and another on the side of his abdomen and sighed.

“Really?”

“Really.” you confirmed. “I am, solely, without a single doubt, yours.”

“Are you sure?” Draco’s voice was timid, quiet.

“Draco,” you looked up at him. His pale eyes looked into yours, no longer narrowed or angry but looked almost in defeat.

“You are my one and my only. No one else has made me laugh like you do or made me feel loved like you do. You are, and I say this with nothing but honesty, the love of my life. Nothing will change that.” You stood there for a while in silence, feeling the slowing heart beat of your boyfriend.

“I’m sorry.” Draco whispered, eyes closed.

“Don’t be,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “If I were to find an old love letter from one of your ex-girlfriends, I’m sure I’d go mad.”

“May I ask you something?” Draco mumbled, he leaned forward so his chin was on the crown of your head.

“Anything.”

“Do... do you... does it bother you that I haven’t had any girlfriends before you?”

“No,” you replied, “Does it bother you that I’ve had boyfriends before you?”

Draco stayed silent as his response. You bit your lip and shuffled closer to Draco, not wanting to upset him more.

“My love, look at me,” you said quietly. “There is no one else but you. All the past boyfriends were... childish crushes, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Then why did you and William break up?”

“William and I fell out of love, simple as that.”

Anxiety. Draco felt anxiety. He attempted to push it down, to swallow it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t decide whether to leave or to stay and bask in his insecurities.

“Then,” Draco’s eyes flickered to yours, “How do you know that you won’t fall out of love with me?”

You were taken aback by his bluntness. Nearly speechless and fighting to find words.

“What?”

“You wrote him a love letter-”

“It was when I was fourteen!”

“If you were that in love with him, who's to say you won’t wake up and realize that you-”

“Stop.” you said firmly. “Draco, why are you doing this?”

Your eyes looked into his, searching for anything, hoping to find the answer in the grey of his eyes. The helpless look he omitted hurt. Your body ached in sync with his. What were the words you could say? What could help him? Aid him? What simple words, complex words could you speak that would ensure Draco of your love and affections.

Your hand shifted to softly hold his. With a kiss on each of the knuckles, you answered, “On my last dying breath, on every child we have and every memory we will experience, I will love you. I am,” you paused, “So lucky to have you. So utterly happy and content. My silly boy.”

“Y/N...”

“And, I am so, so proud of you.”

“You don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it,”

You rolled your eyes jokingly, “Must you always argue with me?”

“Still-”

“Of course I am proud of you. If I could shout it from the Astronomy Tower, I would in a heartbeat.”

Draco laughed along with you. The idea of your small body chanting and screaming to the wind that you were proud of him made him feel both embarrassed and loved.

“I would write you a thousand, a million, a billion soppy love letters. I will gladly tell you everyday how in love I am with you. If not for you, for myself.” you finished and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips, “I find it quite amusing to see you flush when I compliment you.” “

Are you-”

“Please do not ask me if I am sure,” you laughed, “I am most sure.”

“Real-”

You interrupted Draco’s question, silencing his insecurities and pressing a long kiss to his lips. His lips were wet and nervous between yours, but he felt the way you pushed and pulled, the way your fingers gripped his shirt tightly, the way your smile imprinted onto his. He simply could not describe it. He could search every dictionary and learn every language, but he would not be able to find any definition that could explain your love.

The only thing that could even come close to describing how you made him feel is the feeling he got when he was young, high in a tree, and touching the comforting breeze.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy imagines #draco malfoy imagine #harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter imagine #harry potter masterlist #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy fanfic #harry potter fanfic

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

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Reminiscing // Elijah Mikaelson

Summary: In a rare moment of peace, you find yourself thinking back over the centuries shared with the one you love.

A/N: I AM A FOOL FOR ELIJAH MIKAELSON. My taglist is open for The Originals - if you would like to be added, let me know!!

Warnings: fluff, history, established relationship, vampires, mentions of blood and death, mourning and grief, female pronouns, use of ‘wife’, dialogue heavy.

Word count: 1.8k

The house was quiet.

A rare occurrence in the Mikaelson household, but for first time in the months, the house was quiet. There was so furious shouting from Klaus, there was no attempts at mediation from Elijah. It was all quiet, and it was all peaceful.

When such a thing happened, it was very much the time to take hold of the rarity with both hands, gripping onto it for dear life in the hopes that the peace and quiet does not end too soon.

You sit in the library; finally put back together after one of Klaus’ anger fits. The books line the shelves in the correct order; a painstaking task you had completed after Klaus had apologised to you, knowing how much you cared for the almanacs and folios hidden away in the priceless Mikaelson collection.

The chair you had chosen to sit in was one that had come with you from the continent when the family had first settled in New Orleans. You had found it at a markets, immediately buying it and having it brought home with you that very day. Elijah had said nothing, indulging you with a roll of his eyes and a kiss to your lips. He very rarely argued with you, knowing that more often than not, you would have been right to make such a purchase.

The photo album remains open on your lap as you stare down at the images stuck to the pages. Time had aged the album; the pages becoming worn at the corners and browning further with each passing year.

This was the first album you had picked up; knowing it had the most pictures of the family in it. In particular, this album was home to perhaps your favourite photograph of yourself and Elijah. It had been taken spontaneously; unaware that a photographer even stood close by. Your bodies are angled towards each other as if each other’s true north. Elijah’s expression is soft as he glances down at you; the beginnings of a smile poking at the corners of his mouth as he readies himself to laugh at whatever you might have been saying in that moment. His hand rests delicately on your waist as your face is turned upwards; your eyes shining brightly as your hands gesture wildly, punctuating your story.

Footsteps sounding bring you out of your reminiscing. Instead, you greet the subject of the photo, smiling widely at your husband as he enters the library, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored shirt.

“I knew I would find you here,” Elijah comments, a hand brushing over your shoulder and the back of your neck as he walks past you.

“I’m making sure Klaus doesn’t take out his anger on anymore of the family collection.”

Elijah chuckles, “I don’t think that will happen again. He’s too scared of your reaction.”

“As he should be,” You declare, puffin out your chest proudly at the fact that the hybrid would be too scared to even touch the precious books and histories housed in this very room.

“The Great War?” Elijah asks, pointing to the album in your lap, not expecting an answer. He reaches for the photo album, beginning to flick through the pages as he wanders around the room. “My dear, whatever brought this on?”

“It’s been so peaceful recently. I wanted to take a moment to remember.”

“To remember?”

“Our past, my love. We have been together for over a thousand years, married for just short of that. I wanted to remember the peace.”

Elijah doesn’t answer. He simply watches you, watches the emotions flit over your face as you communicate your feelings. The last few months haven’t been easy on anyone in the Mikaelson family; the permanent target on your backs making it hard to live everyday life. Klaus continuing to make enemies left, right and centre didn’t help the matter either.

A thousand years. A thousand years he has loved you; has never loved anyone but you. His life prior to being a vampire flashes before him; a strong man, destined for great and noble things and completely in love with you – kind and caring. The relationship happened quickly, but the both of you knew that your eternities were intertwined. The curse put on him by his mother perhaps made him more selfish of all; turning you to ensure your eternities would always remain intertwined.

“Why the Great War?” He finally asks after a moment of silence.

“It was the first time we got our hands on a camera. We had seen them before, in France, but this was the first time we had owned one.”

“Rebekah loved it. She was forever posing in some ostentatious dress.”

You chuckle, your body warming at the obvious fondness in Elijah’s voice. He would berate her fashion sense, but he would never speak ill of his beloved little sister.

“Do you remember the summer we spent in England? It had to have been 1812 or 1813?”

“And you let Rebekah promenade for the season?” You start to giggle, “She had so many suitors! I have never seen Klaus so mad!”

“It wasn’t just Niklaus,” Elijah recalls, “I had so many angry missives from mothers who wanted to marry their daughters off that season but couldn’t because of Rebekah.”

You snort, remembering the empire waists of those months spent in London. The weather had been particularly wonderful that year; the sun continuing to shine for days on end. More time had been dedicated to walks in the park than they had been to being cooped up inside. Whilst the fashion of the time could be debatable, the company of your husband was very much desired.

“You were the diamond of that season, my love,” Elijah comments, bringing you back to the present.

You roll your eyes at the love of your eternal life, “You have to say that. I’m your wife.”

“What would you have me say?” Elijah asks, eyes bright with happiness, “As I recall Lady Earnshaw was particularly handsome that year too.”

“Lady Earnshaw!” You gasp.

“She loved me,” Elijah defends, holding a hand to his chest as if wounded by your words.

“Of course she did! You flirted with her every chance you got.”

“Jealous, my love?”

“Never,” You snort, remembering the aged face of the stubborn matriarch, “Lady Earnshaw was a day over eighty if I ever remember her.”

Silence descends over the both of you; memories of a past once thought long forgotten now washing over you. There was much to think of when one has lived for over a thousand years. The first few months after your transition were blurry; the pangs of hunger making your thirst practically insatiable – unable to think of anything but feeding. Yet, as you aged and found your place in society on Elijah’s arm and in his heart, your memories become refined – punctuated with moments of joy and pangs of heartbreak.

It had not been an easy existence. Family’s often fallout and Klaus had no qualms about punishing his siblings. However, in and amongst those dreaded recollections were rare moments of peace. Moments that were sought after and savoured; relished by every member of the Mikaelson family.

“Do you remember the sixteenth century?” You ask, mind faraway in the past.

Tudor England had been where you were happiest. You loved New Orleans, adored the culture and the people that came along with it, but Tudor England had its charms as well. For the millennia that you had been walking the earth, you had always found home in Elijah, knowing that he would be with you for an eternity and more. Yet, Tudor England had a hold on you. Having to leave the court of Henry and not return until Elizabeth had been crowned; it had been the longest decade of your immortal life.

“How could I forget?” Elijah laughs, “You have our miniatures in your bedside table.”

“Nicholas Hilliard was a dear friend,” You admonish thinking of the artist with great fondness.

“Queen Elizabeth I was never my biggest fan, was she?”

“You did take her sugared violets away from her,” You remind him, a smile in your voice as you remember the anger in the monarch’s voice once she realised who had in fact stolen her precious sweets.

“Her teeth had rotted away completely!” Elijah protests, throwing his arms wide as he defends his actions from centuries ago.

“So what would more sugar do? She had already lost her teeth, love. As I recall, her breath wasn’t all too pleasant.”

Elijah grins, remembering your pinched expression every time the monarch sought your attention, “You were her favourite.”

You shrug effortlessly, lifting a single shoulder. “I can’t help that she had good taste.”

“You wound me, love,” Elijah moans, smiling widely. His playful side came out rarely, but when it did, it was a treat for those nearby.

“You also refused to call her Elizabeth,” You continue, ignoring Elijah’s noise of protest, “You would call her ‘Betty’.”

“She didn’t mind the name when I was in her father’s court. I still argue to this day that I didn’t deserve her shoe being thrown in my face when I let her nickname slip out of fondness.” Elijah argues, crossing his arms as he thinks back to the small redheaded child he had first encountered almost five hundred years ago.

“She wasn’t the Queen then, darling. She was five years old and in need of a mother.”

“You were wonderful as her closest confidant. She thought of you as her mother.” Elijah comments quietly; his mind still on the small child of five – bright red hair combined with a wide smile. Elizabeth had become attached to both you and Elijah; finding adoptive parents in both of you when you showed her the smallest of attentions. It was hard to say no to such a child.

“It broke my heart to leave her,” You reply, your non-beating heart lurching at the memory of not only the tearful teenager, beginning to question why you hadn’t aged, but also of the weary monarch. Elizabeth had been very ill at the end, and you had refused to leave her. Ignoring the wishes of your husband and your family, staying with her until the end.

“I know it did,” Elijah murmurs, his hand seeking yours as he sits down next to you. “You were solemn for months, nothing I did could bring you round.”

“I had to mourn, Elijah.”

Elijah brings your hand to his lips where he kisses the back of it before kissing your knuckles. He keeps your hand close to his mouth as he whispers, “I know.”

You sigh, “It has been a life of mourning, hasn’t it? Time passes and yet I remember every death.”

“You’re not alone, my love.”

You turn to him, a soft smile gracing your lips. “I know. I have you for it all, don’t I?”

“Always and forever,” Elijah quotes, pressing your hand to his chest, holding it above the heart that would never again beat but continues to love you just as fiercely as it had when it beat its familiar rhythm.

#elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah x reader #the originals fanfiction #the originals #Elijah Mikaelson fanfiction #elijah mikaelson x you #elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson imagine

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years ago

Text

Detrimental. Fugo x F Reader 🎀

Warnings: non major character death, grieving, processing trauma.

[Scarlet Ribbons Description]

There’s no way of knowing what to expect when you sit up here.

You feel cold, but not in the traditional sense of the word. No physical means can alleviate the goosebumps that scatter up and down your skin like it’s winter. If it were a need for phantom-like warmth, your Stand is capable of producing fabric to wrap around your person. You know it won’t do anything, so here you sit, thoughts tearing you apart from the inside out. It’s been a long day. Your bones cry out in exhaustion that can’t be quenched with rest.

A breeze from the window you left open doesn’t register as it tousles your hair about.

What time is it now? You’ve long since lost track upon trudging home. An intrusive mantra of thoughts never quiets, refusing you the moment of clarity you so desperately need. Caffeine will be your saving grace to soldier through the next day, sleep is too elusive a goal to consider realistic. So you gave up on resting a while ago. Slumping into the back of your chair, a quiet sigh leaves your lips. Maybe you should accept Bruno’s offer for a day off after all.

It doesn’t sit well with you, knowing your superior would be plagued with a heavier workload, as a result of your previous actions. Your admiration for Bruno’s professional attitude grew tenfold this afternoon. For the past few months, you’ve used your team as a crutch too often. The events that occurred today served as a wake up call for this. Do you even have what it takes to be a member of this organization? While you were never over enthusiastic for your morally muddled work, this dilemma haunts you stronger than ever before.

“Hey, [First]. Your ears still work, don’t they?” The voice of your roommate manages to break through your festering thoughts. You look over, squinting at the figure who can only be Pannacotta Fugo. He’s standing with a hand on his hip, lips pursing, and head tilting to the side. You blink, probably looking like the fool Fugo considers you to be.

He shifts his weight around at your lack of response. “... Mind if I sit next to you?”

“Help yourself.” Your throat threatens to clench painfully, a product of the last few hours spent bawling. There’s not a lot illuminating the surrounding area, as it’s the middle of the night, and you didn’t want to wake him. How red and puffy are your eyes now? You don’t want to know. Whatever the amount, it’s impossible that he hasn’t noticed your sorry state.

Fugo scoots the chair by your side, closer than it was before, and takes a seat. You’re uncertain why he’s choosing to be this close, yet have no strength to verbalize your questions like usual. Is he here to berate you? Admonish your weakness? Perhaps even snicker at the incompetence that he had called out the first day Bruno brought you in? Your breath hitches, and you draw your legs closer to your chest, holding yourself in a tight embrace. You’re too caught up in yourself to notice your Stand, hovering around behind you. She places her head atop yours, in a feeble attempt to comfort you.

“Did I wake you?” By asking this, you hope to cut to the chase, and let him get his scolding for your inconsideration over with. Fugo doesn’t respond with the sarcasm you’ve come to expect. He’s taking in your every movement with an ever watchful eye, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Lips part only to close again, his eyebrows scrunching up, nose wrinkling. Is Fugo so disgusted with you that he can’t even form the proper words?

“[First],” he leans closer to your side and reaches out his hand. You flinch, a lump already forming in your throat, self-deprecating thoughts strangling you. With tenderness you’ve never experienced from him, a featherlight touch to your forearm sends your mind spiraling. “You did what needed to be done.”

