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fickleminder · 3 years ago

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the years start coming and they don’t stop coming (part 2)

Special thanks to @elvishdork, @rsmrymnt-tea, @victoireshaven, @lunarscribbles, @leuxbraus, @yeet-to-yeet, @oksoweredointhis, and several anons for giving me a much-needed kick in the muse to get this thing done. Love you all 💚

Part 1 here

They find your grave first.

You’re buried next to your parents, the only thing left of you a simple tombstone in the old cemetery. The space isn’t very well cared for, especially since you never married or had children. Your worn marker is chipped in several places, and even your name has begun to fade from the elements over the years. All in all, there’s nothing special distinguishing your final resting place from that of countless other humans’.

Forgotten. Just as you had been in life.

Lilith is the only one bold enough to approach, at first. Murmuring a soft prayer, she gets to work cleaning up, wiping the dust from your tombstone and sweeping away dead leaves with her bare hands.

She is joined by Mammon, who takes halting steps towards your grave and falls to his knees. He pats down his pockets, cursing lowly before tearing off a strip from his shirt and rubbing at the marker, polishing it with so much fervor as though he’s determined to make it shine brighter than Goldie.

Once the space has been cleared, tiny offerings are placed and carefully rearranged: a black rose with petals as dark as the Devildom skies; a limited-edition TSL keychain; and a small cupcake with rainbow sprinkles, slightly smushed on one side but otherwise perfectly intact.

Asmo sobs openly without care for his smudging makeup or expensive clothes. Belphie looks like he just wants to curl up next to your grave and sleep for the next five years.

Satan stands at the edge of the group, not an ounce of sympathy for his mourning brothers. He’s the only one who knows: the coffin underneath is empty.

“Satan,” Solomon greets wryly. “Good afternoon. I was wondering if you’ve seen a certain errant apprentice of mine.”

The demon in question shoots a curious glance at the purring Calico in his lap. “I might have. Something wrong?”

“It’s a funny story actually,” Solomon replies, explaining how you had immediately run off upon successfully performing your first shapeshift. In hindsight, the sorcerer should have gone through the entire process before encouraging you to give it a shot, and now you’re stuck as a feline with no knowledge of how to turn back.

“I see…” Something in Satan’s tone makes the fur at the back of your neck stand up. You try to shake off the blissful dazed state his petting has put you in and jump away, but he’s quick to grab you by the scruff before you can escape. “Thanks Solomon, I’ll keep you updated.”

Satan hangs up and lifts you to the level of his face with a frown. “So eager to come see me that you ditched Solomon at the first opportunity? Normally I’d be flattered, but that was very irresponsible of you.”

Apparently returning to your beloved demon as soon as you could isn’t enough to excuse your impulsive actions, so you pull out the big guns: bringing your front paws together just below your chin and making your eyes go as wide as they can.

Satan forever regrets letting you make him watch that film series with the green ogre all those years ago. He sets you down gently, sighing in exasperation. “Silly human. What am I going to do with you?”

You meow innocently in response.

The front door is still broken.

Its hinges barely hold onto the wall, creaking threateningly whenever someone comes and goes. The rest of the house isn’t quite in shambles, but not much effort has been put into getting it back to its pristine state.

Lilith does her best to support her siblings, but they’ve been in a depressive mood for weeks now and there’s only so much she can do to get them through each day. She’s even approached Lord Diavolo and Barbatos for help, seeking their advice to rally the broken brothers together, asking if they knew how your life went, if only to take comfort in the fact that you lived happily and healthily to a ripe old age.

She steers clear of the angels and sorcerer who visit the Devildom occasionally. While Lilith knows you were close friends with them, she’s strictly forbidden from making contact with anybody who isn’t already aware of her presence. The how and why of her resurrection is still a mystery, but one thing is for certain: your ties to her must never come to light lest she brings another great war upon her grieving family. Although it’ll take time to recover from losing you, she’s determined to be there for them every step of the way.

(And if anyone is suspicious about a certain Avatar of Wrath’s lack of rage, they’re wallowing too deeply in their own misery to notice.)

Catching Satan playing with stray cats in the garden isn’t an uncommon occurrence, but nobody ever expected to hear —

“What… What did you just call it?”

Satan’s arms tighten protectively around you as he repeats your name, glaring at his brothers as though daring them to do something about it. You poke your head out of his jacket to peek at the others, trying to gauge their reactions.

“That name belongs to our human! Call it something else!”

“Shut up, Mammon! Satan, may I?”

You nuzzle Asmo’s outstretched fingers gently, your heart swelling at the familiar scent of his favorite hand lotion. Flashbulb memories of spa sessions and shopping sprees and gossiping late into school nights hit you all at once; if not for your feline body, you probably would have burst into tears.

Mammon sniggers at the disgruntled expression on Satan’s face when you practically climb into Asmo’s arms and paw at his chest. Satan looks about ready to commit fratricide when Asmo makes a dirty comment about how even animals can’t resist him, but Mammon’s jeers get stuck in his throat when you suddenly turn your attention to him.

“Oh hell no, I don’t want any part of this!” The second-born declares, backing away quickly before you can even think about pouncing on him. (Is it his imagination, or did your ears actually droop slightly at that?) He spins on his heel and stalks off with a parting shot: “Good luck getting Lucifer to let you keep that stupid cat!”

Word spreads fast in the House of Lamentation.

Lucifer’s first instinct to get rid of you is justified twice over. The last time Satan had been allowed one (1) pet resulted in utter catastrophe — no pun intended — and having another creature with your name running around would be a constant reminder of his failure. As it is, being the sole feline presence in the area for four days and counting is the only reason you’ve not been evicted yet.

What’s more unsettling is the fact that there’s been no sign of your soul in the Devildom despite it being many years since you passed. Lucifer had been certain that having pacts with all seven Avatars of Sin would have guaranteed you a place here, so where did you go? Were you avoiding them?

Perhaps you’d been granted eternal rest in the Celestial Realm. The notion is highly improbable, but not impossible. Lucifer knows he could always ask Simeon, or even Michael if he was really desperate, but pride aside, he just can’t bring himself to do it, can’t stomach the confirmation that you’d choose to go someplace he and his brothers cannot follow.

He’s hard-pressed to blame you though, nor Lord Diavolo and Barbatos for keeping their silence. The fault lies with him and his family, as much as it pains him to admit it.

One particular evening sees Lucifer practically dragging his feet into his study, prepared for another late night of report writing. He’s armed with coffee, cursed vinyl records, a new footrest he’s been wanting to try out —

And a mangy cat sprawled atop the files and folders on his desk, napping away without a care in the world.

Thoughts of you already fill the gaps between paperwork and wrangling his siblings and a thousand other things on his to-do list; the first-born doesn’t need another in the form of a pesky animal. He growls your name, fully intending to chase you off, but your immediate response gives him pause.

There’s a certain intelligence in your eyes, Lucifer observes as you blink warily at him. It’s not unlike that of Mammon’s crows, the birds being much smarter and more aware than others give them credit for. Satan’s magical prowess doesn’t warrant a familiar, but Lucifer wouldn’t put it past his brother to pass you off as one. Either way, he has no time for this.

“Out. Now.”

He sets his cup of Hell Coffee in front of you with a loud thud, clearly an intimidation tactic, but you don’t even twitch except to stretch out your neck and give the hot beverage a curious sniff.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, his lips curling in amusement. “Try it. I dare you.”

While it’s spitefully tempting to knock that bitter monstrosity to the floor, you quite prefer to keep living. Holding your ground, you curl back up and close your eyes.

A frustrated growl, leather-clad hands lifting you upwards, and then you strike.

Your claws latch onto Lucifer’s waistcoat, digging deeply enough to secure a solid grip on his torso without tearing into the fabric. The surprise attack forces him into his chair, his arms instinctively curling around you to prevent your fall. Once you’re certain he’s seated and comfortable, you let out a deliberate yawn and snuggle into the demon’s chest.

There’s pressure on your back, firm and unyielding at first, then soft and contemplative. Lucifer’s heart beats strongly against your ears, his chest rumbling with a wistful murmur of your name as he strokes your fur.

“Very well. Since you insist, I’ll let you stay.” Shifting to accommodate the warm weight on his lap, he picks up his pen and gets to work.

Maybe just for tonight, he can pretend you’re still here with him.

Fortunately for Mammon, nobody was around to hear his high-pitched shriek when something furry smacked firmly onto his backside.

“Oi, what’s the big idea?” He whips around with a flustered glare, turning in circles as you weave between his legs. “You trying to steal my wallet or something?”

It takes a few more swipes at his hips before Mammon realizes you’re trying to get at the black and yellow feathered keychain hanging from his belt. He unclips it and holds it at a distance, watching curiously as you eye it like fish bait dangling from a hook.

Within the safety of his room, the Avatar of Greed is more than happy to indulge you as you chase after the trinket in a game of keep away. Unlike dogs (specifically three-headed ones who live in underground tombs), he has no qualms interacting with cats, especially when they don’t belong to nasty witches or turn out to be a younger brother who had accidentally cursed himself. Speaking of…

“I don’t care what Satan says. I’m gonna call you Cat, not — not —” Mammon can’t bring himself to say your name, not when he’d failed you so terribly. Just the thought alone is enough to sour his mood; he drops the keychain at your feet, no longer interested in fooling around.

They didn’t even see you off, he realizes belatedly. You had healed his family after centuries of discord, and they didn’t have the decency to say goodbye when you had to leave. Even his last memory of you is a nostalgic blur.

Were you angry? Did you resent them till the end? Maybe you eventually learned to live without them, while they took for granted that you’d always be there.

“Sorry Cat, playtime’s over. Let’s get you back to —” Mammon almost jumps when he spots you on his bed, staring intently at a black and white lump next to his pillow. “No no no, that’s not a chew toy! I swear, if there’s so much as a scratch on it, I’ll —”

Inches away from grabbing you by the scruff, his hand freezes when you nuzzle the stuffed panda fondly, curling around it with a soft purr. Your paws are gentle as they knead the handmade toy and pull it closer to you.

Mammon’s heart swells and breaks all over again. He kicks off his boots and lies down next to you, and you take the opportunity to burrow into his side, the panda squished lightly between your bodies.