Ah. There’s wetness dripping down the curves of your cheeks, Fugo’s face growing blurrier and further away. This is... this is humiliating, isn’t it? To openly cry in front of someone who has always thought little of you. Comforting you can’t be his end goal, there’s no way, it has to be a setup for a malicious joke. You’ve always been able to allow his insults to roll off like water off a duck’s back. Now is different -- you’re too exposed, too vulnerable -- capable of cracking at the slightest pressure.

Fugo continues, fingers trembling against your skin, almost like he’s sensing your thoughts. “I haven’t been the... most forthcoming with you, so it makes sense if you don’t believe me. But I mean what I say.”

There’s no denying the sincerity that’s interwoven with his words. Fugo’s having difficulty navigating how to best soothe you, yet you can feel the effort put into everything he’s doing. Maybe it’s because you’re overcome with emotion, or maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but you open your heart up to him for the first time.

“How can I know?” your voice is meek, barely audible, and takes all of your strength to force out. “What I did... how can I know that it was right?”

You feel how his muscles go tense against your skin. Fugo doesn’t hesitate with his response, despite his earlier reservations. “You can’t know that.”

It’s the logical conclusion, but god, does it hurt. This serves as a painful confirmation for what you’ve been trying to deny. No one is going to hold your hand, blindly justifying your actions, telling you every aspect of it was just. Should anyone do this, they’d be a liar. You know that. You knew it when Bruno consoled you earlier, you knew it on the car ride back, and you knew it when soaking your pillow with tears.

“No one other than you can decide that for yourself,” Fugo continues on. Now it’s your turn to stiffen, overwhelming curiosity leading you to look back up at him through glassy eyes. “You don’t have to now, or ever really. What happened happened. I don’t want to sit here and state the obvious, but you did protect Bucciarati.”

You sniffle, using the back of your hand to wipe at your eyes. “I don’t even know that for sure! That... that guy, he was shaking. He could’ve missed his shot. He probably would’ve missed the shot. And yet, I...”

“Say you’re right. Say he did miss. And then what? Bucciarati still has to report that he didn’t offer his protection money on time. He would’ve been killed all the same,” Fugo pauses, letting the words sink in. “Though, not before the organization sent people to torture him, his family, anyone who could give the money they’re looking for.”

He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Think of the other outcomes before deciding the one you’re in is the worst.”

There’s no remedying the speechless state he’s left you in. You sit there, slowly regaining yourself, breathing less erratic than before. This is the longest conversation you’ve had with Fugo without snark, and you couldn’t be more grateful. The weight on your chest still remains. Now, it’s just a bit lighter. More manageable.

“Thank you, Fugo. Maybe you’re not all that bad after all.” You offer him a full and beautiful smile. His mouth goes dry at the sight, eyes locking on your form. This is the radiant version of you that he’s used to seeing. The one that churns his stomach in the strangest yet best of ways. Fugo’s gaze drops down to his hand that’s resting on your arm, face heating up. He clears his throat, pulling his hand back, and looks away. Dammit, why does he have to look embarrassed now of all times?

“D-don’t mention it,” he tugs at the tie around his neck. “It’d be bad for all of us if you messed up from being emotional.”

You can’t stop the sardonic laugh that leaves your lips. Now this is the Fugo you’re more familiar with. Still, now that he’s revealed himself to have a soft side, you won’t be forgetting it anytime soon. There’s a lot to process that remains in the back of your mind. You’ve hit your wallowing in misery quota for today, so why not try for some levity.

“So it’s us now, huh?” You wonder aloud, eyes crinkling in delight at how Fugo scowls. That face is reminiscent of the time you questioned his swiss cheese ridden fashion sense, a fond memory for you, and a bitter one for him. Fugo doesn’t return your banter in full, instead, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“If you’re back to acting like that, you must be feeling better.”

“I guess I am,” you hum, moving closer to his person. Fugo stares at you utterly dumbfounded as you wrap your arms around him in a half hug. You pull back as fast as you initiated it, the warmth from your touch not easily forgotten. “Really though. Thank you. You gave me the wake-up call I needed and well... I appreciate it.”

“... You’re welcome, [First].”

→ Pannacotta Fugo route has been unlocked.

#real hurt comfort hours #fugo x reader #fugo panacotta #fugo panacotta x reader #pannacotta fugo #pannacotta fugo x reader #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventures #JJBA #jjba x reader #jojo's bizarre adventures imagines #jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #scarlet ribbons #my stuff

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prettyboongi · 4 years ago

Text

Morning Ride

fem!Reader x Park Jimin

Word Count: 1,902

Genre: Smut (w/ some crack)

Rating: Mature

Warning: grinding, dry humping, car sex, nipple play, public sex, sexual humiliation, numerous mentions of Jimin’s juicy lips lol

[A/N: So this story really came out of nowhere. Please forgive me if this comes off as super cringy, I tried my best with this one. Oh and you might notice that I’m kinda obsessed with Jimin’s lips lmao Please feel free to leave any kind of feedback.]

You were contently eating your blueberry bagel, waiting for the guys to pick you up for school. It had just turned 10 am so you knew they should be on their way. Unlike Taehyung, Jungkook and your boyfriend Jimin, your classes don't actually begin until the afternoon. It was just more convenient to wake up early and tag along with them. While the guys attended their classes, you usually just spent time in the university's library reading a book or studying.

As you sipped your lukewarm green tea, you finally received the text you were expecting.

Jiminie: We're here. Come outside

On that note, you quickly finished your bagel, slipped on your shoes, grabbed your bag and headed out the door.

You reflexively covered your eyes with your hand to shield it from the bright, mid-morning sun as you walked towards Taehyung's gaudy purple car. While the car was nice, you never understand why he chose the color purple for it. "It looks like something a pimp would drive, dude," you clowned him when he first got it. But seeing that he would be gracious enough to give you and the gang rides, you refrain from further making fun of it. At least not to his face.

You gave the guys a little wave as you were approaching and they waved back. With Taehyung driving, Jungkook was in the passenger seat beside him. Leaving your boyfriend, Jimin, the love of your life, in the backseat behind Jungkook. You see him smile brightly as you walk towards them; even after 3 years of dating, his smile never fails to make you feel tingly inside.

As usual, you get around behind the car to sit on the other side of the car.

"Wait, Y/N, there's-," you hear Taehyung say to you from his opened window but you had already opened the car door. Expecting to see a free spot next to your boyfriend, all you see is a huge block of metal in your way.

"What the hell is this?," you asked Taehyung.

"Oh that's my safe," he answers matter of factly. You took another look at the metal box and it was, indeed, a safe.

"Okay better question: why do you have a safe?"

"So I can keep stuff in it. Duh." He responds, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.

"Can you please move it to the trunk or something?" It was too early to deal with your friend's eccentricities.

Taehyung shakes his head. "No, it weighs a fuck ton. You'll just have to sit on Jimin's lap."

"What?!" Not only you knew that option was illegal and potentially dangerous, you also knew the type of person your boyfriend was. One word: handsy.

"Come on, y/n!," you hear Jungkook whined from the passenger seat. "Just get in, we're gonna be late for philosophy and I really don't wanna be berated by Professor Lee again."

Feeling defeated, you slammed the door shut and walked around towards Jimin's side. Once you opened his door, you find Jimin giving you a cheeky smile. He pats his tights and says to you in a playful tone, "Well hop in, honey." You huffed at him but it's not like you had a choice.

You carefully sild into the car and sat on his lap. As Taehyung starts to drive again, you turned your head back to Jimin. "No funny business, you understand?," you whisper. But he just give you a smile, the mischievous kind where you know he's going to be up to no good.

During the drive, you listen to Jungkook rant about how much of a weirdo Prof. Lee was. You were laughing at Jungkook's insistent whining when you started to feel something on your back. It felt soft and warm, it doesn't take you long to realize that you were feeling Jimin's lips pressed against the fabric of the shirt.

"Dammit, Jimin," you cursed in your head. You were about to turn around and silently scold him but the feel of him leaving delicate kisses on your back was so heavenly, it stops you. You tried your best to ignore his kisses and listen to your friends' conversation. However, it was super difficult to focus due to your boyfriend peppering your back with his soft lips. As he was doing just that, Jimin began to grip your hips, which immediately made you reminisce of the countless times you would lose yourself while frantically riding him reverse cowgirl style. With that, you couldn't help yourself but respond to his actions by slowly grinding on him. You tried your best to be subtle since it would be more than embarrassing if Taehyung and Jungkook found out the two of you are practically dry humping on the backseat.

When you thought this gratifying torture wouldn't end, you and guys finally arrive at school. As Taehyung finds and parks in an empty spot, you feel Jimin leave one more lingering and loving kiss and wrap his arms around you. You honestly want to stay in that moment but second the engine stopped, you had to get out. You quickly got off Jimin and out of the car, so he can get off and for you to cool down your flustered state. Even though the fresh air does feel good on your hot skin, you were still incredibly horny and you needed to think of a way to relieve it.

"Um, Tae," you called out for him as he got out of the car, "is it alright if I could take a nap in your car? I didn't really sleep well last night and I could use some rest."

Taehyung looks at you quizzically. "Aren't you heading to the library? Just take a nap there. Jungkook does it all the time."

Jungkook nods. "Surprisingly their encyclopedias make great pillows."

"Actually, the librarians are cracking down on renegade nappers and kicking them out," you lied.

"Well," Taehyung hesitates but you shoot him your signature pouty puppy dog look, knowing it will soften him. And you succeeded.

"Okay, okay," he says annoyed, "just remember to lock the door when you leave."

"Thanks, Tae," you give him a small smile.

As you watch the boys walk towards the campus, Jimin stops and turns his head to you. He winks, indicating that he knows your plan and starts to walk away again You feel your face getting hot again.

You got in the passenger seat and put up Taehyung's sun reflectors to block each window. When you're done, you slide off your already partially damp panties and toss them in the back.

It was going to take awhile so you just leaned back and closed your eyes, causing you to actually drift off a bit. You were then woken up by a tap of the window glass on the driver's side. You unlocked the door and Jimin quickly got inside.

"Sorry, it took me so long. I had to wait for the Professor Lee to be well into the lecture." Jimin slightly lifts himself up above his seat and pulls down his jeans and boxers, with his erect pens already springing up.

"Oh," you said in a rather flattered tone, "I didn't think you wanted me that much."

"Of course, Y/N," Jimin blushes a bit,"the minute I found out you had to sit on me during the drive, I knew I was a goner."

Seeing Jimin's sudden bashfulness, compared to his bold actions from before, made your heart fluttered. And somehow it made you even more aroused.

As you lifted yourself up from the passenger seat, you hiked your skirt up and carefully straddled onto Jimin's bare lap. Slowly and teasingly, you slide yourself down until you completely engorged Jimin's rigid cock.

"Ah," a low moan escaped your throat. Placing your hands on Jimin's body shoulders, you begin to rock your hips back and forth. You gradually pick up the pace, causing you to pant and moan vigorously.

"You drive me so fucking crazy, you know that?," you lamented, having trouble steadying your voice.

You watch Jimin's eyes flutter, lost in total ecstasy. "Isn't that the point, Pop Tart?"

Like earlier, you felt Jimin grip your hips tightly. He pushes himself further inside, matching your rhythm.

"Fuck, Y/N," Jimin groans, "Unbutton your shirt."

Obediently, you untucked your button up blouse from your skirt and swiftly unbuttoned it, exposing your pink-white polka dot bra.

Jimin lifts up his hands from your waist and begins to grope your breasts firmly. You throw your head back in pleasure as Jimin kneads your chest and rubs your peaked nips through the fabric of your bra. Not being able to take the teasing any longer, you unhooked your bra in seconds, causing your breasts to spill out and jiggle inches from Jimin’s face.

As if without thinking, Jimin pulls you towards him and takes one of your tits in his mouth. The feel of Jimin’s supple lips on your nipple and his tongue swirling around it makes your mind go fuzzy. You rock yourself faster and deeper onto Jimin’s cock, clenching your sides around him.

Jimin stops sucking your nip and leans back in his seat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moans breathlessly, “Just like that, baby.”

The air in the car was starting to getting thick with your heated breaths and the familiar aromatic scent of sex. The lack of fresh air was making you feel a bit lightheaded but that somehow made this tryst even more erotic.

You feel your core tightening, sensing your orgasm arriving. You lean into Jimin, tightly gripping his shoulders, preparing for the feeling of fireworks exploding throughout your body.

But instead, you feel the rush of cool air as the driver is opened wide. To your horror, you and Jimin turn your heads to find an extremely displeased Taehyung.

“What the fuck are you two doing in my car?!,” he shouts.

“What do you think we’re doing, genius?,” Jimin retorts.

Taehyung's eyes darken in anger. “Both of you, out now-.”

Before he could finish his sentence, as the situation wasn’t humiliating enough, you unexpectedly found your body writhing from one of the most explosive orgasms you ever had.

“Ah!,” you loudly moan, involuntarily rolling your hips to ride out the pleasure.

Taehyung freezes in place, not believing what he just witnessed.

You then proceed to feel Jimin’s cock twitch and thrust deeply inside you, moaning audibly for Taehyung to hear as well.

“Ugh! You two are fucking gross!,” you hear Taehyung yells before slamming the door shut.

After a moment reeling from your intense climaxes, the both of you looked at each and burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” you said, face palming, “I can’t that just happened. I’m so embarrassed.”

Jimin smiles at you. “Yeah, me too. But at least it felt good, right?”

You smiled back at him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Yeah, really good.” Cupping his face, you leaned in once again to kiss him more passionately. You savored the feel of Jimin’s ever soft, buttery lips, the same lips that never fails to drive you absolutely wild.

You both knew for the rest of the day and possibly week, Taehyung was going to continue unleashing his wrath towards you two. But really, it was his fault for leaving that stupid safe in the backseat.

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

Text

Κατακηλέω (νοσταλγία deleted scene)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Κατακηλέω: to charm, cast a spell over (Ancient Greek)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Narses/Reader but you know how that is

Summary: This is a deleted scene that happens between chapter 16 and 17, it centers mainly around Narses.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: The usual, plus a graphic depiction of burning alive (or my best attempt at writing it anyways)

A/N: Yeah idk what to say here lol, I put this together mainly bc @xbellaxcarolinax made a point of there being little Narses on the story, and bc she was interested in a chapter more centered around him. I write a lot of rambles that I don’t post cause I don’t think people wanna read ‘em, but here it is one of em, in deleted-scene form lol. Hope you like it, and thank you! <3

Also yes I have Michiel Huisman as Daario in my head as a faceclaim for Narses, idk what to tell ya, I suck at describing characters so of course you had no way of knowing that, and I’m sorry.

Taglist: (I’m sorry if you don’t wanna be tagged in these kind of chapters btw, just lemme know and I’ll keep you on the main story ones only, or just the main story and Ivar PoV ones, whatever works for you) @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson

“It scares you, doesn’t it?” Freydis starts suddenly one night, and you lift your eyes to her but don’t say anything. So, she continues, “The reminder of what you could do.”

“If you mean-…”

“You know what I mean. You could lie, and I keep wondering why you don’t.”

“Lying is what you would do, is it not?” You snap, head tilted to the side.

The blonde’s smile turns smug, as if she just made you give away a card. Instead of saying anything regarding that, she shrugs,

“You have traveled a lot, lived a lot,” She states, moving carefully and taking a seat next to you, seemingly choosing to ignore your eyes following her. “Will you tell me you are unaware of what men are able and willing to do for a woman’s love?

She stops whatever it is she was going to say next when an elderly woman enters the apothecary, her blue eyes following the woman’s moves. You are reminded of that night when she shared her thoughts by a window and was interrupted -eyes and ears follow the witch-, and realize why she holds her tongue.

Instead of waiting for the other woman to leave, she stands up and asks you to follow with but a gesture of her head.

Certain steps take you both to the same elevated patch of cold and foreign grass that saw you lay on your knees and pray to whatever Gods heard you to give you an answer.