Your first man doesn’t say a word, but it takes a long time for his shuddering breaths to even out.

Henry 2.0’s not technically a rubber duck, but he makes a pretty good listener. That said, Levi was not expecting a reply in the middle of another bug-induced rant.

“H-h-how did you get inside my room?!” Backed up against the edge of his desk and holding his keyboard out like a shield, the demon nearly has a heart attack at the thought that you’re here to devour his best friend as a snack. “Shoo! Shoo!”

In your defense, you don’t seem very interested in the goldfish swimming idly nearby. As a matter of fact, you hardly give the tank a second glance as you stalk towards your main target like a predator on the hunt. A distant part of Levi’s brain faintly notes the way you take care to sidestep the many wires strewn about.

“Oh nonononono! I’m just a yucky otaku, not very tasty at all —”

[That’s okay, Levi! I’m just happy to see you!]

Both of you freeze. Despite the electronic undertone, that was unmistakably your voice. The keyboard is lowered as Levi’s arms go limp, and you realize he must have accidentally pressed something in his panic. There’s also a little tune playing from the speakers; it takes a while, but you recognize it as an 8-bit rendition of the song the two of you had composed and sang to way back when.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Levi whines, his whole posture slumping as he sinks into his gaming chair. “I’m pathetic, I know. It’s not the same, but this AI is the closest I can get to…”

He gestures absently at his monitor, where a character sprite with your likeness is displayed on the screen. An open program at the side shows an array of different skins: the RAD uniform, your favorite casual wear, a yukata, the Henry costume for the TSL play, a bunny-themed uniform at the Fall, and a pink sheep onesie, among others.

Credit where it’s due, Levi’s attention to detail is impeccable. Snippets of memories play out behind your eyes as you drink in the individual outfits; Satan might call you masochistic for reliving those bittersweet moments, but he isn't around to tease you so you're free to indulge. Levi seems to have forgotten all about his apprehension by the time you come back to yourself, too busy rambling about the bugs in his code, insisting that even the smallest fragment of you artificially brought back to life had to be true to canon.

Meow-ing and nya-ing where appropriate, you settle down near a pile of snacks and make yourself comfortable. You’re no rubber duck either, but you’ve always been more than happy to lend your favorite otaku a listening ear.

“Still no luck?”

“I’ve been trying, but someone —” Satan gives your furry butt a light smack, earning a flick on the cheek with your tail “— doesn’t seem too keen on paying attention.”

Simeon laughs at the indignant look on your face. He pats his knees, prompting you to hop from Satan’s lap onto his. “Don’t be so stubborn, little lamb,” the angel chides, scratching the spot beneath your chin that makes you melt into his touch. “It takes a lot of energy to maintain another form. You’ve only just started learning how to control your magic, so don’t push it.”

“Food’s here!” Luke returns with tea and an assortment of baked treats, his bangs somewhat ruffled. No doubt the café staff have been fussing over the cute little boy who volunteered to pick up his table’s orders. “Are all humans like this?” He pouts, fixing his hair after setting down the tray. “These better be good or I’m not coming back!”

And so begins the next step in Simeon and Luke’s ambitious quest to sample all the desserts of the human world. Unfortunately, you low-key regret not being in your original body when they start withholding food.

“Sorry, no whipped cream for you.” Simeon lifts his plate away from your hungry paw. Next to him, Satan smirks into his cup. “That’ll make you sick, you know.”

Traitors! Both of them! You vacate Simeon’s lap with a rueful meow, curling up next to Luke’s feet instead.

The little angel is your only ally, you decide, and definitely not because he sneaks you blueberries under the table when the other two aren’t looking.

Stepping inside Asmo’s room is like venturing into the perfume section of a department store, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.

“You’re such a -hic- cute kitty!” Asmo giggles at the way you sneeze when he hugs you to his chest. The smell of demonus on his clothes is almost as strong as all the beauty products he usually applies on a daily basis.

The fifth-born has been alternating between partying non-stop for days, getting drunk off his ass, and holing himself up in his room where no one will know if he lets himself his appearance fall apart. By chance, you had managed to catch him somewhere in-between.

“It’s no fun without you here.” He sighs, one hand clumsily running through your fur, the other nursing a cup of hangover remedy. Courtesy of Satan, if you had to guess. You nudge Asmo's shaking arm with a paw, prompting him to down the rest of the drink before he spills it all over the sheets. “Uwaaaah~ This sucks! Don’t tell anyone, but my eyeliner game hasn’t been the same since you left. I’ve always -hic- preferred the way you drew them, you know?”

“Meow.”

“I'm always beautiful, but you're the only one who actually made me believe it.”

“Meow.”

“Exactly! Ooh wait, I’ve got an idea!” Setting you down at the edge of his bed, Asmo rummages through his room with drunken excitement and returns with a small pile of items. He lays them out separately in front of you: a hairbrush, a cluster of clips and colorful ribbons, and his D.D.D. “Let’s play a game~ Apparently this is a tradition for newborns in some human cultures. Shall I groom you? Doll you up? Post pictures of you on Devilgram? Hehe, I’ll let you choose whatever you want!”

You don’t even have to think about it.

Asmo lights up when you pad towards the accessories in the center, but his smile freezes when all you do is step over them and keep moving forward, making yourself at home in his lap instead. You nuzzle his chest affectionately and match his hitching breaths with purrs.

Soft hands wind around your body and pull you atop the demon as he flops backwards onto the pillows with a choked sob. “G-good kitty -hic- such a sweetheart, oh yes you are!” Asmo holds you tight and drops kisses onto your head, but even the demonus can’t completely mask the faint traces of salt mixed into his scent.

Frantic yowling summons Beel to the garden, where he finds you clinging to the side of a rattan basket in fright. One of the ropes tethering it to the tree branches had snapped while you were napping inside; you may have the body of a feline, but you don’t trust yourself to land safely on your feet if you jump.

“It’s okay, don’t be scared.” The demon is careful not to make any sudden movements as he reaches for you, coaxing you to let go. With his height, all he has to do is stretch out his arms and his hands are already mere inches away from you. “I’ll catch you, I promise.”

He does, of course. Beel is often reliable like that. And if you thought he was big before, he’s a giant compared to you now.

“You’re so tiny…” He marvels at the kitten nestled in his palms, rubbing your head with feather-light touches. “You hardly weigh anything. Has Satan been taking good care of you?”

You meow affirmatively and lick his fingers in gratitude, but Beel’s already on his way to the kitchen, determined to fill your belly (and his). He retrieves several containers marked with cat stickers and practically lays out a feast for you.

“Eat up. You’re still growing, you know.” Beel helps himself to a plate of cheeseburgers as he watches you munch on some cooked chicken. His free hand stays close to you, petting you absently. For a few blissful moments, you get to enjoy sharing a meal with him again, until —

“Were you happy? Did you have enough food?”

— the chicken suddenly tastes like ash in your mouth.

“Lilith said you did, but she wasn’t there. I wasn’t… None of us were.” Beel lowers a half-eaten burger and stares at you with such a forlorn expression that you just want to wipe it off of his face. He’s even stopped eating, which is a big red flag. Upon noticing that you’ve paused too, he forces a smile and scratches your chin. “Don’t worry about me, you can keep going.”

You don’t, of course. Instead, you paw at his other hand and make a show of snatching his food, prompting Beel to shove the rest of it into his mouth, more out of reflex than actual hunger. Something clicks in his brain when he sees you take a bite of your chicken immediately after.

“Oh, you want us to eat together?” He picks up another burger and swallows it whole; you dig into a piece of turkey with gusto. “…Okay. I’d like that.”

Obviously you don’t empty out the containers, but Beel polishes off everything on his plate.

It’s a given fact that the constellations in the Devildom’s skies differ from those in the human world, a fact you discovered the first time you had ventured into the planetarium in search of familiar stars to alleviate a bout of homesickness during the early days of the exchange program. It also wasn’t until Belphie’s release from the attic that you had any hope of identifying them.

Although the sky is obscured with heavy clouds tonight, the youngest brother already knows all the stars by heart. Little purple sparks twinkle against the clear glass of the planetarium’s dome, mimicking the placement of constellations normally scattered across the surface.

“And that’s it, I guess.” Belphie yawns into your fur, cuddling you closer. Satan definitely knew what he was doing when he adopted you as a therapy animal; you make an excellent nap buddy. “Pretty neat, huh?”

You seem more interested in the sparkling lights hovering above you than the actual meaning behind their formations, but that’s okay. So long as he gets to spend time with you.

“It’s not exactly common knowledge, but Diavolo created one constellation for each of the Avatars.” Belphie laughs at the way you visibly perk up at the information. He’s shared this tidbit with you before, but you never get tired of hearing it. “Heh, Lilith refuses to admit it, but I think she’s a little jealous. What do you say, shall we make something up for her?”

Belphie loosens his hold on you to conjure a ball of shimmering purple energy. You wriggle out of his grasp to bat at it, sending a spark into the air with every hit. Clearly he’s manipulating where they go, the three additional lights forming an ‘L’ amidst the rest.

Job done, you reclaim your spot on Belphie’s pillow, but the demon has a pensive look on his face. He flicks his wrist, and several more lights emerge to join the others in the shape of your initials.

You meow at him sadly. Belphie doesn’t respond except to let the energy ball dissipate and pull you back into his arms, staring miserably at the newest constellation. You can tell he’s getting sleepy again, his breaths beginning to slow, but he fights his drowsiness to keep his magic alive for as long as he can.

And even when he finally succumbs to his sin, your name is the last to fade.

“I told you so.”

“Mmrp.”

“Oi, watch the attitude or I won’t be so inclined to help you.”

An empty threat. You nip at Satan’s fingers half-heartedly, but the paws keeping his hand on your head betray your need for his touch and comfort right now.

It was hard to believe him when he had first told you about his brothers mourning your death. After not hearing from them ever since Lilith showed up, you didn’t think they would remember or even miss you. The hurt from being abandoned all those decades ago never really faded away; you blamed the tiny piece of your heart that refused to let go, nursing the painful spark of hope that maybe tomorrow would be the day they finally thought of you, or maybe you just needed to give your silly boys more time to come around.

(They were happy without you, and yet when Simeon slid the Ring of Light onto your finger, all you could think about was the second chance to be a part of their lives again.)

You had resigned yourself to a one-sided reunion by the time you were able to return to the Devildom, prepared to love your second family from afar. The shapeshifting was supposed to be temporary; once you ascertained that everyone was doing well, you would turn back and… okay, you hadn’t thought that far yet, but you would have worked something out eventually.

“Hey.” Satan’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, his tone gentle as he scratches the base of your ears. “Everything will be alright. Trust me, you’ll always have a place with us.”

Even the Avatar of Wrath can only relish his brothers’ suffering for so long. You know Satan has your back no matter what, but the choice is clear: it’s time to come clean.

(Whispered words come to you in a dream.

“I never meant to replace you.” The silence of the night is steeped in guilt and remorse. “I am forever grateful for all my family has done for me, but my only regret is that it cost them you. You saved them, you made them whole again, and… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I hope you find peace, wherever you are. Goodnight, little one.”

A final, gentle stroke of your fur, and then all is still.)

Things, as usual, don’t go according to plan.

When it happens, you tumble roughly from Diavolo’s arms, landing on all fours with a hiss. He’s quick to apologize, thinking he might have been too eager in his petting. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

But there’s no way for you to tell him about the burning sensation on your left paw, the echoes of wrath searing through your fur and making your blood boil. Getting to Satan is the only thing on your mind as you dart away from the demon prince’s hands, past a confused Barbatos, and towards the House of Lamentation.

It’s the calm in the middle of the storm.

You squeeze inside through a broken window to see Lilith standing between two groups: Satan and the twins in one, and Asmo with the older brothers in the other. The fourth-born looks more roughed up than the rest; you spy his D.D.D. in an equally dismal state where it lies discarded in a corner, littered with spider cracks and —

“I’m serious!” Satan laughs at your pout. “No wrinkles whatsoever. You’re as handsome as the day I first laid eyes on you, my dear.”

You swat his arm with reddening cheeks. The demon’s exaggeration knows no bounds, and yet his honeyed words easily make you blush as though you’re seventeen and not seventy.

“Come here, I’ll prove it.” He draws you close and fires up his D.D.D.’s camera. “Say cheese!”

The self-conscious smile on your face morphs into one of surprise when you feel warm lips on your temple, a split second before the flash goes off.

— a photo of the two of you on the flickering screen.

“We should be thanking him!” Lilith argues, gesturing fervently at the larger group. In the short time you’ve known your soft-spoken ancestor, you’ve never seen her so worked up before. “He was there when we weren’t! He took care of —”

“Then why the fuck didn’t he tell us?! He had no right keeping —”

“No right?” Satan is seething. “I was the only one who gave a damn! You — all of you chose to forget! I shouldn’t have to remind you that our human was still cohabitating with us when you lot decided to just abandon —”

“That’s not true! I bet you cursed us so that only you would remember!”

“Not to mention that glamor on the door was your doing, and all those times you snuck off on your own —”

“Everyone, stop it! Fighting about this now won’t change anything…”

“We’re to blame here.”

“No, I refuse to accept this!”

You can’t tell who lunges first, but then horns and wings and tails start coming out and everything quickly descends into chaos. A brawl between the brothers isn’t new to you, but this level of raw violence certainly is. No spells or hexes are used, just good old-fashioned fangs, claws, and brute force. All you can discern is Belphie tugging Lilith a safe distance away before joining the melee; the rest are moving too fast for your eyes to track.

Satan is wrath incarnate. He dishes out as much as he takes, but three vs. four aren’t the best odds even with Beel on his side, let alone against all his older siblings. His betrayal is unforgivable, and your horror must have bled through the pact because you sense a brief surge of panic from Satan’s end, an unspoken plea for you to stay out of the way.

But with that much blood, feathers and scales being shed, and infernal demonic snarls ringing in your ears, you have to step in before someone gets killed for real. Satan shouldn’t have to pay the price for your cowardice; this is all your fault and you need to fix things now.

You spot Lucifer flying high, preparing for a dive-bomb. A swift leap onto the couch and you’re in position to go for his wings — sorry not sorry — but Lilith grabs you in mid-air before you can throw yourself into the fray.

“Kitty, no! You’ll get hurt!” She pulls you back and out of harm’s way. You hiss at her angrily, but no matter how hard you struggle, how viciously you dare to claw at her arms, gouging bloody ribbons into her delicate skin, she refuses to let go.

“You. Utter. BASTARD!” A streak of white is all you can make out of Mammon, who easily weaves around Beel and Belphie and goes in for the kill. You feel a flash of genuine fear from Satan, and the last shred of your patience finally snaps.

The attack never lands.

What sends all movements screeching to a complete halt is not the sudden burst of light in the brothers’ peripheral vision or Lilith’s startled yelp, but the loose threads of magic under their skins abruptly yanked taut as faded pact marks flare to life, and:

“EVERYBODY SIT!!”

As though gravity had been increased tenfold, seven demons slam to the ground so quickly that all breath is knocked out of them in one sharp exhale. Even without the order pinning them to the floor, hearing your voice again after so many decades would have done the trick.

Everyone’s eyes are on you in a heartbeat, you in all your immortal glory, looking not a day older than at the start of the exchange program. It’s you, it has to be; appearances aside, the pacts you have with them are all the proof they need.

Lilith looks absolutely stunned at the cat-turned-person in her hold, her arms looped loosely around your waist. It’s just as well, given that your body’s starting to slump dangerously.

“See, I was paying attention.” One last jab at Satan, and then you’re toppling backwards in a dead faint.

You wake up in Lilith’s bed with a raging headache and your worried great-great-n-times-over grandmother hovering over you.

“Oh, thank goodness!” She helps you sit up, handing you a glass of water with a straw. The pounding in your skull gradually ebbs away as you take small sips. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have a magically-induced hangover.” You went drinking with Solomon once. Never again. There’s also a fresh bruise on your shoulder, and you rub it with a wince. “Where’d this come from? And how long was I out?”

“Not too long, you slept for about an hour. And I, uh, might have accidentally knocked you into the doorframe. Twice.”

For some reason, an image of Lilith dragging you through the house by your feet pops into your head.

“Everybody was panicking when you collapsed, okay?” She whines, and you take a moment to appreciate just how frazzled she looks, the poor thing. “I didn’t think you’d want my brothers smothering you, so I carried you here. I told them to calm down and talk things through before bringing you back.”

“I’m honestly surprised they haven’t barged in by now.”

“Well, they’re still in the common room…”

“That’s unusually civil of them —”

“Stuck to the floor.”

“WHAT?!”

The tension in Lilith’s shoulders loosens as she giggles uncontrollably. “I think your pacts with them worked a little too well. If you’re up for it, shall we?”

You don’t fully register the exhaustion in your bones until you attempt to get out of bed. Although you stumble like a newborn calf at first, Lilith keeps a steady grip on your waist until you can more or less walk under your own power. An hour’s nap isn’t nearly enough to undo weeks of shapeshifting and activating seven dormant pacts at once, but it’s better than nothing.

(Lilith waves away your apologies when you notice the scratch marks on her arms. She assures you they’ll fade in time — one perk of her curious brand of immortality is that injuries never seem to stick — and says nothing when she in turn spies her eldest brother’s ring sitting snugly on your finger.)

Needless to say, some ground rules are in order first.

“No more fighting, got it?” You try your best to channel Lucifer during one of his infamous lectures, but if his unimpressed glare is anything to go by, you’re not doing a very good job of it. Really, it’s unfair how he can still assert his authority while looking so disheveled. “And no dogpiling on Satan either.”

“Darling, we’re hurt!” Asmo pouts, wriggling as suggestively as he can while his chest is pressed to the carpet. “First time we’re seeing you in forever and you’re just going to order us around?”

“I didn’t think…” you wanted me back, the words stick in your throat. You bite your lip, wilting slightly as whatever courage you managed to scrape together on the way down evaporates into thin air. They aren’t angry at you for deceiving them, right? The past few weeks have shown just how much they missed you, but better safe than sorry. “Just — let’s just settle this peacefully, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, now let us up already!” Mammon demands impatiently. You can’t help but stifle a weak laugh; his attitude has always been a familiar comfort.

(You also don’t notice the way Lilith starts inching away from you.)

The second the magic binding your demons is dispelled, everybody moves at once.

Mammon pounces first, clearing the distance in one great leap and tackling you to the ground with a tearful cry of your name.

Lucifer reaches you second, cushioning your fall with his wings while efficiently delivering a sharp smack to the back of Mammon’s head along the way. You make a mental note to scold him for that later.

Levi’s tail coils tightly around your thigh, the tip tracing the pulsing orange mark on your skin, eager for contact yet not quite wanting to be flattened by the rest of his brothers.

Asmo circles around and cradles your head from behind, planting relieved kisses all over your face.

Belphie clings to your free side like a koala and nuzzles into your chest, while Beel just wraps his arms around the whole group and scoops everybody into the air, leaving Levi dangling for dear life.

Lilith goes to help Satan off the floor amidst a chorus of “Beel I can’t breathe!” and “Put us down!” The beating he took has left him somewhat disgruntled, but hearing the laughter in your voice softens him enough to accept Lilith’s fussing without much complaint.

There’re still talks to be had, apologies to be made, and generally a long way to go before things can return to some semblance of normalcy, but the first step has been taken, and maybe it’s finally time for their family to start healing properly.

#writing #obey me #obey me fanfic #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me lilith #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me luke #obey me solomon #obey me replaced mc au

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some-kindofgnome · 4 years ago

Text

Hitoshi tests a more creative application of his quirk on you, his willing submissive.

characters: dom!pro hero!hitoshi shinsou/sub!f!reader

wc: 5.3k

warnings: smut (18+), aged-up characters, pro hero Shinsou (who is kind of a softie), hard BDSM and control dynamics, edging, consensual mind control, sex toys, praise kink, blowjob, unprotected sex, some loooong and tender aftercare/yearning

notes: the dynamic in this fic was partially inspired by We Wear Chains on the Weekend [ao3] and a conversation with @shadowworks about some fun applications of Hitoshi's quirk 👀 I hope you enjoy this horny little bit of fun! I enjoyed thinking about this dynamic with 'Toshi. He talks big, but we know deep down he's just as soft and squishy as us 💖

One more note: The dynamics and safety measures in this fic are the result of a little bit of research that I conducted. It is not meant to encompass EVERY BDSM experience, nor was my research exhaustive. This was just my little take on some kinky business with Hitoshi, so please let me know if there are any elements I've overlooked or misstepped!