And so, Freydis continues on,

“Look at all Ivar did to get you to be at his side. Imagine what he would do with the promise you could love him,” Manic blue eyes meet yours as Freydis stops you with a hand on your arm. You pointedly look down at it and back up at her face, feeling a tightness in your chest, dread mixed with disdain. “Imagine what he would do if you pretended to love him and threatened to take it away.”

There’s only one answer you can give her.

“Get your hand off me.”

If you were your mother, you’d have a sword in your hands and a snarl on your lips. But you never wanted to fight like a man, and so you only let the cold of this land seep into your voice and harden your expression, your voice.

She remains frozen for a few moments too long, and you once again pointedly look at her hand and back into her eyes.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” You state, and only then does she comply, her eyes searching yours. You return your arm to be comfortable covered by the warm cloak, and turn to keep walking. “I do not want to hear another word of this, you hear me? Not another damned word.”

“Does that mean you’ve given up? You’ll let him keep you here?”

“I said not another word.”

Freydis swallows whatever her words are to be next, and nods her head, accepting your order as if she thinks you gave her a choice.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Freydis speaks again.

“You choose to protect him now, is that it?”

Her dainty and delicate voice loses none of the edge and the certainty, even as her eyes betray something more human.

“You are a smart woman,” You concede instead of answering her questions, and tilt your head to the side, “But a smarter one would know when to hold her tongue.”

“You don’t hold yours.”

“I never claimed to be smart,” You reply easily, before bowing your head in goodbye. “Goodnight, Freydis.”

She knows it is a dismissal, and a rude one at that, but she only returns the gesture. You could swear a strange sort of pride shines in the girl’s dark blue eyes as she takes her leave.

____

And now you sit alone overlooking that same cliff and you cannot get her words out of your head. You wish you could hate her, berate her for her games and call her names, say she is nothing but a liar, a whore.

But it is not so simple, is it? You seduced a man into giving you his army, did it so well Freydis trusted you to seek Freyja’s favor and do the same with the King, knew you had what it took with only but a look at you.

You promised your love to Narses only for the faint possibility that he could drive the Byzantine Christians off your lands, that he could bend his army and his strength to your will and give you the kingdom you deserved.

And you did to Narses everything that Freydis would have done to Ivar. You kissed, lied, and promised yourself; for the sake of a game.

Because when all you are told you can be is a warm pair of legs to wrap around a man, a pretty little jewel for him to keep and parade around, a quiet and beautiful maiden to stand beneath who the Gods deem you belong to; you learn to play games, all women do.

You wrap your legs tight enough he begs for mercy trying to escape your spell, you show them how even jewels draw blood if squeezed too tight in a fool’s hand, you let beauty carry you near him and your voice be a whisper as it reaches his ear. You play games.

But, as you sit on the cold grass overlooking Kattegat’s horizon, the sea and the sky meeting far away and reminding you strikingly of dusks and dawns spent on that temple overlooking the ocean and awaiting for those ships; you think about how no women speak of what happens when the game ends.

Because it always ends. It is a world of change, after all, a world of wheels turning and of days and nights and of seasons unending. It goes on and on, and the world changes, the games end.

Maybe you don’t hear women speak of what happens when it ends because few survive it. Those that do, maybe, just like you, refuse to speak of it, refuse to give voice to the pain and the shame that comes after playing with a heart not your own.

Refuse to admit the regret.

“You’ll do it?” He asks, eyes shining, “You’ll be my wife?”

“I would love to marry you,” You lie, you lie, you lie; and it burns your heart, “But I don’t want to bring our children into a world that will push them into the dirt for the Gods they follow, Narses.”

And just like that, promises, vows, oaths, fall from his perfect lips like he cannot help it. And you believe him, because if you hold your breath and dive past the smoke into the memories of your past, you can recognize that the way Narses looks at you now is the same way your father used to look at your mother.

You remember Sieghild’s teachings about Freyja, about her ways of persuasion and seduction, and wonder if, even if you are foreign to her, the Goddess looks over you. You wonder if she would smile or frown at your games.

You fall down on the grass, keeping your hold on Narses’ hands to tug him down with you. Narses falls with a laugh, legs and arms holding him up above you, dark green eyes shining as they look down upon yours.

It is remarkably easy, to surrender to his kiss. You close your eyes, letting your fingers go up into his hair, and allowing your lips and tongue to dance with his.

When his impatient lips move down to your jaw, your neck; you let him, craning your head back so he can have more access to your skin. If you clear your mind, you can almost feel nothing but pleasure.

When you tug particularly hard on his hair as Narses bites at your collarbone, you feel a breathed laugh leave his nose.

Lifting himself up in strong arms on each side of your head, Narses looks down upon you. His words should not hurt like they do by now, as you are so familiar with them you know what they will be before he even opens his mouth.

He steals another quick kiss, and whispers, “I love you.”

As a lover, as his future wife.

You smile through the pain, and answer, “I love you.”

As a friend, as the protector of your people.

As an instrument of war.

You are reminded of the safety of Narses’ embrace, however suffocating; and you can almost taste your name on his lips, bloodied as they were the last time you saw him alive.

“You are in the Elysian Fields, I know,” You start telling the wind, hoping it can carry your words to him, “Or maybe these Varangians’ Gods are fighting with ours to take you with them to Valhalla. Either way, I hope you can hear my voice one last time, my friend.”

You laugh brokenly to yourself, lowering your gaze to the grass under your body, caressing the dark tresses of nature.

“I know I don’t make much sense, I-I never did to you. Ramblings about Fate and empires fallen and tales of Gods and heroes; things that you had no interest in hearing. And yet you still looked upon me like something…something out of a dream, Narses,” You tell him, pain clawing at your heart, reopening wounds you thought you closed long ago. You smile sadly still, and reminisce, “You used to tell me I was your dream, and…I wish I could tell you that you were mine, I truly do. But I can’t.”

And regret fills you, the useless and heartbreaking gift of hindsight showing you that the path you took led only to pain and war. Narses was sent by your choices, by your games, by your mistakes, to die; and you…you were sent here. To what?

You dare think not even the Gods have an answer to your present, or future. But you do have answers to your past, and if someone deserves to hear them, it is Narses, wherever he may be.

“Returning to Eleusis choked me with the smoke of all the fires lit before I left and during my time away. I…blinded myself with ambition and I thought the only way I could fight was through you,” You explain, honestly, brokenly, the only way you know how to, “I knew that if I had the heart of Thebes’ Strategus, I could get what I wanted. I just had to have enough guile, enough lies, enough poison; to trick you into giving me your heart.

You offer the wind a hollow chuckle, bitter and angry and oh so filled with regret you can feel your heart poisoned with it.

“And I did exactly that. Maybe Aphrodite and Peitho blessed my lies, maybe Sieghild was right and Freyja watched over me,” You look over Kattegat’s horizon, facing the truths of your past when you don’t know what you want out of your future, “Either way, I used you, I hated myself but I still did it and…I got what I wanted.

As the agony of the flames crawls over your legs, scorching your skin with the inferno, blinding your eyes with the smoke, flogging your throat with your screams; you turn your gaze to the sky, blackened and barren as it is, and plead the Gods you have fought and bled for to grant you a moment of mercy, a painless death.

And flesh being charred smells awful, making your poisoned lungs heave for unattainable retrieve. You hold a moment of clarity in your mind to beg for Sieghild’s forgiveness, that you left her in this world alone after she sacrificed so much for you. You hope her Gods let you visit her in Folkvangr.

With one last ragged and angry scream, you let your strength leave you, your agony leave you, your regrets leave you.

When you awaken you find yourself in too much pain to accept this is the Underworld. Before you open your eyes, a moment of panic and dread fills your heart at the thought that the Christians left you alive to torture you, but you hear familiar voices, smell familiar fragrances.

Sieghild’s hand over your forehead, gentle and loving in ways she rarely is, makes a small smile tug at your dried and bleeding lips.

“I know you are awake, open your eyes,” She chastises, gruff even when relief clogs her voice. You do, and her smiling inked face settles your quickly beating heart, makes you forget the pain for a moment. “I love you, you stubborn child.”

You allow yourself a smile, closing your eyes again and focusing on breathing for a few moments, before whispering, “I love you too, minn móðir.”

The shieldmaiden chuckles brokenly, pressing rough lips on the crown of your head. After a few moments of silence, she sighs.

“By the way, you mad woman, you did it.”

“Did what?” You ask raggedly, wincing as you lift your head to accept the cup of water she offers.

“Listen, little one,” She instructs, and when you do, you hear the rustling of armor plates, the heavy steps of soldiers outside your door. The Viking woman shakes her head in almost disbelief, “The Strategos, that boy, he saved you from the flames.”

“Narses?”

“His soldiers came with us, we have nearly a thousand men here.”

“I did so many things wrong, Narses. I lied and manipulated and pretended, and maybe because the Gods are cruel, or maybe because reaping what you sow is an empty promise; I succeeded, and I got what I wanted. I knew I wouldn’t win, not against the Empire, not against the Christians, but…I wanted them to remember me, to remember our names and our Gods and our ways. To remember we don’t die silently.

And even if it hurts, you admit to yourself that you would do it again. You wish you could have loved Narses the way he deserved, you wish you could have been honest, you wish you could have found other ways to fight for your kingdom; but…you understand why you did it, and feeble and useless as it is, you want to forgive yourself for it.

Where there is war there can never be love, right? And you wanted war, you will not lie to yourself and say you truly wanted peace all along.

No, you wanted to see those Christians that came to take your home bleed at your feet, you wanted Attica to be free again, and Laconia, and Macedonia, and Arcadia, and many others. And you would wage war for your freedom for a thousand years if needed.

You would promise Narses your hand again if it came to it. You know you would, because the person you were when Attica was yours…she would have done that and much more for a chance at freedom. Now, you know better. Now, you let yourself be softer. Now, the world is a lot bigger than it seemed back then.

Now, things are different. Maybe you are, maybe the world is, maybe your heart is. Maybe Ivar is.

You smile at the barren horizon that doesn’t seem so foreign and intimidating now, and whisper, “I could do it now, I know. I would end up dead when he knew the truth, that’s for certain, but the victory would be mine, our people’s, by the time Ivar could catch up with my lies. I could, Narses.

“We need Stithulf’s support. We will ally with him, and even if you scream and fight it is what will happen.”

But you are shaking your head before he even finishes speaking.

“As Anassa of Attica I ca-…”

“As the commander of your forces, as the man you’ll marry, I’m telling y-…”

The hostility, the command, in his tone startle you to attention, and you narrow your eyes as you step closer. You don’t reach his shoulder, but the years have taught you there’s few things a man fears more than a woman that refuses to fight like a man but still fights.

“If you try using that to silence me, I fear you will not live long as my husband.” The threat drips from your lips like wine, but Narses doesn’t cave for once, and he drags a hand over his face.

“You always fight me, why do you…why can’t you be…?” His words die in a sigh, and you lift your eyebrows.

“Why can’t I be someone I’m not? Would you love me if I were anything other than me?”

“Sometimes, I wish you were,” He sentences, a hand over his eyes as he grunts out the words. Your heart drops, and so does your guard. He sighs again, and a hand reaches up and cups your cheek, unaware your whole body tightens to a coil the moment he touches you. “Sometimes, I fool myself into thinking I still see the woman you once were in you. The woman that wanted a life surrounded by Eleusis’ warmth, the woman that cared not for war, for vengeance.”

You grit your teeth, and step back, closing your eyes tightly as you croak,

“That woman was never all I was. I wanted Eleusis, I still do, but that doesn’t mean I never wanted revenge, Narses. Those Christia-…”

When you feel he finally drops his hand from your cheek, you open your eyes and watch his hand clench into a fist.

“Why do I have to love a woman like you?” He hisses, turning his back to you and slamming both hands on the weak table in front of him. “I’ve asked the Gods why, you know. Why I have to love a woman arrogant and ambitious and…Hera help me, a woman that is not mine. Never was, never will be.”

“I-…What are you saying?”

“Do you think I’m enough of a fool to think I can make you my wife? If the Fates don’t stop me you will,” A humorless chuckle leaves his lips, “Lord Hades might split open the earth and drag you to the Underworld before I get to call you my wife.”

“Don’t say those things.”

“It is true! I was not Fated to have you, even if the Gods know I was Fated to love you,” He shakes his head, teeth gritted and eyes failing to meet yours, “We both know what made you say yes to me, and it is what is keeping you from saying yes to Stithulf. It was never love.”

Shame chokes you, keeps the next words form leaving your lips. Your lips tremble and your eyes cloud with tears as you look at his tense back, nothing but regrets shining in your eyes.

“Are you-…will you l-leave?”

Will you leave me? Is the question you dare not ask, because you do not have the right to believe he should want to stay at your side, not after everything.

You still don’t want him to leave you alone here.

But the Thebesian takes a deep breath, straightening his back again and turning to you. The same anguished softness you saw so many times in his eyes still shines in them now, and he shakes his head.

His voice when he replies feels like warmth, like safety and nostalgia,

“I will always be at your side. Until Hades summons you home, I’ll be at your side.”

You look into his warm eyes, and with shame still burning your chest, you ask,

“Why? The Gods know I do not deserve it. Why do you stay?”

The answer leaves his lips with the same certainty it always did, with the same hope and the same truth,

“I love you.”

You like to believe you would have loved Narses, you like to believe you would have been content remaining as Eleusis’ Priestess. You like to believe you could have birthed him children for you to teach the way of the Gods and he to give the fame of his family.

Problem is, you fear now, with the taste of this strange freedom still fresh and sweet on your tongue, you don’t think you could have ever lived with the binds of what Narses wanted to make out of you. A priestess, whose ambition is forgotten when he wills it so; a woman, whose eyes will need to lower from his; a wife, to be quietened when he speaks.

And you don’t want that, to be what Narses wanted you to, what Galla wanted you to, what Freydis wants you to, what Ivar wants you to. You want to be you, and you want to fight, and be compassionate and revengeful, and be soft and relentless, without needing to choose one or the other.

You want nights of stupid arguments and infuriating talks, you realize around a broken chuckle, you want foreign languages and even more foreign customs, you want…you want Ivar. In all his vitriol, in all his bloodthirst, in all his awkward gentleness and in all his armored heart, you want him.

Tears of regret and the path not taken fill your eyes, and you find yourself sobbing out a small laugh, “But the person that lied and tricked you, that could do the same to Ivar…she died amongst the flames, left me in her place, I think.

The Priestess is dead.

Taking the small knife Ivar gifted you what seems like a lifetime ago, you hold a lock of your hair in front of you, and cut off the wind-blown and tangled strands, holding a short tress in your hand that weights like a decade of apologies and promises made.

“I’m sorry. For everything I did and everything I didn’t do,” You promise him, closing your eyes and almost seeing his smiling face before you, his eyes shining and his sun-kissed skin weathered around a smile. “In another life, I may have loved you like you deserved.”

You open your palm, and let the strands of grief be carried off by Kattegat’s winds way across the sea.

And in another world, on another land, a dead man takes a breath.

____

So, hope you liked it, hope that last sentence got you wonderin’, and hope you have a nice day/night!

Thank you so much for reading, see you Tuesday with the scheduled update: chapter 18 :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #does this count tho #i guess so #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless #νοσταλγία masterlist

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cagestark · 5 years ago

Text

Introduction to Ink

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Chapter Four

@starknakedsluts ;)

About this: Bucky has tattoos and sheltered!Toni wants to touch them. Fem!Tony Stark. College AU.

BUCKY.

The first time Bucky sees her, she’s sitting on one of Nat’s tasteful patio chairs with a textbook open on her knees, bent over to try to read by the fading light. Her hair falls long and dark around her face, hands tanned with thin fingers that flick through pages of her book with purpose. All around her are various acts of debauchery: water polo in the pool with Nat shouting at someone who has spilled their cocktail in the chlorinated water; music loud enough to feel like a second pulse where it resonates in the drum of his chest; the patio table beside her littered with bottles of alcohol and mixers. All this and she looks like an island, some peaceful quiet piece of frozen time. Completely out of place. Bewitching.