(MASTERLIST)

Hitoshi will never forget the first night he spent in this house.

The little semi-detached in a quiet, trendy neighbourhood was one of the first things his pro salary earned him. Having the place to himself is still one of the biggest perks that salary ever provided.

Privacy, as he’s learned since, is paramount to the life he’s crafting for himself.

It’s Friday evening, and the early spring rain’s showing no sign of letting up when you ring his doorbell. The sound echoes through the house like the bells of Notre Dame- terrifyingly gothic, considering it was like that when he moved in, but not entirely out of character for him.

And his heart swells quietly every time he knows it’s you behind that door.

He pads easily down the polished steps, already showered and changed out of his work clothes. He likes to dress up for you a little, sporting a pair of dark slacks and a black button-down with the top four buttons undone. His hair, still damp from the shower, sits a little tamer and darker than usual.

No matter how good he looks, you manage to knock him on his ass with a single glance.

“Hey,” he greets with a quiet, familiar sort of warmth as he pulls open the right half of the double front doors. His smile slips a little at the sight of you, shaking the water out of your umbrella and soaked to the bone. You catch his gaze out your peripherals and start a little, shooting him a sheepish smile.

Something claws tight and possessive at the pit of his chest. You’re so cute, even water-logged like this.

“Getting worse out there, huh?” He quips, stepping aside to let you in.

“It’s not exactly prime umbrella weather,” you giggle, setting the dripping, half-broken monstrosity in the umbrella tray that he keeps by the door. “But I made it, didn’t I?”

He can’t help but reach for you, letting his fingers brush attentively at your clothes as he helps you out of your drenched coat. The dress you’re wearing looks devastatingly easy to remove, and his chest lurches a little with the urge to have you bare for him.

He resists. For now.

“Right on time,” he replies, taking your coat neatly by the collar and hanging it over the bannister. “Do you want to dry off a little before we go upstairs, or…?”

“No.” You answer suddenly enough to prompt his inquisitive gaze, and Hitoshi turns to look at you with a purple brow quirked perfectly.

“I’m just feeling a little antsy today,” you continue, and he watches the way your tongue darts out to wet your lower lip. “So, I’d like to get started right away, if that’s okay with you.”

You meet his eye again. Hitoshi’s starting to wonder if he’s the one who should be getting on his knees in front of you upstairs.

“That’s okay with me.”

He smiles thinly, making his best attempt at hiding the affection that’s bubbling shallow and steady in his chest. He reaches for you, uncurling his fingers to offer an eager palm.

You take it. The contact is breathtaking.

He climbs the stairs with your fingers grasped firmly in his. The suspense never fades.

Hitoshi keeps his bedroom a few degrees warmer than the rest of the house, and as he twists the knob and pushes the door inward, he can feel your palm relaxing in his. You’ve always liked it in here- warm and humid, from the house plants that line the windows and add lush splashes of colour to every corner.

It means more to him than you’ll ever know, that you find such comfort in a space so full of him.

He lets you slip in ahead, closing the door behind him and reaching for the colourful remote nearby. He dims the lights overhead, stroking his thumb thoughtfully over the rainbow buttons. He peeks at you through his peripherals, watching the way you glide your fingertips over the broad leaf of a money plant that blooms atop his dresser.

“What colour should we use today?” He pushes a button, and hidden strips of lighting illuminate in a deep shade of blue-green. The bed and walls are cast into a cool, oceanlike glow, reflecting blue off the room’s vegetation and creating a floating, almost aquatic sense of serenity.

“I like this one,” you confirm. “Keep it.”

“Whatever you like,” he promises, setting down the remote. “Today’s all about keeping you relaxed.”

He approaches you at last, cupping either side of your face in delicate palms. He tilts your gaze to his.

“You’re still up for it?” He asks, low and sincere as he searches your eyes. “What we had planned for today?”

“I am,” you confirm. He’s nervous that the rain may have upset things, but you’re clearly as ready as ever. “Been thinking about this all week.”

His shoulders drop a little, relief trickling into the fluttering cavity of his chest. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He bends, pressing a quiet little kiss to your forehead and smoothing his palms over the wet surface of your hair. He holds you there for a moment, staying close. He forces power into his shoulders and steps back from you, unbuttoning his cuffs. He breathes a deep sigh- focus, Hitoshi- and settles into the power dynamic you both can’t seem to stay away from.

He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, depositing it neatly over the back of the nearby armchair. He nods toward you, slow and discerning.

“Strip.”

That dress is precisely as easy to remove as he hoped it would be, and he gets to watch as you slide each strap slowly down your arm, letting the fabric pool at your feet. His jaw gives an interested little tick as he gorges himself on the sight of you.

You’ve developed a nasty little habit of leaving your bra at home for sessions like this, as if he wouldn’t notice the way your tits sat beneath that loose silk, your nipples tight and hard from the wet chill outside.

You are delectable. Hitoshi feels infatuation crawling up the column of his spine every time he has you like this. But he’s about to take you even deeper, and while you’re more than ready, he’s not sure his heart can take it.

You’re wiggling out of your underwears now, exposing that perfect little patch of hair between your legs. What makes his cock throb even worse, though, is the way that you already know how he likes you. And so, kicking your underwear away and smoothing your hands down your sides, you don’t wait long at all before dropping to your knees and settling your palms on your thighs.

You lower your chin and go still.

For a minute, he lets himself admire you. He’s aching to touch you, but today will be all about patience. For both of you.

But he can’t take you, sitting so still for him like this. He caves to the warming in his chest and steps forward, tucking two fingers beneath the point of your chin and pulling your eyes to his.

“You sure about this?” He asks you. You lick your lips again, slow and thoughtful and torturous, now that he’s already so captivated by you. You’re giving it the honest thought it deserves. But when you purse your lips and nod into his palm, your eyes are certain.

“I’m sure.”

He’s been working you up to this for weeks. Exploring the unique possibilities of a relationship with him has always been in your contract, but it’s not something Hitoshi ever planned on rushing into. Only now, after months of playtime and weeks of careful preparation, does he feel ready to practice this with you.

“We left you your signals,” he reminds you, tenderly stroking the backs of his fingers from your chin up to your cheek. You’re staring up at him with such trust and admiration it’s hard to imagine anyone ever thought him a monster, for possessing such power. “You can come out of it whenever you want to.”

“Hitoshi,” you prompt, and the fall of his first name from your lips is enough to quell all his rising nerves. Despite the way you’re looking at him, memories of those poison words he’s been hearing all his life are flooding him. They’ve always served as a grim reminder of the damage he’s capable of.

But you wanted this. You’re ready for it. And he’s taken every precaution to ensure that you’re going to be safe.

So much reassurance, wrapped up in the three tiny syllables of his name.

It’s his turn to nod. He takes your jaw into his hand and drops to one knee in front of you, stooping to press his lips to the shell of your ear. Your sweet scent washes over him as he leans close, enhanced by the fresh rain on your skin and the rapid swell of your chest as you breathe.

“So you’re ready to drop, then?” He keeps his voice as low as possible, delighting in the way that you shiver in response. Your breath hitches against his chest, puffing quietly across his cheek.

“Yes.”

The word barely edges from your lips before the influence of his quirk fills every hollow in your ready bones. It’s a presence like nothing you’ve ever felt before, like the rising tide filling your lungs and weighing down your limbs. You take a deep, shaky breath to remind yourself it’s still possible.

Hitoshi’s used his quirk on you before. Preparing for this level of control, he tells you, takes practice. The more time he has to inhabit your mind, the better control he’ll have over what you experience and what you miss. The first time he ever used it on you is still a blank slate. But he only kept you under for a couple of seconds, building slowly over the course of many sessions toward the layered control he has now.

The sensation is thrilling. And yet, simultaneously, you feel completely safe. He will not misuse this power that you’ve so blithely handed over.

The sounds around you are muffled as Hitoshi gets to his feet, but when he speaks, his voice echoes in your mind like a bell.

“Can you understand me?”

Your body feels heavy and warm and semi-solid, but you manage a slow, clear nod.

“Good girl. Give me your hands.”

When he gives you an instruction, your muscles move without your consultation. You stretch your hands out toward him eagerly, and he takes both of them between his. He gives your fingers a sharp little squeeze.

“Can you give me your signals now?”

You cycle through them like clockwork. This is the part you had to work hard to develop, working through the specific layers of his quirk that might have been able to prevent such advanced thought.

With practice, though, here you are.

The system is one you’ve always used in parts of your arrangement where your ability to speak freely has been repressed. Hitoshi’s always been good at checking in with you no matter what, but thankfully he doesn’t push your boundaries too often.

You squeeze his hands in a slow progression, leaving long, deliberate spaces between each signal so that their distinction is clear.

One squeeze: keep going, all is well.

Two squeezes: slow down, I’m getting frustrated/uncomfortable

Three: STOP NOW

When you finish your stop signal and let your hands go still, Hitoshi’s fingers go slack in yours.

“Good girl, good,” he coos. “God, you’re so pretty like this. Look at you.”

He drops your hands, carefully letting them fall back to their neutral position on your thighs. There’s a pleasant tingle filling your dulled senses. In this state of mind, you can feel his gaze on you like a careful touch.

“I can do whatever I want with you,” he grunts. “Fuck, I can feel how much you want this.”

He’s moved away from you for a couple of seconds, but when he comes back he’s bare. Your vision is blurred about the edges, but you feel a wet little push he presses the tip of his cock, already hard and weeping, to the swell of your cheek.

“Don’t be difficult,” he purrs in your mind. “Open up.”

Your mouth drops eagerly open as you let your eyes fall shut. As he eases his hips forward, you let the flat pad of your tongue slip forward to cradle the tender head of his cock. Hitoshi groans low and soft, but the sound echoes through every nerve in your body, reverberating from within.