A warm hand clasps him on the shoulder, startling him. It’s just Steve, hair wet but body dry when he pulls Bucky in for a quick hug. “Good to see you, brother,” Steve says warmly in his ear, and yeah. Bucky will endure the chaos for this. It’s been too long since he’s seen Natasha and Steve and Sam and the others. So what if he has to swim through an ocean of obnoxious people to find them?

Islands, he thinks, eyes drawn back to the girl reading the book.

Bucky lifts his chin in her direction. “Who’s that?”

Steve glances over. “That’s Toni. She’s Nat’s roommate at uni. I guess she was homeschooled her whole life, real sheltered. Nice girl, though. Hey, go get a drink and I’ll see if I can’t get Sam away from the beer pong table. Clint’s around here, too, I think, so keep your eyes peeled for him.”

With careful, cautious steps, Bucky approaches the table. Toni doesn’t look up from her book, though she does flip the page. Her nails are short and tidy, free of polish. This close, Bucky sees that she’s wearing a sleeveless shirt with a high neck and a skirt that brushes her knees. She couldn’t be more different from the other girls at the party, and she might as well be the antithesis of Nat.

Curiosity tickles at the back of his brain. What is she reading? he wonders. A glimpse at the open pages shows complex graphs and models that offer him no hint. He’s so busy trying to look at her book out of the corner of his eye that he knocks over a bottle of Jack Daniels. Like dominos, it sends a stack of plastic cups and a cup full of decorative umbrella scattering over the table.

Cringing, he lets his eyes be drawn back to her. Toni is staring up at him, and then Bucky remembers that he’s not like anyone else at the party either. First he takes in her face: the wide, dark eyes, the straight nose and full mouth. Fuck, she’s young he thinks to himself, feeling like a pervert. Obviously of age if she’s sharing a room with Nat back at NYU, but he wouldn’t doubt that he’s got seven or eight years on her. He’s so busy looking his share and berating himself that he almost misses her expression, the way those big eyes grow round as moons, her mouth dropping open in a near comical expression of disbelief and perhaps disgust.

Right, Bucky thinks distantly. He’s not the poster boy for sheltered.

She takes in the tattoo above his left eye, the one of his sister’s name that he’d only gotten earlier in the year on the anniversary of her death. Those dark whiskey colored eyes skirt past his face down to his neck where ink protrudes from above his collar all the way to his cut jaw. He’s grateful that he’s wearing a jacket over his t-shirt, so that she can’t see the tattoos that cover his arms. It doesn’t stop her from eyeing his hands though, the letters tattooed across his knuckles, the UFO and creeping ivy (respectively) on the back of his hands.

It’s not the first time Bucky’s been stared at this way (like he’s a degenerate, like he’s got three heads) and it won’t be the last; though, he does wonder when it will stop stinging so much. He cuts his eyes away from her, unable to watch her watching him with that look on her face. He fixes the mess he made, restoring everything to its proper spot. Unwilling to turn tail and run—at least, not without a drink—he kneels to open a cooler beneath the table and finds twist-top beer. When he chances looking back up, there’s a complex series of microexpressions playing across Toni’s face, ones that Bucky can’t even begin to interpret.

At his stare, she mutely lifts her book and presses it flush to her chest as if it is a shield. As if she is afraid of him.

The cover reads An Introduction to Modern Astrophysics.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters.

Her mouth opens and then shuts. She nods, absolving him. He takes that as permission to give her a forced smile and make a prompt exit left stage. Dark eyes burn into his back as he walks aimlessly into the sea of party-goers looking for Steve or Sam or anybody.

Nat finds him spectating the game of beer pong (instead of pulling Sam away, Steve had somehow become roped in himself, helping Sam to dig himself out of the hole he’d been slipping into). She’s a breath of fresh air, her red hair wet and dark and plaited down the back of her head, her eyes tired and her smile easy. Bucky doesn’t even mind that she gets him wet during their hug. He’s missed her.

They spend time catching up and heckling Steve and Sam.

“What’s the deal with your roommate?” Bucky asks, leaning into her so that he doesn’t have to raise his voice.

Nat narrows her eyes, seeing straight through him. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs a shoulder and refuses to elaborate. Sam makes a shot and a girl on the other team has to drink, so Bucky lets his eyes rest on the stranger’s bobbing throat just so he has a place to look that isn’t into Nat’s x-ray eyes.

At last, Nat hums. “She’s an engineering student. Her dad was some big Congressman—I guess he made some controversial moves because she said there were a lot of threats made against him and his family. They kept her home all the time to keep her safe.” Nat leans in, her mouth nearly touching his ear. “She said once when she was little, she was kidnapped for ransom.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky mutters.

“She’s basically been living under a rock her whole life. A very expensive, luxurious rock.”

Even at risk of saying too much and laying all his cards on the table, he says: “She looked at me like I was a freak.”

Natasha frowns, face going soft and sad. “I’m sorry, J. She’s probably just never seen someone…”

“Like me.”

“She’d be an idiot to judge you for the way you look.”

Bucky smiles a little. “Most people are idiots.”

She can’t deny that. When Steve and Sam finally crush the duo they were up against, the two losers slink away to lick their wounds and leave the end of the table free for new blood. Natasha looks up at him with a smirk. “Think you’ve still got what it takes, Barnes?”

Bucky slips his jacket off his shoulders. The only thing beneath is a white t-shirt, thin enough that the tattoos on his chest and abdomen are just visible through the fabric as dark, teasing shadows. He knows he’s pale, avoids the sun to keep his ink as fresh as possible. Leaving his jacket on a nearby chair, he says, “Only one way to find out.”

While they’re filling fresh cups with beer, his eyes are drawn to the patio chair on the porch, looking for that dark curtain of hair. Except he finds a tanned, angular face watching him, ducking back down to look at her textbook once she’s caught.

Bucky turns his eyes away and doesn’t let himself look again.

TONI.

The sun sets, and the moon turns the party-goers into hellions. A fight breaks out between two frat boys over a girl and Steve has to step in to break it up and kick both of them out. Not a half hour later, three police squad cars show up after a noise complaint from one of the other neighbors in the cul de sac. The party is shut down (to Toni’s guilty delight).

She’d moved into the house once the sun had set, unable to read by the twinkling fairy lights that she’d helped Natasha to string around the yard and patio. It was much more comfortable inside among the air conditioning and the luxury. The marble countertops of the kitchen island felt familiar to her. The outdoors with the grass that itched her ankles, the bugs that never stopped shrieking or flying in her ears, and the humidity that made her shirt stick to her bare back—that would never be familiar to her.

Toni had always been a homebody, willing or not.

Seated at the kitchen island, she is so short that her feet can’t touch the floor, ankles crossed where they sway gently in the air. Flipping through her textbook without aim, she waits for everyone to be gone so that she can help Natasha pick up and then hopefully sleep in one of the tasteful guestrooms. She’s daydreaming of the comfortable bed, the clean cool sheets against her skin when she hears the sound of the patio door sliding open.

All fantasies of cool and comfort burn up, combusted by the man who walks in. The man with the tattoos.

He towers above her even seated on the tall island chair the way she is. He’s shed the leather jacket he was wearing (and for good reason too, with the hot, humid weather). Beneath he wears simple jeans in a sinful fit with a white t-shirt that’s nearly see-through, sticking to his skin from sweat. His face is stunning: angular jaw covered in a few days’ stubble, a straight nose, eyes a stormy sea-foam with low brows that make him look intense in a way that has her legs shaking.

His conventionality ends there. Toni has never seen a man like him in her life. Above one brow is a woman’s name in elegant cursive. His ears have holes in them large enough for her to see through. On his neck are geometric lines reminiscent of honeycombes, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. He’s covered from fingertip to shirt sleeve with designs, her eyes dancing across his pale skin, never able to land for longer than a moment before something else captures her attention.

He looks like a kindergarteners artwork, she can imagine Howard sneering. Scribbles all over him. Not even worth pinning to the refrigerator.

Toni has seen tattoos before. Happy, her security guard for as long as she could remember, had one on his bicep of his mother’s favorite flower, so. It’s not like Toni wasn’t aware of the things or didn’t believe in their existence. She’s just never seen someone so saturated with them. It’s a stark difference from the people she grew up knowing: stiff public figures in formal clothing who denounced youth culture and considered people with tattoos degenerates.

He’s everything her father warned her about when she insisted on going to public university under a different last name. He’s so raw.

He’s so, so beautiful.

“Sorry,” he says at the sight of her, his neutral expression dropping into something stormier.

Toni tries to smile, but judging by the way his face grimaces, it isn’t successful. She can feel the way her face begins to burn just from his sheer proximity, so she forces herself to turn back to her textbook and pretend to scan the page.

Surely he must see through her. She feels attuned to him, hyperaware of the sound of his footsteps on the tile floor, brain working to pinpoint his exact location based on how the sounds shift. When he appears in the corner of her eye, she flinches, everything in her fighting to keep her eyes on her book. Instead of pausing by her, he continues past to the kitchen cabinets, opening them as if he lives there. How does he know where the drinking glasses are, she wonders.

With his back to her, she feels safe enough to let her eyes flicker upwards, though she keeps her head angled downward for maximum deniability should he turn around without warning. The muscles of his arms are lean and powerful. Sculpted of flesh and bone instead of marble. Only reminiscent of Michaelangelo’s David, he conveys more of Barberini Faun: the impressive height and lean strength of him, the low brows hinting at torment.

Unlike Barberini Faun, there’s nothing overtly sexual about what he’s doing (filling a glass with filtered water from the refrigerator) but Toni finds her back arching in her seat, her sex looking for the blissful pressure it aches for. Toni’s experience with arousal isn’t enough to fill a post-it note with. She’s intimately familiar with erotica, books propped open on her chest with her free hand down between her legs, fingers drifting through her aching folds. At least once a week, she wakes from a hazy, half-formed dream with the urge to roll and wedge a pillow between her legs, to rut against it. There was also that squirming heat that bloomed whenever Natasha stripped her clothes off in the main room of their dorm—but that was nothing Toni was interested in confronting today.

This man is the first non-fictional person she’s ever experienced such attraction to. Her own naivete is downright sickening. Toni has always prided herself on being knowledgeable and a quick learner, but she has no idea how to make her interest known or how to try to be interesting to him in return.

Idiot, she thinks to herself, forcing her eyes back down to her textbook. To interest him would require there to be something interesting or excitable about her. All Toni has going for herself in that regard is an IQ in the 160’s. Hardly a trait to lust over.

The man is refilling his glass when the patio door opens again. Toni’s heart leaps, grateful for anyone or anything to break this invisible tension and also dreading that they might see her embarrassing ineptitude.

It’s Natasha’s boyfriend Steve, his face flushed with drunkenness. He’d been very polite and thoughtful when Natasha introduced them earlier in the day, with an aura about him that could put any person at ease. Toni found her lips quirking up into a smile just at the sight of him, even when his own smile is directed past her. With a half dozen long steps, he’s crossed the kitchen and scooped the man with the tattoos into a bone-crushing hug, water sloshing from the glass over the both of him

Toni notes that tragically it only turns the dark-haired man’s shirt more see-through. She can almost make out whatever image might be inked onto his pale skin beneath—

“Man, I’m so glad you’re back in the city for a while,” Steve says, voice loose but not slurred. He won’t let his friend go and has instead begun an awkward, drunken slow dance with him, shuffling side to side in a way that has Toni pressing her lips together to keep from laughing. The comical expression of exasperated endearment on the other man’s face makes her feel like she’s swallowed a jarful of butterflies.

He pats Steve on the back. “I missed you too, buddy. Buy me dinner though, first.”

Steve snorts. He pulls back and turns to Toni whose eyes widen fractionally at being caught watching their exchange.

“Hey Toni, have you met Bucky?”

“Not formally,” she says, heart pounding. She almost sticks out a hand as if he’s a 60 year old lifelong Senator her father has brought home for dinner. Inside one of the deeper tracks of her consciousness, his name whirs in an endless circle: Bucky Bucky Bucky.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but it is lost as more of Natasha’s closest friends enter, taking refuge in the house as the majority of the party are herded off of the property. Apparently they’re going to have a bonfire with just the inner circle left—how the hell Toni has managed to become a member of that inner circle, she has no idea. While she wishes she were tucked away in one of the guestrooms, reading, at least a party of a dozen sounds infinitely more tolerable.

Not to mention that fewer party-goers automatically raises the chances for interaction with Bucky, an idea she both anticipates and dreads. Glancing up, her eyes are drawn to his figure where he and the others have retired into the living room, only to find that he’s watching her. She can feel the flush in her face as she turns back to her book, leaning over and hoping that the curtain of her hair hides her embarrassment.

#winteriron #female!tony stark #toni stark #tattooed!bucky #sheltered!toni #cagewrites

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sunnytheshine · 4 years ago

Text

Origins

This is how I imagined the final showdown of Deku and Shigaraki will go down:

Manga spoilers !! “It seems like we’re at the final stage now, hero~” Shigaraki sing-songed as both of them materialized once again after getting engulfed by a portal the villain had created.

They were at Kamino, the middle of the city descended into nothing but rubble and dust. It felt like the fall of All Might back in their first year in UA all over again. Only this time, no more stood the bright blonde symbol of hope and a hundreds year old masked villain.

Rather, it was now the 3rd-year future hero in green and the disintegrating villain in black.

“Three years its been little hero,” the villain monologued “Three years of meeting, gaining experience, and defeating so many bosses. Now we’re here,”

Deku scowled “I don’t have time to listen to you talk, Shigaraki,” he said in low tones. With so many lives at stake; innocent civilians, pro-heroes, his teachers, friends, mom. Japan’s future as a whole really.

Despite his very obvious threatening tone, Shigaraki takes no regard of this. A sinister smile still on his lips. “No need to get so hasty, hero. After all, this is the final level! We’re each others final bosses! You haven’t even noticed where we are! Doesn’t it look familiar?”

It does now that Shigaraki mentions. They were standing in the middle of the USJ facility. The very same place the League launched their first attack against UA two years ago. It was the place Deku was able to use One for All without breaking his bones for the first time.

“I’m not one to go over sentimental about these things, really. But I couldn’t resist... this was the first time we met after all. Our origins as arch-nemesis. Where you first fought me and won... back when you were an insignificant NPC to me,” The tone held cheeriness to it as if reminiscing a fond memory in his life.

“And I’ll do it again Shigaraki, I’ll defeat you and save everyone. I can guarantee you that,” Deku growled as he lets the familiar sensation of full cowling course through his body.

Shigaraki did not falter, amusement still graced on his expression. “Really now? How amusing, really, your desire to save. But let me ask you this, hero, when has anyone ever saved you?”

The hero furrowed his eyebrows at that. Not letting his guard waver, he still maintains a scowl. “Whatever you’re planning won’t work!” he says as he then became a blur. Not sparing anymore moments for Shigaraki to dodge his kick.

Though Shigaraki was still able to dodge. Falling back and creating a considerable distance between him and Deku. “I’m not planning anything, hero. it was just a simple question that’s all. You’re always so determined to save anyone and everyone. But as I recall, no one has every saved you before. Well, back when you didn’t have your quirk that is,”

Full Cowling flickered a bit, Deku slightly flinched out of shock at that. “What are you talking about?”

Shigaraki’s smirk turned knowingly “Oh? Playing dumb are we now, Deku? I know all about you. How you’ve gotten your quirk before the UA entrance exam, how you were quirkless for all your life before that. How you were a worthless thing in society that was beaten, dragged, burned, and hurt over and over again. Like a useless NPC... like a Deku”

Deku stayed silent, unsure how to respond to that. Letting himself drown in the series of questions running through his head. How did he know? Who told him? Is it because of a quirk he had? How long had he known?