“That’s it,” he prompts softly. “So pliant for me, beautiful. Take it.”

He rocks slowly into your throat, letting sloppy drool slough from your tongue and coat his thick shaft as his fingers spread across the back of your head. He grips you tightly, keeping your neck in place as his tense thighs work to keep himself steady.

He eases himself onto your tongue and stops there for a moment. His pulse thrums in your ears, syncopating steadily with yours. He lets his head lull back as he lets out a deep, shaky sigh.

“Suck,” he commands, and you comply.

You bob your head eagerly back and forth, settling into a numbingly precise rhythm. Sucking Hitoshi’s cock has never been a chore for you, but in this state you’re conditioned to like it.

He grips you tighter as his hips begin to stutter a little. Every sound that leaves his mouth passes into your mind well before it reaches your muffled ears. You’re beginning to realize, in the deep, sunken place where your consciousness still rests, that allowing him into your mind has connected you more intimately than ever before.

You can feel his pleasure in the same way that he can sense your desire.

“So good,” he gasps, and the sound rappels down your spine. “Fuck, you’ve always been so good at this. I know how much you love it.”

He’s losing his cool now, thrusting against the barrier of your throat with more reckless abandon. But you’re numb to the feelings that might have stopped you before, swallowing him eagerly down to double his pleasure.

It shows. His fingers twitch against the back of your head as he grits his teeth and grunts, a breathy, feral sound with every rock of his heavy balls against your chin. Your eyes have slipped open again, but you don’t see him. Not really. All you can sense is his ecstasy, building to a rapid peak as he humps and pants and shivers into your needy mouth.

“God,” he rasps, “not gonna… t-that’s it… f-fuck!”

He rips away from you in one fluid stroke, that ecstasy boiling right to the surface before it’s halted in its tracks. He’s got one hand wrapped tightly around the base of his flushed cock and his pleasure’s dwindling.

He’s saving himself, to fill you properly later. While controlling your pleasure has always been a part of your games, Hitoshi’s taken to controlling his own as well. Lately, he doesn’t even let himself cum until you’ve seen your climax.

You’ve been trying not to let yourself read into it.

“Good girl,” he pants inside your head. “Come here.”

You’re a little shaky as you climb to your feet, but the numbness that you might normally get in your toes by now persists through your entire body. You close the distance to him in a handful of deliberate, steady steps, and he settles a hand on your hip to stop you when you’ve come close enough.

“Look at you,” he growls. “You’re still under, aren’t you? Incredible.” He takes one of your hands between both of his, dropping a kiss to your knuckles before giving your fingers a meaningful squeeze.

“Check in for me, sweetheart.”

In the receded depths of your on consciousness, you’re nothing but eager to continue. Hitoshi’s weighty cock in your throat sent spirals of aggressive arousal through your entire body. Your pussy is swollen and tingling, smearing the insides of your thighs with thick desire.

You give his palm one long, deliberate squeeze.

You need more.

“That’s what I like to see,” he purrs. He leads you to the bed and takes the liberty of lifting you into his arms. Your body collapses eagerly into his hold, and you let him deposit you gently onto the neatly made sheets. You stretch into the pillows, but your blank stare is always fixed on him.

“Okay, pretty girl,” he croons, and you’re still and stiff before he even finishes his thought. “Lie still for me, okay?”

He lifts one knee onto the bed and casts a gentle hand down the column of your belly, taking a gentle tilt to the left and sliding his fingertips along the column of your thigh.

“I’ve got your favourite toy here,” he croons, but you can’t respond. Instead, the buzz of nerves builds in the back of your skull, where your meager ability to feel has been preserved. Hitoshi wraps his graceful fingers around the toy in question- a sizeable wand vibrator in a deceptively pleasant shade of pale lilac silicone- and waves it in front of your eyes.

“Let’s see how much you can take, hmm?”

He leans closer, pressing a kiss to the point of your collarbone before tilting his chin forward to find the shell of your ear.

“Don’t cum,” he croons, sending a fresh thrill of terrified arousal into your veins, “until I say you can, alright?”

He slips the vibe between your legs and you feel it rumble to life. He knows your favourite settings easily by now, setting the toy to buzz low and hard between your legs in a series of long, rhythmic pulses.

Your body starts to pitch and tremble, but it cannot disobey his strict instructions to stay still. Your pleasure spikes the instant the vibrator’s soft, flexible head makes contact with your swollen clit. You want to press your legs together, whine with overstimulation and bat away the offending toy. But the influence of Hitoshi’s power is stronger than any physical restraint. Even as your muscles strain, you are powerless to move.

He holds you there, amusement lighting his features. You can feel the satisfaction thrumming in the back of his mind, building slowly. You know he can feel the unbearable sensations racing through your entire body. But he refuses to let up, even as desperate tears break from the corners of your eyes.

This vibrator has always been your favourite of his, thanks to its unshakeable ability to bring you to orgasm within the space of a minute. There’s something about the depth of the vibrations (and Hitoshi’s expert handling) that never seems to fail.

Tonight, that fact isn’t working in your favour.

Your pleasure reaches its peak devastatingly quickly. But every part of your body is under Hitoshi’s complete control. And he’s given you strict instructions not to reach that climax.

Your nerves are struck dumb as the pleasure bleeds into a desperate ache. You can feel the edge of your climax, dangling just out of reach. And the longer he keeps you on the edge, the more torturous the sensation.

The tears are coming faster now, streaming down your temples and soaking into your hair as you whimper and pitch, trying to shrug his control and force the vibrator away from your overstimulated pussy. He lets you thrash and struggle for a dozen heartbeats, picking up on your discomfort and pulling the vibrator away from your body as you gasp for shaky breath.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” He coos, switching the vibrator off and laying a hand on the flat of your stomach. Your body’s gone slack, but the muscles in your lower belly are still twitching and fluttering, trying to make sense of your waning pleasure.

“I can feel you fighting me,” he continues, voice dropping into his chest. He rubs soothing circles into your tender skin, letting you catch your breath. “You know you don’t have to struggle, sweetness.” He leans in, dipping his forehead against yours and giving your mouth a soft little taste.

“Are you ready for my cock now?”

Yes, your mind screams, and he starts, pulling back to look at you in mild surprise.

He actually heard that. After the surprise fades from his expression, he lets the barest hint of a smile touch his mouth.

“Good.”

When he touches your thighs they fall limp into his palms. Any commands he’s given your paralyzed nerves are overridden by the force of his touch. So, as he kneels between your thighs and pushes them apart, you relent easily.

Your senses are still a hazy blur, but you feel it like a bolt of lightning when he swipes the tip of his cock over your sloppy folds. You give a sharp little yip and Hitoshi chuckles, with the breathy edge of pleasure slipping into his voice. He rocks his hips forward, grinding against your needy hole and grunting through his chest.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Can’t hold on any longer.” He edges forward, prodding his thick tip against your entrance. As soon as he’s lined up he slides home in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the base with a shaky groan.

The pleasure is enough to prompt a quiet whimper from your absent mind as your body eagerly takes his stretch. Hitoshi’s cock has always seemed perfect for you in size and form. And he’s proven many times over that he knows exactly how to use it.

He fucks you with devastating precision, slipping one hand under your thigh to brace you against the mattress while he anchors himself by the knees and ruts against your body. He lets his hips slap ruthlessly over your skin, his weighty, spit-soaked balls swinging heavy against the curve of your ass with every thrust.

You’ve been well prepared for this moment, messy-wet and smearing his shaft with your slick. Every time he drives his cock into you, his groans are punctuated by the soft little whimpers that break from his control to escape your clenched jaw.

The pleasure is already unbearable for you. That peak you weren’t allowed to reach before is approaching quickly, and all you can hope is that Hitoshi will have the sense to let you release before he’s tumbling over the edge himself.

You have no choice at this point but to trust him completely.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he gasps above you. Your pleasure is doubled by his sensations racing through your neurons, and you can tell before he speaks that he’s not going to last long at all.

“Don’t know how long I can hold out,” he warns anyway, and his hips are already beginning to stutter inside you. You could have easily cum two times over by now, but your body is held back once again, forced to linger on the edge of bliss until he decides to let you fall.

He shoves his hips against yours one, two, three more rough times before stilling abruptly inside you. His body’s stiff, straining against the threshold of his pleasure. But he catches his breath, and his next words ring clear as day among a sea of troubled sensations.

“Are you ready to cum for me?”

You let out a low, desperate whine, focusing every ounce of concentration you have left into amplifying those desperate emotions.

Please, your mind screams. I’ll do anything, please.

Hitoshi nods slowly, your body going slack when you’re sure you’ve been heard. He slips both hands under your thighs, stroking his thumbs lovingly along your flesh. He bends over your torso, dropping a kiss to your mouth and steeling himself as his lips trail to your ear one last time.

“Cum,” he orders, and you do.

All the pent-up tension and pleasure spirals from your body in the most powerful orgasm you’ve ever felt. What would normally send dull flutters into the pit of your stomach has deep, earth-shattering tremors wracking your entire body. You thrash into the pillows, crying out your pleasure in eager, greedy gulps, and your pussy seizes around his cock as tight as a fist.

Hitoshi curses against your skin, rutting his hips into your convulsing depths and matching your peak with a climax of his own. His balls draw up against your ass as he pumps hot spurts of cum into your needing cunt, fucking the fluid back into your body as your thighs clamp over his hips and the last tremors of your orgasm recede into dull trembles.

“That’s my girl,” he gasps. In the pleasure that overtook him, he’s de-activated his quirk. He lets you surface as he stays inside you for a couple long breaths, tasting the crook of your neck and rubbing sensation back into your limbs.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” he croons. “Come here. Give me your hand. Show me,” he prompts, and you’re far from surfaced but you know what he wants when he slots his fingers between yours.

You give him another long, deliberate squeeze. You can’t form words yet, but you’re okay.

“That’s okay,” Hitoshi prompts. He pulls slowly back from you, sliding out of your body and easing onto the pillows beside you. He keeps his movements slow and gentle, handling you with extra care while you’re still feeling delicate.

“You were so good,” he growls, reaching for you. “So good for me. My perfect girl.”

His touch is the first sensation that clears the fog in your mind. He pulls you tightly against his bare chest, and the sweet touch of his skin to yours is like a soothing tonic for your frayed senses. Skin-to-skin contact has always been a big part of aftercare for you, but tonight it hits so hard that it sends relieved tears to your eyes.

Hitoshi’s patient as a lamb with you, stroking slow circles into your shoulders, belly and hips as you cycle through the complex progression of emotions that stand between you and the surface of your consciousness. He keeps his lips nuzzled tight to the shell of your ear, speaking low and soft and constant, grounding you in him.

After a long few minutes, you blink a little faster and stir a little heavier in his arms. You’ve fought your way to the surface, like breaking out of a deep sleep, and the weight of all he’s put you through settles into your chest. Hard.

You shiver. “Cold.”

“Okay,” he promises, shifting both of you a little more upright. “I’ve got clothes for you right here. Let me just-” He lets go of you to reach for the drawers of his nightstand, and anxiety rushes hard and fast to the back of your throat.

You whine. Loudly. You reach for him without thinking about it, and he comes back to you in the span of a heartbeat.

“Okay, okay,” he soothes. “I won’t let go.”

You’re always clingy after a scene. But today you can’t bear to be parted from him. While he’s the one that sent you spiralling, he’s also the one who brought you down to earth again.

With you looped carefully in one arm, he scoots the pair of you toward his side of the bed until he can reach the nightstand with one hand still carefully draped over your middle. He dumps a pile of soft cotton fleece onto the sheets in front of you, then presses himself up tightly behind you to reach forward with both hands and unfold the garments.

“There,” he hums, showing you the sleeves of one, the cuffs of another. “Warm clothes. Can I help you put them on?”

You give a pouty little nod, so he slips you into the pants one leg at a time and pushes your arms gently into the hoodie, staying as close as possible and letting you keep the black hood pulled over your head. He finds his discarded undershorts and slips into those, too, prompting another defeated whimper from you when he has to pull away to find some clothes of his own.

Once he’s dressed (and you’ve cuddled him long enough to quell some of the pouting) he pushes the edge of your hood back and presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Do you want to visit the fish?” he asks. Your mood spikes and you cling tighter, but nod nevertheless.

The most prominent feature of Hitoshi’s lavish house is mounted into the wall in the upstairs hallway. During the day it’s surprisingly easy to miss, but now that the light has waned and the house is dark, it glows an ethereal blue that casts a liquid pool of light across the dark hardwood and ornate rug.

Lining the entire wall stands a massive tropical fish tank, maintained professionally and kept in impeccable order. It’s filled by a multitude of different species of tropical fish, darting in and out of live coral in warm splashes of vibrant colour. The pump in one corner sends a steady stream of bubbles toward the surface, and in the quiet, the bubbles make soft little gurgles as they break the surface.

Hitoshi brings you into the hallway cradled tightly in his arms. The moment your face is bathed in that pretty blue light, the last dredges of anxiety bleed from your chest. There’s something immensely calming about the gentle, rhythmic way the fish move. Some of the more curious ones even see you peering in at them, emerging from their little hideaways to swim up to the glass and investigate.

“Hi,” you croon softly, touching one fingertip gently to the glass where a bright yellow tang noses eagerly at its smooth surface from the other side. Hitoshi chuckles deeply into your neck, always charmed by how soft and quiet and vulnerable you get after a particularly tough scene.

This part, the tender healing that comes afterward, is half the appeal for both of you. But with every passing session you can feel yourself growing more deeply attached to him. You’re falling for him, despite everything you put into words- on paper for him- that said you wouldn’t.

Love was not what either of you wanted to get out of this arrangement. But when he handles your trust so delicately where so many others have failed, it’s hard not to fall.

It’s hard not to wish, watching over such a tiny, peaceful little underwater world, that you could belong in there, too. Maybe, if you’d been born a little blue surgeonfish, you wouldn’t have to deal with such complex feelings.

But then you wouldn’t have all the pain and all the joy of falling for someone like Hitoshi Shinsou.

After you’re satisfied with the state of the fish tank, Hitoshi brings you downstairs to the kitchen. He’s not letting you go home tonight, but you were prepared for that possibility. You have pills and a toothbrush in your purse, and he’s had extra clothes lying around for you from the moment you signed that contract.

He bundles you into the couch. Puts on your favourite sitcom without needing to ask. He brews your favourite kind of tea- liquid heat that warms you to the very core- and stretches out next to you for the rest of the evening.

You wake hours later, sleeping next to him in the wee hours of the morning. He is stretched out on his side next to you, spooning you lovingly with one heavy arm draped over your side. He’s always reaching for you, ready to catch.

In moments like this, it’s easy to believe he might love you. And in the deepest hours of doubt and vulnerability, you let that feeling lull you back to sleep, just as he might if he could soothe your restlessness.

#bnha x reader #shinsou x reader #hitoshi shinso x reader #bnha shinsou hitoshi #shinsou #bnha #tw dom/sub #tw mind control #my hero academia #gnomewrites

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heli0s-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Clumsy

Summary: Serendipity, it’s the only way Steve can describe it. His ma was right: he’d always been slow.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

A/N: Fluff with a tiny sprinkle of Steve angst because I love one sad boi. Written for @wkemeup‘s 4K Challenge like an entire year ago!! I’m so sorry, Kas!! The prompt was Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life”. 2.8k words.

It was supposed to rain.

Thunderclaps rolled in the distance all morning. Moisture hung heavy in the air and the earth smelled like wet already--- salty, thick, sweet. The app on his phone blinked gray clouds straight across the screen. Seventy-three degrees and a nine-five percent chance of precipitation. Winds NE 20 miles per hour.

But at 2:30 in the afternoon when Steve slides into the car, it’s clear and blue.

So he figures it’s coincidence and poor meteorology when the engine quietly rumbles to life. He fixes the collar of his shirt, checks for hotels around the midway point, and sends an uneasy look to the empty passenger seat.

Then, he makes his way to where you are.

The two-lane country road stretches on. Winding and curving, pitch-black and howling with wind and wildlife. Bugs splatter on the windshield and he mechanically sprays a bit of fluid, wiping them off, the squeaks giving his radio a bit of rhythm in all this late-night talk. It’ll be another half hour before he gets to the hotel and he’s still wrestling with himself if he should even break.

No reason to now. He can drive all night. No reason to other than his pride.

“So what is it?”

There’s an imprint in the seat. An outline of a warm body folding soft creases in the leather. Late night talk radio fizzles out, and he’s tired, so he can’t get too upset at his brain for seeing the shape even though it’s been months since anyone’s sat there.

He chances a look over, then quickly back ahead because sure��the sedan is small, but this tiny strip of pavement feels even smaller. Too right and he’ll careen into the woods, too left and if another car’s coming around the bend Steve would roll out alive, but he’d be the only one.

He looks again.

Legs folded. Bare feet. Ankles crossed on the dash. Casually sitting with one hand on your phone and the other one behind your head, face lit incandescent by the screen. It was the first time he’d been alone with you after New York; he remembers this.

You hadn’t even given a glance sideways at him, still fixed on the screen, thumb sliding up and focused on mission details in a perfect picture of indifference.

“Your whole thing. Mister Red-White-and-Broody, most eligible bachelor in all of America—which, by the way, is so far up your ass all fifty states might as well be coming out of your mouth—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, Rogers.” A smirk. His last name slipping between your lips like military title. “Fine, you’re all gilded in the front, suffering in the back. So—” You turned finally, pulled your feet back and tucked them under your body, “What is it?”

Steve pretended to think, left hand clenching a fraction tighter on the wheel, feeling its strength beneath his grip. His face remained impassive and dedicated forward, turning the seconds in his head, counting down the appropriate time for his reply.

It was a game, certainly. Your assertion, your poise, hand propping up your head—all of it. Your entire being was a foil to one Steven Grant Rogers and he was strapped with you for half a week. Already the car ride was beginning to foreshadow what was quickly seeming to be a long assignment.

“It’s my job—”

“So weak.”

“I’m busy—”

“Are you even trying to lie?”

You were known to do this: lay out a path of questions that only gave your company the pretense of a genuine conversation. You’d lead them like a wrangler leading horses to water, knowing they wouldn’t drink, but giving them just enough time to stare at their own reflection in the pool before you’d yank the harness elsewhere.

It was always a short path, but what you lacked in subtlety you made up for with honesty.

Agitated, Steve snapped before he could rein himself back in.

“What are you, my psychologist?” Horse.

“You don’t have one. You are the only Avengers Tower resident who has run off every psychologist on Stark’s payroll. So--” a twist of your torso, your back pressed up against the door handle as you stared at the outline of his side profile. Wrangler.

The question dangled in front of his gritted teeth. The answer he’d known long ago was behind two perfect calcium rows, pressed up, trying to find its way through the cracks.

What’s your thing? We fought together. We live together. We suffered a cataclysmic event in the form of aliens together---so why doesn’t anybody know you?

You leaned forward, body tilting until it almost touched your former footrest. Your head sloped to find his face and when he flicked his eyes sharply to yours, Steve knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable.”

You’d led him through the brief route of your inquisition and had seen all you cared to see. Your voice bounced off the window when you closed your eyes and turned away.

“Steve,” you sighed, mouth going to the side in a smile. “Vulnerability is clumsy, but it’s the only thing worth anything.”

He had thought: No, it isn’t. He’d spent too long being vulnerable already, and he couldn’t afford it again. Twenty years of a miserable half-life and seventy years of sleep and suddenly the world was new and different and strange. Coming back into his body was new and different and strange but it was the body that afforded him invulnerability.

Mostly, anyway.

Steve decided, then, at least he could make up for that lump of mortality—that lump of weakness—with performance.

So, he became the blacksmith to his feeble Brooklyn boy heart. Forged carbon steel, gold-plated, immaculately polished like his own shield at press conferences. Smoothed himself into a monumental display of impeccable posturing and hid the boy away where no one could reach him. Let him go back to sleep, too. Frozen in a time long passed, long forgotten.