A disgusting laugh rang through the facility. Shigaraki raises his arms as he turns to shifted his gaze away from the hero. “Did you get that?! Your so-called hero, bringer of hope- quirkless. Suddenly been graced with a quirk! Yet...yet still let lives slip through his hands. Worthless NPCs dead because of his incompetence. It seems like no matter what, quirk or no quirk, you’re still a failure, a waste of space. Why continue fighting me hero? When you think about it, you and me have the same origins. We were both wronged by NPCs in this hero society. Why fight me? Why protect those who hurt you since level 1, I-zu-ku? ”

The green-haired hero didn’t even notice the camera Shigaraki was talking to. Which Deku would’ve guessed was connected to various news outlets and streaming websites. Everyone now knew who he was. His long-time secret which he intended to be forever hidden and be left off in his past.

If this were revealed back in first year, his resolved would’ve crumbled away. Deku years ago would be horrified and sick at the reveal. His quirkless past has always and is still his biggest insecurity. It has caused long term repercussions to him and he considered it as his weakest moment in life.

But today was different. He didn’t have time to dwell in those thoughts. He had a responsibility after all, lives were at stake. People are getting hurt, his friends lives are still in danger.

The minutes of silence considered Shigaraki to be his moments before victory. Thinking that he has won and broke Deku’s resolve to fight him. But he clearly had underestimated the boy’s stubbornness.

In the blink of an eye, Izuku was now face-to-face with Shigaraki once again. Successfully landing a block at his side through a powered kick. The surprise attack sent the villain flying. Izuku giving him no time to recover as he released a series of black tendrils to restrain him.

“Why? Because I’m a hero dammit! I was quirkless and worthless but I’m not anymore! I have the power to save people from villains like you. Villains who’ve hurt, berated, stepped, and killed others for their own sick satisfactions and greed. Yeah, it sucked... but it only motivated me even more to become a hero so I can save people from not going through the things I experienced before!” He growled out as he tightened his hold around Shigaraki. Though proved futile when the villain has used a strength quirk and hardened tendrils of his own to release himself from black whip.

Opting to maintain distance between them, Izuku utilized his gauntlets and flicked strong balls of air to his direction. Feelings of anger and annoyance overtaking every other emotion he had in him. “And don’t you dare lump me in the same lot as you Tomura! We’re not the same. You kill innocent people, step on your allies, and destroy everything you touch to achieve what you want. YouR past doesn’t excuse you to commit murder! It will not justify your actions. Our similarities won’t make this any less satisfying!” He says that as he used black whip again, only this time to pulls Shigaraki closer to him and gives him one hell of a punch.

Finally realizing he’ll loose, Shigaraki starts to fight back. Using every deadly quirk in his arsenal in the attempts to bring down the hero. They were at a stalemate the whole time. Every attack was met with an equal amount of defense. They dodged each other with grace and precision, causing the structure of the USJ facility to slowly crumble down.

Minutes in, the land was now leveled out. Dome now in rubbles, trees either have fallen or on fire. Concrete and steps destroyed. Yet the two were still standing, panting, and slowly reaching their limit.

Nonetheless, they continued fighting. Giving each other all they got for the sake of their ideal futures. Origins be damned.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #midoriya izuku #shigaraki tomura #mha #manga spoilers #headcanon #bnha fic #final showdown #imagine #fanfic #midoriya and shigaraki #BNHA au

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asktheghosthost · 5 years ago

Note

I've been curious about this for a while, but what would be the reaction of Beau and Dorian finding out Eulalie has killed Dearmons and Reginald to avenge them. Like they straight up found out everything somehow. If i butchered spelling, please forgive me.

OoC: No worries! This took a while. And it’s long, so it’s under a read more. Also, warning for very brief mentions of abuse and violence.

"Father, you're... you're back," Dorian stammered. Forcing a smile, he tapped his fingertips together. "We haven't seen you since... well, since you died. What, uh, what brings you here?" He finally had to clasp his hands together to keep from his nervous fidgets.

Reginald surveyed the foyer with a disapproving scowl. "Dust and cobwebs everywhere," he muttered. "I see the help hasn't been keeping up with their work."

Beau, standing with his arms crossed, rolled his eyes. "No one cares, Reginald." He strode forward. "There is no 'the help,' there is no one you lord over anymore..." His voice grew louder, not coming just from him, but from all around the room. "And there is no one who will tolerate you berating them any longer." They were face to face now. "If you want to haunt here, you will be civil." His lips stretched into a grin. "Just like everyone else."

Reginald's face turned red. His mouth failed to form words for a moment, only sputtering in total indignation. Finally, he spat out, "How dare you! How dare you speak to me in such a manner in my own home." Over a century closed off in some alternate plane hadn't affected his movements too much, for he was still quick enough to get in one good backhanded slap across Beau's cheek.

"Father! Father, no!"

Every light dimmed. Any curtains pulled back went slack to blot out incoming moonlight. The little green fire in the hearth all but died.

There was a rumble all around them. It came from inside the walls and pipes and beams. It was an angry, guttural warning. The Mansion already didn't like Reginald Gracey. Unlike his forefathers, he took very little care of her and her inhabitants. She'd been content to have him gone. Harming the Ghost Host put him on even thinner ice with her.

Beau stared him down, floating from a few feet above the ground. His eyes were glowing with a supernatural force that was not entirely his own. He drew his arm back, and as he did so, his hatchet appeared in his grip.

"Try that again."

"Uncle!" Dorian pleaded. "Please don't! Please!" He was shaking, once more feeling like a terrified child witnessing something he couldn't stop. His chest hurt. His breath came in short gasps. Hair and skin was falling off in clumps, revealing a shivering skeleton underneath.

From upstairs, came the sound of a door opening and creaking closed. Then slow, deliberate steps, made heavier with heels. The men went silent. So quiet were they, that they could hear the soft shush of fabric as a hand lifted to take hold of the banister as its owner descended.

"You boys could never get along," Eulalie chastised. She seemed nonplussed at the sudden appearance of her husband, or at least she hid it well. "Reginald, I see you've found your way back to the estate. I trust the cremation was a fitting preview of what was to come."

He turned his furious gaze onto his former wife. "Oh, you would have liked to see me tortured, wouldn't you? You would have happily done it yourself, take everything one step further than you already did."

Dorian's timid voice broke through the glare between his parents. "What-- What does he mean by that?"

Beau moved to put comforting hands on his shoulders. "Don't worry about it, lad. Why don't you step away for a bit and calm yourself?"

Reginald turned to glance at his son. For a split second, he blanched, but was quickly back to his bluster. "Blazes boy, is this what your little fits look like now?"

"Yes," Eulalie poked Reginald's chest. "And it's your fault. You stressed him out to the point where he was afraid to confide in us about anything. He had to hide entire parts of his life because of your temper."

"My temper!? My temper never led me to murder anyone!"

Another nervous twitter from Dorian: "Father, what...?"

Beau was practically pushing his nephew out of the room now. "Let's get you some mint tea..."

Reginald scoffed. "Oh, so you never told him? It figures you'd try to paint yourself as a saint, you cold witch." Pointing at Eulalie, he shouted, "She murdered me! Planned the whole thing out with her knitting needles and marbles. She's the reason you no longer had a father!"

Eulalie took in a breath, eyes wide and glistening as she watched her son.

Rubbing his bony arms, the skeleton looked away from the group. Finally, he said, "I didn't really have much of one, anyway."

Once more red- faced, Reginald balled his hands into fists and bellowed, "What do you mean, never had much of one? Without me, you wouldn't have this house. You wouldn't have had your horses or your toys. You wouldn't have had that expensive college education. Or, need I remind you, the job at the law firm?"

"That I never wanted..."

"I could have thrown you out, especially after that mess you got yourself into at the university!"

Dorian was standing up straighter now. Righteous anger had put some needed calcium into his vertebrae. "That mess was me being assaulted! That was not my fault! And how dare you insinuate it was!" The clothes were becoming like new. Skin was regrowing on his now glowing form. "I needed you to care about me, and all you ever did was judge.” He wiped tears from his eyes before continuing.

"I don't care what mother did. I don't. And I know that's awful to say, but... we were happier with you gone. I think I knew deep down what had happened, but I never questioned it. I was fine with the illusion, even if I could see through it.”

Reginald’s mustache twitched over his curled lip. “I’ve had it with you, you ungrateful brat! Out of my house now! Out! OUT!” he screamed, pointing at the door.

“No, father.” Dorian took a shaky breath. A cold, fierce wind tore through the room, looping around them before forcing the door open. “I am Dorian Yale Gracey, lord and master of this manor, and I command you Reginald Gracey, to leave this property.”

The wind scooped Reginald up, impervious to his thrashing.

“Take your bullying, and your condescension, and your hate with you! Maybe if you can learn how to be a decent person, we’ll let you back in after another hundred and twenty years. Until then...” He waved. “Arrivederci!”

The wind whisked Reginald away, and his screams were soon muted by the slammed door.

“Wow.” Dorian looked around. “The house really does like me.”

Beau shoved his hands into his pockets, saying nothing.

“I think this deserves a good round of drinks,” Dorian said, spinning on his heel towards the direction of the liquor cabinet.

Eulalie, however, shook her head. Her lips were pressed into a stern line of worry, an occurrence so rare Beau found himself staring at her in an attempt to decipher her thoughts. She steepled her index fingers together against her chin, tapping it a couple of times before shaking her head again and setting off down the main hall.

Beau quickly caught up to her. “Where are you going? Are you all right?”

She stopped, her expression something that wasn’t quite a frown or a smile, but not insincere in its vagueness. “I’m going to talk to Leota.”

“A splendid idea. We’ll find out how he got in--”

She put a hand on his chest to stop him. “No... Eventually yes, but... I just need to talk to her. As a friend, not a mystic.” She patted him. “I’m sorry, baby brother, but you are once again locked out of the girls’ sleepover.”

That was a Eulalie he was more familiar with. Nonetheless, he watched, perplexed, as she disappeared down the dark corridor.

***

It was while working at his desk in the Ghost Relations Department, shortly after midnight, that he saw her again.

She knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and slipped in.

“Hey, Sissy,” he said, not looking up from the current Death Certificate in front of him. Only after he’d placed it in the OUT box did he lift his head. “How did it go with Madame Leota?”

Finding herself unable to speak yet, her focus was downwards, at a desk placard that read HEAD DUMMKOPF in serious, golden letters. She’d gotten it for him as a gift.

“Sissy?” When she didn’t answer him, he reached over to clasp her hand.

Sissy... What a silly nickname, she thought. He’d called her that ever since he first learned to speak. Nowadays, though, he never did so in mixed company, only when they were alone, so as not to embarrass her. What a sweet little brother he always was.

She finally pulled her gaze upwards. “It went well.” There was a pause as she waited for more questions. When there weren’t any, she plunged forward with her own. “Beau, you’ve always known about Reginald, haven’t you? That I killed him.”

He sat back with a shrug. “I was there when it happened.” Crossing one leg, he folded his arms behind his head, and tilted his sights ceiling-ward in reminiscence. “Granted, my memory was post-mortem mush at the time, but I knew I didn’t care for him.” Shifting once more, he leaned forward, arms on his desk, and a glint in his eye as if he were giddy to share a conspiracy. “Did you know I did little things to torment him when I first started haunting? Pushing off his paperweights... Cigars in water glasses...” He grinned. “Oddly enough, I never forgot you.”

“Why is that?”

Another shrug. “I suppose you had that much of an impact on me.”

So much of an impact, that he forgave her for her part in his mortal misery. So much of an impact that he never told her son what she had done. Although, whether that was for her or Dorian’s sake, she wasn’t sure.

Then... maybe...

“Beau...” she started slowly. “Did you know Reginald wasn’t the only one?”

“Only one what?” He wrinkled his brow. “Wasn’t the only one to come back?”

She shook her head. “No. He wasn’t the only one I killed.”

When his reply was only more confusion, she clarified, “I murdered Dearnons.”

The name sent him into such a terrified shock that he unconsciously kicked his legs, sending his chair back half a foot. “You... You killed Dr. Dearnons?” Trembling, he gripped the arm rests to keep him steady.

“Yes.” Her voice once more had its confident, sharp edge. “He came inquiring about you after your suicide, as if he had any right to do so. All it took was some poison in his tea, and then I drug him out into the backyard and buried him... alive, I should add. He was definitely still breathing.”

The world was swaying, and now Beau had to take hold of the desk’s edge, fearing he would plummet and never find his way back up. “I never would have asked you to...”

“I know, which is why I did it on your behalf.” Her expression softened. “Beauregard, you were never the same after you came back. That man was a monster.”

“But he was my monster! My monster to deal with!”

Once more, she shook her head. “What he did to you, he did to countless other children, and would have continued to do so. The way I see it, I did the world a favor. Some people simply need to be removed from the earthly equation.”

“Get out.” He could hardly hear himself over the pounding in his ears. “Get out!”

The door slammed open. Eulalie calmly stood from her seat, but a tremble in her lip betrayed her true feelings. Green skirts in her fingertips, she turned and left.

After the door closed, he stared at it, mouth agape. He didn’t know how to handle the typhoon of emotions swirling inside him right now.

“Sissy...”

#drabble #short story #fic #fan fic #rebornghostgirl #ask #Beau #Reginald #Dorian #Eulalie

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queenpersephonesgarden · 5 years ago

Text

the heart wants what it does not have

Wangxian Week Day 1: Family

In the daylight the thought comes and goes, infrequent but so predictable it’s almost laughable.

There are times when he can ignore it, convince himself it was just nostalgia and old flights of fancy coming back to haunt him like lingering smoke from a bonfire. He gets better at not letting it sneak up out of nowhere to hit him unexpectedly, learns to anticipate it more often than not.

But it still stings, whether he expects it or not.

Jin Ling’s loud, cheeky banter with Jiang Cheng that echoes through whole rooms with both aggravation and affection so interwoven it is hard to tell apart.

Lan Sizhui’s quiet, respectful nod to Lan Zhan as he joins him for guqin practice every afternoon, his wide smile and Lan Zhan’s peaceful expression making for a perfect complement as they played.

Young married couples flitting through the streets of Caiyi with a small child in tow, both tiny hands clasped firmly by one hand of their mother and father as they are led wide-eyed in between stalls brimming with colorful toys and sweets.

Wei Wuxian sees these things, and he wants.

Can also be read on AO3

He wants so, so badly, half-formed dreams of a man leading a stubborn donkey along a winding road by the reins as his husband and child rode along after him, cheerful laughter ringing in the sunlight melting into the waking world to be splayed beneath his fingertips.

He could…. He could have that.

He could, if he would just open his mouth and ask for it.

Just having the option was enough to make him breathless, make his heart race like he’s run a thousand miles with still no end goal in sight.

Wei Wuxian watches a man on the side of the street scoop his daughter up and deposit her laughing into his wife’s arms, and wants.

“Lan Zhan!” he spins right around to face his husband determinedly.

Lan Zhan focuses on him instantly like he always does when Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, and he has to fight down the immediate flush that tries to crawl up his neck. “Lan Zhan, I’ve been thinking-”

The words are right there.

All that’s missing is a little one.

Such simple words, they’d been so easy to say before-

‘Wretched, ungrateful thing,’ some deep, insidious voice that he shamefully refuses to admit is just the slightest bit reminiscent of Madam Yu hisses in his ear. ‘You have so much more than Jiang Yanli, than Jin Zixuan, than all the Wens you let die, and still you dare wish for more?’

A bright flare of pain erupts in his heart, dulled only the slightest bit by time but no less agonizing. His eyes sting, but he refuses to let any tears truly form.

The vitriol isn’t anything he hasn’t thought of before, but it still manages to trap the words behind his teeth once more, grinning widely in the face of Lan Zhan’s questioning look when the silence stretches.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Nothing important!” For a moment he dares to think he may be able to get away with it, that it really will remain a subject to discuss in the distant nebulous future that he simply never has to bring up again.

But then he catches Lan Zhan’s lips pursing out of the corner of his eye, and he knows there’s no way they won’t talk about it now.

He manages to stall the conversation for the rest of the day, though he is self-aware enough to know this is only because Lan Zhan recognizes this as a subject best saved for the privacy of the Jingshi.

Still Wei Wuxian does everything he can think of to avoid the inevitable, taking extra long in the bath after dinner, scrubbing exaggeratedly at his skin until it’s worn pink and wrinkled from the water, all the while keeping up a stream of nonsense chatter as it comes to mind.

“-and the time delay could probably be extended if I added another stroke in the opposite direction-”

“Mn.”

“-I’ll have to ask A-Yuan and Lan Jingyi if they’d be willing to help me test it-”

“Mn.”

“-course, we’ll probably have to find a bigger target range this time in case it catches fire again-”

“Wei Ying.” A towel appears draped over the privacy screen, right where it normally would be if Wei Wuxian had not purposefully left it behind to be cause for a bit of distraction once he stepped out of the bath, dripping wet and naked with nothing to cover himself with.

Wei Wuxian grins sheepishly even as he sinks a bit lower into the lukewarm water. “Ah, gege is so attentive today,” he lets his voice go sly and teasing at the end. “But is he sure he wants his husband to cover up? I thought he might enjoy a little show once I finished-”

“Wei Ying. The water is going cold.” The man manages to radiate disapproval even without looking behind the screen.

The confident smirk he’d been trying for slid off of Wei Wuxian’s face like rainwater.

He wraps himself in the towel and empties the tub in silence, listening to the distant shuffling of footsteps and fabric as Lan Zhan readied for bed across the room. Wringing his hands while his husband changed felt too strange, too- too distant, and Wei Wuxian did not like it at all, so he clenched his fingers and circled around the privacy screen, padding across the room in determined silence.

The Jingshi feels simultaneously too large and too small for the quiet, the shadows at the corners of the room stretching into silent nothingness as his footsteps bring him to the bedroom.

Wei Wuxian finally slips into bed and feels more nervous than he has for a long time. It takes him one moment, two, before he can raise his eyes to his husband.

Lan Zhan’s gaze was unwavering. “You are unhappy.”

Sudden panic jolted Wei Wuxian into blurting out, “No! I’m never unhappy with you!”

Lan Zhan’s entire face softening infinitely at the quick rebuttal was so unexpectedly endearing Wei Wuxian couldn’t help smiling helplessly, nerves abruptly melting with the force of his joy. Winding his arms around Lan Zhan to press close as he whispered softly, “How could I ever be unhappy when er-gege loves me so much? When I love him so much?”

A shaky breath that could have been a laugh as arms wrapped around him in turn, before lips pressed softly to his temple. “You are… upset,” Lan Zhan gently corrects.

Wei Wuxian hummed noncommittally, then cringes guiltily when the arms around him tighten minutely.

“Not… exactly, but I guess I am, a little.”

“Why?”

Wei Wuxian sighed gustily, a great, explosive breath as the same want from the marketplace surged through his ribcage and rather impatiently forced its way out of his mouth:

“It’s just…. This is more than I could have ever asked for, in a life. You, and A-Yuan, and Jin Ling and all the other juniors, Lan Xichen; even Jiang Cheng when he’s in a good mood! We already have a wonderful family. I wouldn’t change it for anything! I just-!” Here he bit his lip hard, relieved that the tears from earlier don’t resurface even as his heart clenches painfully.

“I would- love, love to have another child with you. To raise one with you, properly this time. Not that A-Yuan isn’t proper! He’s the most Lan-ish Lan I’ve ever met! You did an amazing job with him! But- just-!”

“To raise them with me,” Lan Zhan said quietly, and Wei Wuxian bit his lip even harder.

Nodded fiercely with his eyes squeezed shut.

“How many?”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes popped open. “Hah?”

“How many would make you happy?”

Fond surprise lit up his heart, before exasperated amusement berated him for being surprised at all.

Wei Wuxian hummed in exaggerated thought, gaze fixed on a certain point on the ceiling and ignoring his husband’s steady gaze; he knows if he meets Lan Zhan’s earnest, determined gaze now, he’d likely start either laughing or crying.

“A dozen. No, two dozen. Boys with your eyes and my smile. Girls with steady calligraphy like yours and loud laughter like me. Uncouth hellions that run carelessly through the Cloud Recesses and give your uncle a few new gray hairs before he reaches seventy. Dozens and dozens of little ones to equal the horde of rabbits you have stashed away in the meadow.”

Grinning far too wide at the images his words painted across his mind, Wei Wuxian chanced a glance down at Lan Zhan’s face. “Aiyo, but too many at once would probably send your uncle into a qi deviation. I don’t think my happiness would be worth that.”

“Wei Ying deserves to be happy,” Lan Zhan says, matter of fact, and though Wei Wuxian had meant it to be a joke, Lan Zhan’s voice was so serious that suddenly Wei Wuxian’s eyes were stinging again.

“Lan Zhan. You know you can’t just suddenly say things like that!”

Lan Zhan huffs in amusement, and Wei Wuxian cannot resist hugging him again.

“Would… would raising a child with me make you happy?” he asks, just to be sure, because Lan Zhan is far too often in the habit of focusing on Wei Wuxian’s happiness before all else, and this was a bit too huge of a decision for just one of them to make.

There was no response for a long moment. Wei Wuxian reluctantly pulled back from the embrace, just enough to look at his husband’s face.

The small, awed smile lighting Lan Zhan’s face is utterly devastating.

Wei Wuxian’s jaw goes slack when Lan Zhan offers a wordless, joyful nod, and for a moment they’re both too overwhelmed for words, foreheads pressed together and breathing the same air in a different, softer quiet than before.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Silly imaginings of a little one with two parents and a donkey wandering the country no longer seem so silly.

It’s only a long time later that Lan Zhan’s eyes spark in the half-light, pale gold shining in a way that most people would believe to be far too devious a look for the illustrious Hanguang-jun to wear. The man who had married him knew him far too well to be surprised by it.

Wei Wuxian squinted in suspicion. “What is it?”

“Hmm.” Graceful fingers cupped Wei Wuxian’s jaw in a familiar soft gesture that had him instinctively, foolishly sliding his eyes shut at the painful warmth that touch awoke in his chest. “I was simply thinking that we should get started, then.”

Honest confusion made Wei Wuxian blink his eyes open and stare. “Hah? Started?”

Only the slightest tilt of Lan Zhan’s lips suggested his amusement when he said, “On the little ones. I’ve been led to believe they take time to make.”

Startled laughter burst out of Wei Wuxian’s mouth, only to be half muffled when Lan Zhan covered his lips insistently with his own. Still, even amidst such an onslaught of affection, Wei Wuxian felt the need to try and point out the obvious flaw in this logic. “Aha Lan Zhan, unlike most couples, we’re not going to be able to do this the old-fashioned way- ah! Ah!”

A/N: Mo Dao Zu Shi broke into my home and beat my writer’s block over the head with a mallet. It feels good to be back. ~Persephone

#Wangxian #Wei Wuxian #Wei Ying #Lan Wangji #Lan Zhan #Mo Dao Zu Shi #MDZS #MDZS fanfiction #my writing #Wangxian Week

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harlot-of-oblivion · 6 years ago

Text

Flower for His Thoughts (Part 2)

After meeting you at the book café Vergil learns that opening up to someone isn't so bad after all, as long as they are a remarkable woman who lets the flowers do the talking.

I would like to thank @drusoona for our chats that inspired this little scenario.💕

Here’s the link to the list of all the flowers featured in this part. 🌹🥰🌹

There is something about walking the city streets at night that seem otherworldly. Perhaps it was the lack of people milling about their day, the soft glow of moonlight shining upon the black asphalt of the streets, or the light breeze blowing through the buildings, whispering the sounds of the city for all to hear.

But for Vergil it is the fact that literal otherworldly creatures tend to roam these streets. And it was up to him and his brother to dispatch of them tonight. He is successful…but he underestimates one of the demon pests and now he is walking down the street, clutching his left arm where they got a lucky swipe at the Son of Sparda. He shrugs it off in the heat of moment, focusing all of his anger on his target, but now he is really feeling it. His demon lineage helps him bounce back from most wounds, but this one must be caustic since it has not quit burning. I should do better, he thought bitterly, beating himself up for not upholding the prowess expected from a kin of Sparda.

Flower for your thoughts?

Your voice enters his mind, a soft interlude in between his self-criticism. You always have a knack of distracting him from negative thoughts, almost as if you could read it on his face even though he does not show it. And it seems you no longer have to be there to distract him now. Vergil stops in his tracks, takes a deep breath, and stares up at the sky. His weary eyes gaze up at the stars, the gentle glow of the moon illuminating his silver irises as his thoughts turn to you, his new flower-loving acquaintance.

After that serendipitous day at the book café he keeps to his word and gives you back the umbrella the next time he meets you in his quiet corner. He remembers you smiling gratefully as you take it back, making that damn warmth pulse in his chest at the sight of it. That warmth drapes itself over his entire body as you present him a single orange rose with a tin of homemade orange spice tea, “a gift to celebrate our budding friendship” as you put it. Vergil could not help but feel touched, but also slightly annoyed that you once again blind sided him with your kindness.

That small orange rose is the first of many flowers he receives from you. Some flowers came with more tins of tea you made for him. A stem of blue wisteria with a vanilla lavender blend, two small balls of pink and purple hydrangeas with earl grey tea, and a cluster of dainty strawberry flowers with wild strawberry tea. Vergil lets out a soft chortle as he recalls that you did not technically give him the strawberry blossoms…you threw them in the air like confetti as you handed over the tin, exclaiming that he needs to “lose the glower and smell the flowers”. He quirks a bewildered brow at you as the barista comes over and berates you for throwing flowers in the shop…again. While you sheepishly apologize to them he kneels down and grabs one of the delicate blossoms, putting it with his new gift before you pick them all back up.

Vergil starts walking again as he continues to reminisce about your odd fixation on flowers. Technically, you have only personally given him four flowers accompanying your homemade tea. But sometimes when he pulls out one of his favorite books from the café shelves and cracks it open, a beautifully pressed flower falls into his lap. The first time it happens he just stares blankly at the delicately dried flower, curious about how it got there for only a second before he just knew it had to be you. It was then that he learns just how observant you are, knowing which books he likes so you can leave your tiny surprises. He wants to be annoyed by your actions…but instead he found himself secretly thinking it was adorable.

He only recognizes one of the hidden flowers, a yellow petunia with white edges circling its five petals, but the other two flowers are new to him. One is red with a pink ring around its four soft petals while the other reminds him of a daisy with its multiple tiny white petals, but he knew it was not a daisy…it seems to shimmer in the light, like it is coated in a light sheen of ice crystals. Even though he is slightly perplexed at your insistence of randomly gifting him with flowers he soon gets used to it, sometimes wondering to himself what the next flower given to him will be. The only thing he cannot fathom is why you do not give him the pressed ones personally.

Such odd behavior for my lovely rose.

Just as that thought enters his mind Vergil quickly shakes his head as if to jostle that notion out. He is not infatuated with you and you are not his to claim. That implies he needs you, and Vergil has never needed anyone…at least that what he tells himself as he grits his teeth to cope with the pain in his arm. This is just his attempt at sparking a normal friendship with a normal human.

And so far the friendship is successful in his opinion. Both of you talk about mutually favorite books, debate upon the meaning behind poems, and enjoy many cups of tea together. He is careful to stay away from subjects that might bring up any personal history. He would be lying if he said that he is not curious about what you do for a living. He guesses it has something to do with gardening. But he knew the social nicety would be asked of him as well and he honestly could not predict how you would react to him being a demon hunter and a recently restored Son of Sparda. And as much as he wants to try to open up he did not want to frighten you away from him. He would never confess aloud that he would miss your charming company, your unpredictable antics, your mellifluous voice…

Vergil grunts quietly as a renewed surge of pain shoots through his arm. He stops and carefully reaches inside his coat for the infuriating phone that Nero gave him. The usually bright screen is dark, just like it was an hour ago. He tries to turn it back on, finally relenting to the idea that he can at least get a ride back to the shop, but the phone refuses to turn on. He snarls in exasperation as he shoves the damned device back into his coat. There is always the Yamato, he thought as he examines his surroundings, trying to figure out which direction Devil May Cry is when it dawns on him that he is very close to your home. He ponders for a moment and figures out that he is currently behind your house, his keen eyes quickly spotting it despite the night sky.

Well, that confirms some of my assumptions of her, he surmises as he takes in the lush garden sprawling with vibrant plant life residing behind your home. Vergil admires your handy work, impressed by the variety of flowers, shrubs, and trees that you have managed to patiently nurture. His feet move of their own accord, taking a few long strides up to the gate barring the beautiful garden from the rest of the neighborhood. The air is heavy with the fragrance of flowers and fresh dirt.

The abrupt brightness from a light turning on and the creak of your back door knocks him out of his ruminations. You step through and close the door behind you, holding a small basket in your hand as you make your way towards a section of the garden. What kind of woman harvests fruit at night? he wonders as he watches you crouch down and begin picking something off of some brambles. Vergil suddenly feels agitated. The thought of you out in the middle of the night by yourself in a city known for random demon attacks sets him on edge. He has to fight the urge to march over there and scold you for your foolishness. I shouldn’t even be here, he thought, realizing he has no right to be angry at you and turns to walk away. I better depart before-

“Vergil? Is that you?”

His body reacts as if lightning came down and struck him right where he stands. How do I get myself out of this situation? he thought warily as he turns back to regard you. With one hand still holding the small basket of what appears to be an assortment of berries and the other gripping your pink floral skirt you head towards him. Your worn black flats gracefully glide through the resplendent flowers as your black satin camisole glitters in the moonlight. He has never seen you so casually dressed…and absolutely enchanting. For the first time in his hunting career it was not just the presence of demons that make the streets at night otherworldly.

Your eyes squint to make him out in the dark shadows of the street lights, and you must realize it is indeed him because your face breaks out into a captivating smile. That smile…Vergil could never figure out how to evade the ensnarement of that smile. Every time you flash that certain curve of your sweet lips he loses touch with reality and just wants to revel in its radiance. It is because of that smile and its affect on him that he did not notice you getting close enough to see his wound. That lovely smile fades as your eyes flicker with worry and you quicken your pace until you arrive at the gate.

“Oh no! Vergil…what happened?” you ask, voice full of concern.

Vergil glances down at his hand holding his injured arm and subtly turns his body so that it is not fully on display for your meandering eyes. “…it is nothing,” he states stoically, even though he knows fully well that it will not be enough for you to back down.

Your eyes narrow incredulously. “You have a gaping hole in your coat, which is covered in blood and…is that acid?! What the hell?”

Vergil’s eyes close as he takes a moment to collect his thoughts. There is no point in trying to hide it. You will just hound him until he inevitable snaps out of irritation. “I believe it is something akin to acid.” He opens his eyes and catches you trying to peek around his body. He shoots you a stern glare. “Stop fretting. It will heal…in due time.”

Your hip juts out as one hand rests on it, the basket of berries hanging limply from your other hand as you meet his eyes with your own serious expression. “It’s not going to heal without medical attention, Vergil.”

“Are you volunteering then?” he sneers, furious at himself for allowing this entire situation to happen.

You blink a few a times, mulling over your words before you answer. “And what if I am?”

He regards you silently as he went over his options. His wound is not healing, his communications device is dead, and you caught him in a vulnerable position, which really made his stomach churn. He hates this feeling, this whole encounter…but he did not want to make it worse by turning down your offer of assistance. So, he takes a deep breath and centers his mind, preparing himself to step out his comfort zone further than he has in long time.

“Then I…would be indebted to you.”

That radiant smile graces your lips once more. “Well then, come along inside and-” you abruptly cut yourself off as you peer down at his hand curiously. “…is that a katana?”

Vergil’s eyes dart over to Yamato before looking back at you. “Yes.”