He wasn’t Steve Rogers anymore because no one knew Steve Rogers anymore; it was the only way he could carry on. Didn’t you know?

No, he supposed, you didn’t.

On the ride back you surrendered yourself to the backseat, laying down in the most comfortable position the sedan would allow, and chatted his ear off the entire ride home. Called him Steve and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes met eyes, and yours crinkled at the edges with some secret knowledge.

By the end of it, all he could think about was how he didn’t mind the conversation and that his first name even sounded a little nice coming out of your mouth.

You shimmer in the passenger side until your hair hangs a little longer. His brown leather jacket is around your shoulders. A stretch of your arms. A stretch of your lips. Months passed and Rogers befell the man you knew during the Manhattan Crisis while he became Steve.

Steve on missions and in the field—On your six, Steve! Keep up, old boy. Steve at the tower and Steve in the gym— don’t touch my weights, Steve, you’ll throw your back out.

Steve getting the door and pouring the whiskey and letting you wear his jacket when you were cold. Finding you across rooms at parties because there was an easiness to your presence that calmed the crowd. Shooting pool and watching movies. Up late and out late and laughing until the early hours.

He was Steve, your friend, because he finally allowed himself to have a friend.

You change. Shimmer again until your hair is pulled back from your swollen face. A hospital gown crinkled around your shoulders. Asleep, cold. Too close to death, too close to him. He couldn’t even sit by your bedside, only standing by the door, shuffling from one wall to the other and watched the monitors with a too-loud and static-filled brain.

He was hesitantly Steve when you stepped too close to him on the balcony nights later, hand precariously hovering over that fragile boy heart, finally pressing down on it, feeling his delicate pulse thawing and crawling towards you. Tipsy smile and you tasted like whiskey and easy joy.

The kiss was clumsy, like you’d said. Vulnerability threw him back to the 40’s, all gangly limbed and ill, his lungs malfunctioning, his breath smothered in his mouth. He stumbled, but the banister held him up.

You didn’t mind that his knees felt boneless. You chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your still-bruised cheek abruptly burned down his throat—warm and smooth and cataclysmic until he caught sight of the way you winced as his hand cupped your tender face. Steve stepped back, then, and apologized for what he said should have never happened.

There was a small quiver from your shoulder before you quietly went back inside.

He cursed himself on the balcony. Cursed letting it all happen in the first place. Captain Rogers watched your retreating steps, burying the spark and the fire. And the boy must have cried in his ice-block coffin when he buried him again, too.

“Don’t look at me like that.” God, he’s going crazy. Poor night-vision and an addled brain causing him to scold an empty seat. “You stopped talking to me.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens the way it does when you’re too deep in his head and he can’t get you out. Days without hearing from you smeared together in careful steps of a cagey dance. Comments always presented as half-truths—riddles he struggled to deconstruct. Breadcrumbs never leaving enough of a trail to lead him anywhere. He wants the harness back. Wants back your confident hand.

“You could have said something.” Steve scoffs, because you always had something to say. “Anything. You could have said anything. We were—friends.”

And hell, doesn’t that sound stupid out loud? Maybe it’s best that he’s got nothing but infinity beyond the sedan’s glaring brights and a million thoughts of unsaid words. It’s all useless, anyway. Best that he can get it all out now, talking to your ghost. It keeps all his thoughts in his head and keeps him from yelling every time he sees you not-looking, not-smiling, not-talking to him.

Steve flicks the wipers on again. Shuts off the radio. Shuts off the navigation. Takes the car off cruise-control to give himself something to do. He’ll stop overnight, after all.

Suddenly then, in the distance, two glowing eyes greet him steadily. Measured paces, in a firm and crisp trajectory, growing closer and closer. Glaring and vivid, beating the monotonous grind of nighttime out of him. His pinky moves, and his high beams flip to low beams, white giving way to yellow and the glistening road signs and tree-shadows in the distance slowly diminish.

Bleached spectral glaring of leaves and road signs soften ochre and brown, indigo dark. For a fleeting moment, even Steve’s enhanced eyes feel half-blind again as he readjusts to the pitch-black night barely lit. The car coming toward him does the same, highs blinking low and they pass each other in quiet understanding. In blind trust on the dark road, dependent on each other’s good faith to see it through.

He thinks of Sarah Rogers in a tiny Brooklyn kitchen, floral wallpaper yellowed and peeling behind her. One hand on an apron-clad hip, cooking interrupted by her son stumbling in dripping blood down his shirt, her other hand clenched around a wet kitchen rag.

“Steven Grant Rogers! Oh—wretched! What else can I say,” she’d sigh as she pressed it to his nose, “You do whatever you please, anyhow. You just put this on your face—and don’t think it’ll get you out of doing the dishes, either.”

“But—” he’d attempt.

She’d put up her hand, “Lord have mercy on any young woman that’ll have you. May she have your poor mother’s patient heart.”

His ma always called him slow. A dolt through and through. Quick to temper, but laborious to do much else. Common sense always took its sweet time-- took the long path home to get to Steve Rogers. In seventy-odd years, he hasn’t changed.

Better than coincidence and better than poor meteorology. Serendipity. It’s the only way he can describe it.

Like finding a crumpled up twenty in his pocket—or in his case, a five—enough then for a week’s worth of meals. Like having that nightmare— the one right before the plane crashes and instead of going down with it, he wakes up. Like expecting to drive five hours through a storm and stopping overnight, but instead it’s clear and blue as far as he can see.

The rush, the relief, the deafening joy that shuts everything else up and out.

Sarah Rogers was right: he’d always been slow.

So he careens back onto the highway from the service road, steadying his foot on the pedal and flies about fifteen miles faster than the speed limit says he should. The car is vibrating to a thrilled beat inside his chest. Steve can’t help smiling.

It was supposed to rain. All the way to the next mid-morning but the sky parts a brilliant orange sunrise and he nearly sprints to the door. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before he barrels in. A sliver of parting wood is enough, and Steve throws it wide with his enormous shoulders, kicking it shut firmly with his boot.

The imprint of your body on the couch is still warm—you, halfway across the room in alarm—real and even warmer when Steve gathers you into his arms. He’s been awake for over 24 hours, talking to himself, talking to your hallucination, so he apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

“Rogers--!”

You pull away, dazed, a little bit pissed off, but you cow the swirl of emotions into professionalism. “What are you—you’re not supposed to be here until late—did you drive through--”

“Steve,” he interrupts, “Steve.”

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the balcony streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Steve…” you say slowly before your mouth pinches together in a poor attempt to hide the smirk threatening to surface. “You drove all night to… ask me to call you Steve.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “And the mission.”

“Right, the mission. The debrief didn’t mention that it required a lot of… kissing.”

“It came up recently; I haven’t adjusted the file yet.” He grins at your rolling eyes, your swollen lips peeling back to reveal a joyful display of teeth at his stubborn defiance.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it paints him in the most galvanized care. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut, like he’s being laid to rest. And maybe he is. Finally weary of lugging around all his armor, all his pretense.

The boy emerges, thawing toward his name held sweetly in your mouth.

He fumbles with his awkward limbs—a newly birthed foal trying to find its footing—but you’re patient and enduring. He takes in his trembling body—knobby knees and gangly elbows. Inept gait still learning how to be. He takes the sights—white casting over the balcony. You, even brighter.

It was supposed to rain, but you link your fingers through his, leading him toward the open doors, smiling against a backdrop of sherbet swirls. He stumbles, but you’ve got him. A few short steps, just a few more, and Steve kisses you again in the sunbathed daybreak, resurrected and anew.

#marvel #fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #reader insert #steve rogers x you #steve x reader #steve x you #steve rogers imagines #fluff #angst

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arhvste · 4 years ago

Text

❝ suna rintarō - because i know you ❞

in which suna speaks his love language to you on one of the days you needed to hear it the most - x gn reader

the balls of your feet ached and the weight of your shoulders felt as if it were seconds away from shattering through your entire body; not that you had enough energy to care, but that wasn’t the point. nothing seemed to be going right today, you weren't given the slightest fraction of lenience and the world had decided to curse you with nothing but misfortune.

deciding your day couldn’t get any worse, you dragged yourself back home to your apartment where you knew there would be limitations to what inconveniences you’d come across before the end of your painstakingly long day. after what felt like years, the elevators had reached your floor and you had never been so grateful to see the front door to your home just ahead. digging through your bag to retrieve the silver key to open the door, you huffed and scowled as your hand couldn't seem to find the small piece of silver metal. small mutters of ‘shit’ and ‘ugh’ left your lefts before you gave up and gently rested your head against the front door.

your eyes fluttered shut and you felt tears of frustration well up before your head lost contact with the solid front surface and you came crashing down onto something almost equally as hard but warm.

“rough day?”

suna looked at you from above, one hand on the opened door and the other now wrapped securely around your waist to prevent you from falling to the floor.

“asshole. you saw me struggling didn't you?” you scoffed peeking up at your tall boyfriend as a small smile graced his face.

“perhaps, but you can’t blame me. your little angry face is quite the pretty sight actually.”

you scoffed as his smile failed to falter. he ushered you inside and took your bag off your hands to drop by the front door.

“clothes off, go to the bathroom.”

“rin, i’m really not in the mood for-”

he cut you off with a shake to his head, his dark mop of hair swaying in the process.

“that’s not what i meant you little pervert. i’ve run a bath for you, you seemed tired.”

“oh.”

“yeah, ‘oh’, you seem a little shocked, do you really think i’m that inconsiderate. you’re breaking my heart angel.” your boyfriend had a playful grin tugged at his lips, a rare smile that he’d often display in small moments of teasing between the two of you. you flushed slightly upon hearing the affectionate pet name that was strictly reserved for you, and you alone. you shook your head and sighed, rubbing at your temples.

“no, sorry. you’re right, i am tired. how did you know though?”

suna’s expression didn’t change as he pulled his phone from the kitchen island. unlocking it and approaching you, suna showed you a conversation the two of you had had earlier during the day.