“Huh…well, just don’t swing it around as we make our way through my garden. Wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of Flora now would we?” You point towards a statue in the center of a fountain as you open the gate for him.

“There’s no need to chide me…I’m not a blundering oaf.” As he shuffles through the gate he inspects the statue and spots the wreath of flowers in its gleaming hands, denoting it as the Roman goddess of flowers.

“I didn’t say you were…I’m just being overprotective.” You close the gate behind him and lead him through the garden towards the back door of your domicile. Vergil lets his eyes wonder around, noting all the various types of flowers you have tended patiently. The now familiar warmth flutters in his chest as it occurs to him that every single flower you have given him came from this garden.

You open the door and usher him in. “If it’s something corrosive then we need to flush your arm with water. The kitchen sink is over there…just remove your coat while I grab the first aid kit, just in case.”

Vergil dutifully follows your instructions as he takes in the cozy atmosphere of your kitchen. He spots a tea kettle steaming on the stove. The air smells of home cooked meals, citrus fruits, and…his nostrils flare as he breathes in and subconsciously detects your own intoxicating scent mingling with the distinct aroma. He places his coat on the countertop next to the pristine sink as you walk over and turn the knob labelled cold. You gesture for him to bend down and hold his arm under the running water. He does so, clenching his teeth as the wound stings a little under the cool rush of water. You stand next to him, opening a box and taking out a bottle and a sterilized cloth. Out of the corner of his eye he watches you stare at his arm, teeth nibbling your lower lip as you pour disinfectant onto the cloth.

“May I?” you inquire, holding up the cloth and reaching to turn off the water. Vergil gives you one firm nod, balling his fist up to help cope with the skin to skin contact. He has felt your skin before, lingering touches with his finger when he reaches for your gifts or hands over a recommended book, and you respond in kind when you bring over his drink order or return a book to him. It has become a silent comfortable custom between you two…he dare say it was borderline flirtatious. But this…is far more intimate and he just hopes he can keep it together while you hurry with your aid and be done with it.

You must somehow sense his hesitancy since you present him your open palm, letting him take his time bringing his arm to you. He is always amazed when you just know what is going on in his head…he always wants to ask what gave him away, but then he would be admitting that your instincts are correct. He loosens his fist and very carefully places his arm into your waiting hand. Your fingers squeeze his arm reassuringly before bring the cloth over and start cleaning his wound. He vaguely registers the bubbling sting of the disinfectant as his mind goes all the way back to a memory…his mother gently cleaning a scrape from rowdy play with his brother. He never felt more safe than under her care, but right now standing near you as your fingers gently hold him as you care for him…he feels that same sense of safety he has not felt for a long time.

“So…you’re a demon hunter?”

Your inquisitive voice breaks him away from his bittersweet memory as his icy eyes snap over to meet your gaze. He knew this would happen…that showing up bloody and bruised would arouse your suspensions. Vergil sullenly stands there in your space as he desperately tries to engrave your image in his mind, knowing that you could never want anything to do with him after all this.

“What?” you mutter, confusing his silence as shock. “We’re in a city notorious for its occasional demon outbreaks and you’re walking around at night carrying a huge sword. Now, unless you use that sword as a fancy cane during your late night strolls through the streets…you use it to cut down demons.”

A frustrated sigh escapes his lips. “Yes. I wield the Yamato and hunt demons.” His eyes glow with admonishment. “I do not use it as a cane...that’s just foolish.”

You grin and him give an understanding nod as your eyes check his arm. “Can I also presume that you work at that place…what is it called…Devils Say Die?”

Vergil chuckles softly at your total butchering of the name. “It’s Devil May Cry.”

“That’s right! So, do you?” The now bloody and dirty cloth leaves his arm as you reach for a wad of gauze. You begin to gently wrap his injury as you await his answer.

“Yes.”

“And you never mentioned this because…?”

“There was never a proper moment during our time together.”

“I see,” you muse as you finish wrapping his arm. “So…when was it going to be proper to reveal that exciting detail of your life?”

“Cease your pestering!” Vergil growls as he wrenches his arm out of your warm hand. “It’s maddening!”

You simply close your eyes and take a deep breath before looking back up at his agitated face. “I’m just trying to make conversation while helping a friend out,” you say serenely. “And you can’t blame me for being curious…its what friends do: talk about their lives so that they can understand each other.” Your lips form a sad half smile before turning your face away from him. “Maybe some tea will help you relax. Fighting demons must be stressful.” You step away from him and open a cabinet, taking out two tea cups with matching saucers. “Hope you like blackberries and mint.”

As he watches you approach the kettle on the stove Vergil feels this creeping sensation sprout in his chest and wrap around his heart. It squeezes tight as you take out a tin and scoop tea leaves into a couple of tea ball strainers. This feeling starts to sting as you pour steaming water into the saucers. The way your eyes glisten dolefully…he did not like it. Moreover, he did not like that it was he that made your velvety lips curve into a wilting smile. And what is even more ludicrous is his mind scrambling to figure out how to rectify this situation. Why should I? he thought, she’s being nosy and I'm right to demand you to stop. It makes no sense, but that didn’t cease the nagging feeling inside him to fix this. He wants to see that glorious smile again…He distantly registers your voice among his torrent of thoughts as you begin to speak again.

“Now…I know you always add a tiny bit of honey to your cup, but this tea is already a little sweet. So just give it a taste before-”

“I’m a hybrid.”

Your hand pauses over the tea cups as his words echo through the cozy kitchen. Vergil’s entire body freezes as his mind goes into overdrive. That was the last thing I wanted to say…so why in the blazes did I just blurt it out? How is that going to make her smile again? You turn your head to stare at him, confusion alight in your eyes as you slowly swivel your body and give him your full attention. It is clear that the full disclosure of his statement lost on you. Not one to mince words he strengthens his resolve to help you understand this revelation.

“My mother was a human and my father was a demon.” You jaw slacks as your eyes gloss over in contemplation…then they spark with realization and you let out a soft oh. All he could do was wait…it is insufferable. What are you waiting for? Kick me out already so we can be done with this and I can go bury the humiliation, he thought dejectedly. Instead, you gaze searchingly right into his eyes, straighten your body, and raise your chin as you calmly walk by him and flip a switch.

“Let me show you something…follow me, please.”

You leave a very confused devil standing in your kitchen as you open the door and walk out into the night. I just told her of my demonic nature…and she wants to go on a stroll through her garden? Vergil just stands there, wondering what strange and mysterious power you have that compels you to drive him mad. You must have noticed that he was not following because your head pokes through the door, glaring at him impatiently. He huffs and grabs the Yamato before going back out into your luxuriant garden.

“I don’t know much about demon hybrids, but I do know a lot about hybrid plants,” you state as you lead him through abundant flowers.

Vergil feels his brows furrow in puzzlement. “I fail to see how flowers relate to this subject matter.”

“That’s only because you’re not a gardener like me…here we are!”

He has never seen so many diverse roses teeming in one place until now. Red, yellow, white, pink, and other colors galore. Some are growing out of the ground and some are planted in pots. All are in various stages of bloom, and the air around him is filled with their signature perfume. You bring his attention to a specific section of the potted ones, which he notes are the most unique of them all. The colors are atypical for roses, some have two colors on their delicate petals. Vergil does not know much about flowers, but he surmises that it takes a lot of work to grow such magnificent flowers.

“All these pretty darlings are hybrids,” you inform him, your hands waving over the extraordinary flowers. “None of these are grown naturally. I have to cross pollinate two different roses, growing a seed that will sprout as a hybrid. You follow me?”

Vergil stares at you blankly. “Yes, I do indeed follow your chatter.”

“Good! Well, even though these roses are different…they are just as exquisite as all the other roses. And some have a unique color, pattern, or scent that puts them above and beyond all others…they’re positively divine.” Your brilliant smile breaks out, making his heart beat accelerate as you stare deeply into his eyes. “Vergil…you still fascinate me. You being a hybrid isn’t going to change that.”

That horrible stinging sensation around his heart vanishes as familiar warmth instantaneously floods back into his chest. His agitated expression relaxes as your words slip past his walls once more, stunning him to the point where he cannot even find the will to be annoyed. I didn’t scare her away…she accepts me, devil and all. His lips curve up into a soft smile as he basks in your compliment, silently thankful that such an oddly charming woman showers with him her lovely presence…and sometimes with actual flowers.

An endearing blush colors your cheeks and you tilt your head, eyes flickering to the ground for a moment before looking back up at him. You softly toss your hair off your shoulder as you glance over at roses. Your eyes suddenly sharpen as you step over to a section of roses. You bend down to pick a yellow rose and hold it out to him, presenting it with a sincere face.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to get to know you better…but sometimes I can be a bit pushy.”

“Sometimes?” Vergil remarks wryly. You pooch your lower lip out, making a sad whine before you giggle quietly. He reaches out to take the rose, letting his hand rest atop yours. “There’s need to apologize…you didn’t mean any harm.” His thumb tenderly brushes your skin, mentally marveling at how such delicate hands manage to grow such beauty. “It’s just my tangled briars being particularly prickly.”

A delighted laugh rings through the night as your fingers subtly caress his hand. “Well, you may have noticed by now I’m a gardener, right? It’s safe to say that I’m used to thorns and I do have pretty thick skin.”

You invite him back inside your home and chat for a bit over tea. He discovers that you run an online business called Flower Showers, which he feels is very appropriate for you. You sell bouquets, flower arrangements, tea blends, and other floral based products that you make yourself. Vergil does not understand how people can buy flowers without a physical shop, but you tell him it that just works and that you do supply a few of the local shops in the city. You ask more questions about his work and he opens up a little bit, telling you about Devil May Cry and the abilities his lineage gifted him with. Self-confidence rises within him when he sees your eyes light up in wonder.

Eventually he has to take his leave. He collects his torn coat, his phone that you graciously charged for him, and a couple of books you let him borrow about various plants and flowers. You ask him when you will see him at the café, agreeing upon a time in a couple of days and wish him goodnight. Vergil walks back home in high spirits, letting his mind wonder before reeling it back in as he opens the door to Devil May Cry. He is greeted by his brother, Dante, leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk as he reads one of his numerous lecherous magazines.

“Hey! Been wondering where you were…your phone die again?” Dante asks nonchalantly as Vergil heads for the stairs.

“How kind of you to care, brother,” he sardonically retorts back at his little brother.

“You need to remember to-ooh…Looks like something took a bite outta you,” Dante observes as his eyes spot the ripped arm of his coat. He scans his older brother closer out of concern. “What the hell is that?” He points to redirect Vergil’s attention down to the Yamato. There is a small bundle of tiny flowers tied with twine around the middle of the Yamato, their bright blue color highlighting a small note among their petals. How did my clever rose accomplish that? he wonders as he hums in amusement before quickly remembering his company. Dante quirks an inquisitive eyebrow and Vergil glares at him menacingly.

He does not give his little brother a chance to pry as he swiftly goes up the stairs and straight to his room. He carefully removes the small flowers and opens the note. There are a series of numbers and a short message written in your dainty handwriting. It reads: Even though you just left I already can’t wait to see you again. Until then…

Forget-me-nots. He grins as he glosses over the titles of the books you let him borrow. One in particular catches his eye, When Flowers Speak: A Dictionary of Flowers and their Meanings, and that is when it suddenly dawns on him…what if all those flowers you gave him were trying to tell him something? He does not waste any time as he cracks open the book, softly twirling the forget-me-nots in his hand as he begins to decipher the messages you have been sending him all this time.

For the next couple days Vergil pours over your books, and he has discovered that you were indeed communicating through all the flowers you gave him. He feels impressed, flattered, and slightly miffed at his ineptitude in this subject matter, all at the same time. One thing is for certain…he now knows the reason behind you personally giving him some of the flowers and leaving the others for him to find.

The ones you gave him personally are messages that you were already forthcoming about. For example, an orange rose means fascination, which you have already made perfectly clear to him. Wisteria is given to express your affections after meeting someone special for the first time. Hydrangea flowers mean gracefulness and a desire to deeply understand the person your giving it to. Even the yellow rose, friendship and joy, is commonly given as a way of apology.

But the flowers he found pressed into his books…they secretly admit some of the thoughts you have not expressed aloud to him. The petunia tells him that his presence soothes you. That makes him feel relief that you are not putting on a strong front around him. The pink and red one, which is known as a clarkia flower, lets him know that the variety of conversations delight you. This makes the corners of mouth turn up in a fond smirk. And the one he thought looked like a daisy, but is in fact a ice plant flower says that his looks “freeze you,” which in more common terms of today…you found him strikingly handsome.

Vergil is glad that he was alone in his room when he read that because he can feel that warmth in his chest rise up to his cheeks, his heart beating rapidly like it did in your garden. And that…also made him irate that he did not even know you were sending him messages all this time. You really do drive him mad, and its then that he decides that two can play this game. The only question is…what kind of flower would you like? And what did he want to say to you?

He ponders this on his way to the book café, keeping a look out for a place that sells flowers or even some growing wildly in some open patches of land. Half of him admits that this whole situation is ridiculous, trying to convince himself to cease this foolishness. But the other half…he will not be secretly outdone by a charming woman that now occupies his thoughts often.

And so he searches until he comes upon a pot of flowers outside of a restaurant. He knows them to be snapdragons, a very unique looking flower. What made him stop was not the type of flower though…it was the soft white and pink petals. He has not memorized all the different meanings of all flowers quite yet, but he does remember the meaning behind this one…fascination and often given to remark upon a woman’s gracious nature. His eyes dart around to make sure no one witnesses him summon a sword and cuts a couple of them before resuming his walk towards the café to present his own gift of flowers.

The café door chimes as he steps into the familiar atmosphere of the café and when he sees you sitting in his usual corner, your lovely face instantly lighting up with that smile as you look up from your book…his bravado dwindles a bit as a flash of hesitancy shoots through him. But he presses onward, confidently striding right up to you as he holds the flowers behind his back.

Before you can greet him he swings his hand around and bestows his flowers, you eyes shining in surprise as you reach over to take them. He feels the urge to speak, but his mind draws a blank as you bring the flowers to your face to smell them. His eyelids droop as he witnesses your cheeks begin to the match the flowers, just like he knew they would. Your eyes slowly glance up and Vergil compels himself to say something…anything…

“They just…reminded me of you.”

Of all the things to say…that’s the best I can come up with? On the outside he kept his expression calm and reserved, but that did not speak for the inner turmoil swirling through his head. He awaits your reply, already reinforcing his walls so your words could not sting him.

“Thank you,” you mutter softly, that splendid smile that melts his heart spreading across your face. “They’re beautiful.”

Vergil thought this warmth he feels around would annoy him, but he has come to crave it as he lets it sift through his body. He finds it easier to smile when he is around you. And he does not even try to shake his fond thoughts as he finally acknowledges that he is utterly besotted with you, and does not mind that you have managed to go a little further among his briars.

Not as beautiful as you, my lovely rose.

Read Part 3 here.

Or read it on my Ao3

My Master List if you want more. ❤

#vergil x reader #vergil #devil may cry #dmc5 #romance #fluff #flowers #gardening #the language of flowers #writing #fanfiction #Flower for His Thoughts #vergil has feelings for you #and he can't handle it #perhaps a flower shower from you will calm him down #a rose among the briars #harlot writes

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dcbbw · 5 years ago

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WIP Wednesday 1/1/2020

I was tagged by @ao719 and @bobasheebaby for the first WIP Wednesday of 2020.

Not going to saddle folks with a breakdown of my 28,000 and counting never-ending WIPs list. Instead, below is the next wave of fics coming your way.All postings are still in a state of draft and subject to change. Sneak peeks are under the cut.

Object of Affection, Chapter 4

His feet led him back to her bed. He sat heavily on the edge of it, his head bowed. Suddenly, he had a thought, and pulled out his phone. Liam quickly dialed Bastien, his head of security, and asked if anyone had been to the formal dining room for breakfast.

No.

With a thank you, Liam hung up. He dialed Maxwell, who finally answered on the fourth ring.

“Liam? What do you want at the crack of dawn?”

“It’s 9:30, Lord Beaumont.”

“Same difference. What’s up?”

Liam paused for a moment, embarrassed to ask the question. “Have you heard from Lady Riley? She appears to not be in the Palace.”

Silence on Maxwell’s end. “She’s going back to the States. You really hurt her yesterday. She said she could deal with you not liking her and possibly never loving her, but she wasn’t dealing with your disrespect.”

Liam’s eyes closed. “I ….I was out of line yesterday, I know that now. I would appreciate the opportunity to apologize to her.” He swallowed audibly. “Is she there with you in Ramsford?”

“No. No, she isn’t. She may stop by though.”

Liam hung up, wondering why he felt so lost. He looked at his phone again, berating himself for not asking Maxwell for Lady Riley’s phone number. His thumb idly scrolled through his contacts; he stopped at a name. His throat tightened as he read her name.

Olivia.

His heart ached with questions about her, about them. Before he could change his mind, he fired off a text to her.

Anton, Chapter 5

Drake stormed down the cellblock, thoughts swirling in his head. He didn’t mind so much that the prisoner knew about him and Liam; they weren’t exactly the best kept secret in Court. He could even deal with knowing Liam fucked Riley first; hell, they were both fucking her now.

But Bartie……NO ONE knew about his parentage except him, Savannah, Rashad, and Riley. Drake never told Liam; Rashad would never talk, and Riley swore to Drake she would keep his secret.

What was the old saying? Two can keep a secret ….if one of them is dead.

And the money…..no one knew about the money except Savannah.

His thoughts turned to the final part of the conversation; someone set his father up to be murdered, arranged the murder of Liam’s mother, and sent Drake’s mother away. Someone close to him….Drake was close to 4 people: Savannah, Bastien, Liam, and Riley. None of them could have anything to do with it.

Who?

DC AU, Chapter 4

Penelope was unhappy.

When Penelope first met Ezekiel, she was intrigued by him. He was a doctor with a practice. A private practice, not part of some conglomerate. She was slightly taken aback that he was a veterinarian, but he was still a doctor. Penelope liked educated men.

He had been so attentive in the beginning: texts and phone calls, flowers for no occasion, weekend trips. Once Penelope began working in the practice, it ended. Ezekiel shot down her date night ideas and plans, saying they spent all day together, five days a week. He needed his evenings and weekends to decompress.

He wasn’t generous like Liam; when she ran short on money, Ezekiel reminded her he paid her a very competitive salary, and Penelope needed to learn to budget. He wasn’t supportive like Liam; he had no interest in her hobbies or her volunteering at the animal shelter.

There were no how are you texts. No pictures of lunch. No pictures of an on point sock game. Just coffee in the morning where Ezekiel reminded Penelope of his schedule, and charts to be filed throughout the day. Penelope was realizing she had made a mistake. She should have stuck it out with Liam. She wondered if he had made junior partner. She wondered if he missed her.

Ezekiel clearing his throat brought her back to the present.

“How are you, my dear?” He added sugar and cream to his coffee. Penelope had already done so, but he always added his own.

Penelope gave a fake cough. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

The doctor frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it doesn’t interfere with you duties. This week is packed with patients.”

Penelope’s eyes fell. “I’ll try to not let that happen.”

But she was already planning. She had to see Kiara, tell her things weren’t working out with her brother

And then she would go see Liam. She knew all he did was work and hang out with his friends. There was no one in his life.

He had loved her before; he would again. She knew how to get him back. She knew all of his weaknesses.

Riam, One Big Happy

With a small smile, the Queen excused herself from the table and went over to collect the boys for a bathroom run. As usual, Frac insisted he didn’t have to go. Riley debated taking him along anyway but that would mean another disruption, and she knew the importance of this presentation. She collected Fric and left Frac playing.

Frac saw his mommy and his brother leaving him behind and he burst into loud sobs of Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Riley stopped in her tracks, and walked back to collect Frac. Frac went happily until he looked around for Liam and didn’t see him. His eyes spotted his father and realized they were leaving Daddy behind.

He wailed again for Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Everyone’s head turned. Riley gave an embarrassed smile, asking His Majesty to please continue but Frac refused to leave. Riley kept a firm grip on one of his hands while his other arm was outstretched towards Liam. Wails of Oopa, Daddy! Oopa, Daddy! carried through the room while fat tears streaked down the toddler’s face. Liam immediately called for a 15 minute recess. It passed unanimously.

The family went to the restroom; everyone had to go. There was applause for Frac and no privacy for the parents. Afterwards, Riley fed the boys a snack and gave them chocolate milk to drink. The meeting resumed with no further interruptions.

When the meeting adjourned, the royal family headed back to their chambers, Riley and Liam each carrying a child. Their free hands were clasped together. Maxwell walked with them, carrying the baby bag and bags of toys.

Riley kissed Fric on his chubby cheek, cooing to him. “Did you have fun today, Poot? Did you like the Council Meeting?” Fric giggled into her neck. Riley rested her cheek against his hair; she lifted it when she felt Liam squeeze her hand. Her gaze fell on her husband and she smiled with love and happiness.

Riam, Dinner with Friends

Yu pulled a chair over to the table. She squeezed in between Riley and Olivia, her body facing Riley’s. Yu gently rubbed Riley’s back. “When are you going to find someone, dumpling? Someone to make you happy and give you orgasms?”

Riley blushed from Yu’s attention. “I have someone, LoveBug.”

“Yes, she does have someone. Me. The King, in case either of you have forgotten”, Liam bit out tightly. “And I give her LOTS of orgasms. I give her ALL the orgasms.”

Leo smirked as he popped a piece of crab ragoon in his mouth. “Looks like Li and the waitress are about to whip out their dicks out to see whose is bigger.”

“My money’s on the waitress”, Olivia replied.

“Mine too”, Hana agreed.

I am also tossing ideas around for a Riam fic where the couple reminisce over photographs and we learn a little more about Riley’s family, AND a briefcase smut fic told in first person POV from both Riley and Liam’s perspective.

So what are you working on: @bbrandy2002 @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @jessiembruno @hopefulmoonobject @glaimtruelovealways @ritachacha @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @katedrakeohd

#wip wednesday #my wips #kinda long post

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emeraldbabygirl · 5 years ago

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It was moments like this shared in my kitchen wrapped in one another slow dancing to no tune. We sway back and forth around the island, giggling and kissing all the while. Sehyoon’s gaze tangles with mine like his fingers do my hair, pulling me closer to his hips, chests suffocatingly squished together, melding into one being. My own hand finds his scalp, raking sharp nails through ashen locks. His tongue meets mine for their own tango till I can think of only him. He smells like cinnamon and cloves matching his smokey grin when he pulls back, a lone string of saliva reminisce of how stupid he kissed me. Sehyoon’s hands ghost down my exposed neck to my chest, fondling my nipples through the thin material covering them, ever slipping further down to my thighs, kneading the covered flesh with a hum. He presses his forehead to mine, eyes aflame like supernovae, I can’t help but crane his jaw to slant his lips back on mine, this kiss wetter, messier, drool seeping down my chin. When he pulls back this time, Sehyoon clears his throat, a moan threatening to form as I move my knee between his legs to grind it against his cock in his chaps. The look he gives is wild and tells me not to stop, so I don’t, taking it further by boldly replacing my leg with the hand not abusing his hair follicles.

Sehyoon licks his lips twice, once to wet them, again to gauge my reaction. It was the little things that turned me on the most, he was well aware. With his own hand and intentions, Sehyoon pulls me from my ministrations, lifting my hand to put a gentle peck on the back. “I’m not going nowhere no time soon.” Sehyoon leans me against the dining table, head dipping to suck at the skin of my throat till he finds that spot that has my hips jumping to push against his with a short whine. “I want to take it slow. I’ve missed you.” His confession brings warmth to my chest, I want to hold him close and never let go, kiss him until he says stop, tell him ‘I love you’ over and over until he can’t question who my heart resides with. “May I touch you?” I nod vigorously, desperate for friction. Sehyoon shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. “I need to hear you say it, darlin’.” He emphasises his words by letting me go, putting at least three inches between us, leaving me cold and annoyed.

I straighten my back and tilt my head back to stare evenly with the man denying my pleasure. I smile sweetly, creeping closer till I can wrap a finger in his belt loop, forcing his body to mine. “Sehyoon, god yes, please touch me, jesus fuck, just please make me cum.” Sehyoon says nothing, does nothing, just looks at me like he always does when I speak my mind. “I want you to fuck me, please fuck me.”

“How?” His rich voice is against my pulse, chest vibrating mine deliciously. “Tell me how you want me to fuck you.” His hand trails along the lacing of my bodice, reaching for the heavy skirts, lifting it while putting pressure finger by finger on my ass cheeks.

“I-” Sehyoon doesn’t let me finish, suddenly biting my love spot with just the right amount of force. He tells me to continue, but it’s hard to focus when I feel a cool breeze on my backside. I take a shaky inhale, twisting his hair in my fingers tightly. “I want you to fuck me like the last time, on the floor.”

“So,” A hand reaches from around my ass to poke at my entrance, gliding up to meet my clothes clit. I jerk into him. “You want me to bend you over,” Sehyoon sounds giddy, like he’s remembering just as perfectly how that night and position felt for me. It probably felt just as good to him. Two fingers pull my knickers to the side so they can properly assess just how wet this whole ordeal had gotten me. It never fails, Sehyoon could turn me on with words alone. “And fuck you into the carpet while I pull you hair?” I close my eyes, moaning loudly, Sehyoon’s fingers slip barely in me then he’s rolling my clit between his thumb and forefinger. “While I play with your pretty lil’ clit?”

“Fuck me.” I choke out, more as a curse. “Yes, please.” I’m so close to my first orgasm I can feel my pupils dilate. Then he pulls his hand away. I don’t have much time to complain as Sehyoon hoists me onto the tabletop pulling my legs apart quickly. The table is low enough he can lean over me, putting his chest back on mine and his lips next to my ear to lick slowly like he was savoring the taste.

“Show me then.” I looked up at the white ceiling, confusion washing over me, unsure if Sehyoon had spoken or not. “Show me just how bad you want me to bend you over.” I set out to ask how when two of his fingers found themselves inside my pussy. I have no time to do anything but moan fully, a deep sound from my chest that drove the man above me feral. I see white light a few moments, my first orgasm hitting my body like a waterfall. I blink back to consciousness, Sehyoon is looking down at me, a fond smile greeting me. “Look at the mess you made, princess,” he gestures to his pants, “I can feel your squirt on my dick through my britches.” Sehyoon’s hand encases mine to guide it to the aforementioned area to show me, dark denim in low light doesn’t do it much justice. He’s right, I completely soaked the front of the jeans. “So messy.” The hand he had in me is unceremoniously shoved into my mouth, my saliva and cum slipping towards the back of my neck. “May I continue?”

He moves his hand, “Yes,” I gasp out, then I'm sucking them down again. Sehyoon’s right hand continues what his left started, our eye contact never breaking. He brings me to my next orgasm quickly, except this one is from deep in me, rolling out of me and onto the table and floor.

“Two. And so creamy.” Sehyoon is watching his fingers intently, a dumb grin on his handsome face. “Do you taste good, my love? I have to say I’m a lil’ jealous, I love licking your clit till you cum for the first time. You taste like you mine.” He regards my dresses with an exasperated sigh. “I should untie you first, shouldn’t I? Can’t breathe properly laced up like this, right pretty baby?” He pulls at the top of my dress, the elastic keeping it on my shoulders snapping below my boobs. “Corsets are a lil’ much, I reckon, and so I won’t.” Sehyoon pulls me from the table to the top, gripping my thighs to wrap around his waist. It’s very short lived, Sehyoon is quick to untangle us, placing me on my feet, kneeing behind my own to tell me to get on the ground. Sehyoon nugged my ankles apart, kneeling behind me to rub his cock against my opening, pushing in only slightly. “Pussy this good is so hard to come by. But you know that huh, baby girl, or…” His hand curves around my thigh to meet my clit, other hand holding on to a tit, squeezing after every thrust. I forget how to breathe in a that moment, it was just Sehyoon, just a stranger who passed though town ever so often, he always said he missed me, wanted to take it slow, but it always ended like this, im deep in me, moaning my name in my ear till he cums in me. He always stays for the morning, fixing breakfast before taking off god knows where.

“Stay still.” He commands, removing himself from my body, “I just,” a hand comes down on my ass, I hiss back, he leaves it there. “Fuck. Do you know how beautiful this is to me? How beautifully you take cock? I-” whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue, slamming back into me. “I love you.” He whispers gently, caring, genuine, much unlike the way he’s plunging against my g-spot. I can’t respond, all air knocked from my lungs. Just Sehyoon. I don’t realize I’m cumming, Sehyoon holding my skirts up as he focused on riding out my orgasm together. I hear what I think is my name on his lips as he spills his seed into me. I never tell him no.

“Can’t stay.” I knew that, he gave in so easily to my request. “‘N don’t know if I’ll make our date next week.”

“When will you be back?” Sehyoon fixes his trousers, keeping his focus on dressing. “Will you be back?”

“You gave me a bed when I was dirt poor. Fed me when I was starving. And fucked me when I needed relief and you never once asked a question.” His tone is playful but smiles sad, eyes remorseful. “I shuldn’t have said what I did, but I meant it. Alla’ it.” All the while I fixed my own clothes, I berated myself, annoyed I had fallen for a handsome charmer instead of a decent scholar. “I’ll miss you… and the ale.” Sehyoon snorts, a joke we had shared once that seems like a distant memory now. I am then reminded of what he is and what he does. His life never guaranteed a tomorrow. “The money is on your bed, keep this place runnin’ till I get back?” I nod, smiling fully, I don’t want Sehyoon to leave with the image of me sad. “And if they ask where you got it from?”

“‘A Robin Hood exists to some’.” I recite, cheesing up at Sehyoon, who finally turned around to look at me one last time. “Go, before you can’t.”

“I-”

“Go.”

It isn’t long that I hear of a train robbing going south, I try to not let the news rile me, any man with hair black as night could have been the one shot dead. I breathe in and serve drinks and food and laughs, swatting at grabby hands, giving a flirtatious wink to the harmless ones, showing off Sehyoon’s money for the neat muscle I hired to keep me and my girls safe. I fill my week with various things from cleaning the entire tavern to picking fights with the sheriff about how I got my bar out of debt so quickly. I spend my days with friends and nights hard at work. It slips my mind when Friday comes, then the next,and the one after that. I keep so busy I don’t eavesdrop on gossip, the mention of black hair no longer makes my heart jump. I go four weekends without a word, confirming my suspicions.

“Boss?” I look up at one of the cooks waving his meaty hand in my face.”You ‘kay? You don’t look too hot.” I want to tell him why, but I know what he’ll say, Junhee doesn’t care for cowboys, or ruffians as he called them. They bring nothing but pain, he says, and don’t take pity on even the lowliest of them, they’ll use you. I wave him off with a bright grin, insisting I was just stressed by finances like usual. His face flattens as he holds up an envelope. “I don’t think you have to do much of that this month.” Jun throws it on the bank books with a sneer. “You know I don’t approve, we can make legit money.”

“I don’t pay you for lectures, Jun, dear, back to work please, darlin’.” I don’t bother waiting for him to leave, tearing the letter up to find well over three hundred dollars and a note. It's hard to make out, Sehyoon said he never went to school or anything fancy, but his mother did teach him to write, no matter how poor the penmanship is.

“To my Dearest, -RH”

YOUR WRITING IS SO FUCKING GOOD HOLY SHIT. THIS IS SUM NEXT LEVEL SMUT OH MY GOD I FUCKING LOVE IT THANK YOU SO MUCH BABY 💕💕💕

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