“blunt answers. i knew you were stressed.” he muttered before pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“now,” he pulled away and stood in front of you. “go take that bath, my kindness isn’t going to go to waste.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled weakly at him in thanks before heading over to the bathroom like he suggested. the soft aroma and steam rising from the warm bathwater instantly eased the built up tension inside of you as you entered the sleek bathroom and noticed suna had laid out products you assumed he noticed you often opted to use. your heart fluttered at the sight. sure, running a bath for your significant other wasn’t a grand gesture, but this was suna’s love language. small acts of intimacy. it was little details and quirks of yours he picked up on and seemed to remember. he wasn’t partial to being excessive and evident in his acts of love to you, but he was rather more thoughtful and considerate in his approaches to show you that he cared and did think about you.

stripping your clothes away, you felt each layer of stress lift off of you before completely evaporating as you stepped into the warm pool of water. your eyes fluttered shut as you let the soothing water soak in and eliminate each blemish of distress you had been bestowed upon throughout the course of the day.

fifteen minutes of lying in the tub and letting today’s feelings of inferiority and distracting melt away, you felt a little clingy. the warmth of the water only spreading throughout your body easing you into the feeling of a heavy sleep wave beginning to tide in.

“rin!” you softly called, voice bouncing off the pretty white porcelain tiles of the bathroom, echoing through the hall.

“you called?” he stood in the frame of the doorway a few seconds after calling for him. his lean figure blocking the faint golden light drifting through from the living room. you watched as his sharp eyes drank in your body soaking in the clear hot water. a small smile playing on his lips as he sighed after a moment.

“and you called me the pervert.” you raised an eyebrow sitting up a little more. your boyfriend snickered before approaching you and kneeling by the edge of the bathtub.

“you,” he began, sincere eyes meeting your own. “are really something else.”

you hummed before suna started to life his shirt above his head. you couldn’t have torn your eyes away even if you wanted to. suna was sculpted beautifully, as if the gods had spent an exaggerated amount of time specifically on him, not a chip or scratch permitted on their art, the finest marble was used with care and polished to perfection to craft none other than suna rintarō.

“you gonna move up or am i gonna freeze here naked in our bathroom all night?”

you ripped your gaze off his chest for just a moment to meet a playful grin and soft eyes adorning his face. you had been so distracted admiring your pretty boyfriend, you had failed to noticed he had completely stripped.

“whatever.” you muttered hoping the steam was enough to mask your slight fluster. you moved forward slightly allowing suna access into the tub. the tub was spacious enough for two, suna had suggested it before moving in admitting he wasn’t a fan of the cramps he’d get after waking up in the bath after falling asleep after training. his legs at the sides of your body as your back was met to his bare chest.

“hands where i can see them.” he teased as you scoffed.

“likewise.”

the two of you stayed like that for a while. his fingers lazily dragging circles upon the top of your thigh as you hummed in satisfaction. his soft breath ticking your neck as he leaned in closer to press soft kisses along your neck and jawline.

“not complaining, but why are you suddenly being like this?” you whispered with a small smile.

“because you need it right now.”

“and how would you know that?” you challenged, playfulness lacing your tone delicately.

“because i know you.”

you laughed softly and leaned back further into his chest as he sighed.

“i know i’m not always the most vocal about it, but i do know you. i know when you’re tired you need attention, i know you hate wearing wet socks so you always carry another pair with you, i know you hate it when people chew loudly, i know your shoulders ache after most days, i know you angel and i do love you.” he mumbled closely to your ear, the kisses to your neck and jawline never stopping between his words.

you bit the inside of your cheek as you processed his genuine words. sure, suna wasn’t huge on pda, but understandably so. that didn’t mean he loved you any less than people who did show their partners public displays of affection. the giddy feeling of being loved bubbled up inside your chest as you couldn’t hold back the wide smile pulling at your lips.

“i love you rintarō.” your words honest and pure alike to his own.

“i don’t blame you.” he shot back as you flicked the water back into his face. his face scrunched as he turned away just in time before squeezing your thigh slightly as he steadied himself.

“let’s stay like this for a while.” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut as he pulled you back to lean on his further. “we can have dinner in a bit, i sometimes like to be selfish too when it comes to you.” he admitted his words showing no signs of deception.

“be as selfish as you want. i’m yours for as long as you need it too. because, i know you too rintarō, and i know you need us like this at times too.”

love languages never had to be explicitly spoken words, but rather a form of communication, whether that was spoken or unspoken between the two of you. just a way to let each other know that you did love each other as much as the other. while not always vocal about it, you understood suna’s small ways of telling you he was in love, and it was small acts like this that you knew he was chanting he loved you a million times over.

general taglist → @atsumuwoah @bloody-bella @bbymilkbread @miracleboy420 @doggonudez @tsumue @peteunderoos @tsukkisbean @saturnfarie @dear-kozume @zumisace @boosyboo9206 @totorosleaff @27kei @dai-tsukki-desu @angrylittleriri @tsukkaria @kuxredere @warakou @iss6s @lovinnoya @sophiashortcake @wompwomphq @waitforitillwritemywayout @webworld @brokeasshoee

ALL CONTENT BELONGS TO @KUROOSKULT ON TUMBLR 2020 PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, CHANGE OR PLAGIARISE

#suna rintaro #suna x reader #suna x you #suna fic #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #hq #hq x reader #hq x you #queue!

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cornacopicimagines · 4 years ago

Text

A Rose Blooms │t.h

pairing: prince!tom holland x princess!reader

words: 8.4k (WHOOPS)

warnings: arranged marriage, SMUT (we been knew), slight praise kink and 10000% breeding kink, therefore unprotected sex, swearing, slight cockwarming & good lord there is so much

summary: Perhaps God does have a sick sense of humour. To allow such misguided souls to one another. Souls that shouldn't be allowed to feel the sense of happiness he can provide, that should accept their dire situations. The Prince of Wales and his new bride can attest to the quite well.

a/n: what do y'all mean a historical prince au!tom holland with major smut and breeding kink is not a thing. i know the sluts want it, even if they never ask for it. i must provide it.

masterlist

━━★✼☆｡

y/n of Burgundy was a splendid piece of artwork. A sweet and humble French Princess with a huge dowry and a bright future. It was as if DaVinci had casted the girl from Venus's shadow and gifted the baby to displeased parents. Parents who so wished for a boy, that the arrival of a healthy girl is so overlooked that the girl is better off dead. The sadness is heard across not only France but the entirety of Europe. Poor y/n of Burgundy! The Unlucky Princess of Burgundy! It's all she hears; she is deemed a tragedy before her life is even written. Perhaps that is her greatest misdeed in this life, that because she is born the wrong sex to what is expected she is casted to the side as a woman destined for slight and anguish for her entire life. Even if this is the case, y/n wished to think of herself as unwritten for the moment being. A woman waiting for a calling no matter how big or small. A woman who's only current wish to sit atop this windowsill, letting the cool September French breeze kiss her flushed cheeks. Alas, even this is stripped from her.

"Get off the window, y/n!" her mother's shrill voice shrieks as The Duchess yanks y/n to the floor. It's harsh and frantic, as if an arrow is to fly through and hit her. Her tightly coiled chest hit's the wooden floor hard. It knocks the only wind y/n really has left, a wasteful shame.

"I am sorry mama," y/n responds quietly, her hands desperately pat to find a piece of wood that will not cut up into her as she attempts to regain her balance. Though her room is filled with four maids not a single one offers their own hand to help her. She knows it is because of her mother's cowl. If they dare so move in a direction towards her, The Duchess will become a Fury of Hell himself.

"The breeze is so sweet at this time of afternoon." Finally, y/n does place her feet back on the floor with a small clack of her heels. She takes a moment to take in the state of her gown. While she has countless others, something about the pure white of the satin being destroyed by the inevitable dust that has collected is disheartening even to her. The pattern of bright red roses now looks more of a dull blood grey than a true flower.

"The breeze is something so frivolous my dear," The Duchess is suddenly content with her surroundings. "Busy yourself with something more intelligent, it makes for a much better bride."

"Thank you for the wise advice mother," y/n snaps, her fingers gripping the ruined material of her gown. "I'll be sure to not engage myself in something that gives me the slightest bit of freedom in the lifeless castle," it was no louder than a whisper. Her braided hair still muffling the sounds.

As if her words seemed to not even reach her, The Duchess mumbles in agreement before taking her leave. The door shutting loudly behind her, the air was finally safe to breathe. The maids immediately begin to swarm her. Like flies to honey; they grapple her, prod at her and pinch her. It was too much. It was as if a million ants had swarmed her body, nipping at any piece of flesh they could just because it was what they were meant to do. An instinctive need to draw more blood than necessary, it was overwhelming. They inspected her perfectly capable hands, wondering if their incompetence has cost them their heads because y/n of Brittany split her blood and The Duchess refused to let them help. She was suffocating.

She didn't mean for it to slip, it just did. Her voice raised, "Get out." It was softer at first. "Get out," they still didn't move, still abusing her. "I said get out!" Everything stopped for a moment, the air her mother had ensued had now come back. The maids all took a single step away from her. y/n felt the tears threaten her, warning by dancing across her lower lashes. "Do none of you listen, get out for Christ’s sake!" That's all it took, in a matter of seconds y/n was finally alone. She could hear the faint song of the trees whispering to her, it was calm, but she couldn't appreciate it. She dropped to her knees and began to softly weep into her palms. The groans muffled by the skin of her hands and the tears halted from falling by her fingers. In this moment and forever ahead of her, she was desolate.

But like all things, even this bleak minute of sorrow was cut to an end by the deafening sound of her father's boots storming down the hallways towards her room.

━━★✼☆｡

Tom spectated as the pole shattered into a thousand pieces. The splinters hitting ever edge of the arena. He watched as the knight fell limp and as his horse rode on through the chaos. The young prince roared out of his seat, his knees hitting the harsh wood of the royal box. His name echoed on the young knight's medallion above his breast. He had picked the winning side and rightfully so, Sir Harrison had never been defeated. For a moment, Tom turned around to face his beaming mother. A woman who loved the games, Tom always relied on his mother to accompany him to these festivities but his father. The Prince would always ask graciously but was refused every time. Constantly belittled for the consul of old men with a working cock between them, it was a joke. The King had many failed efforts to rile the English people to cause, Tom had offered a large gathering to help inspire the people. The King told his son this would cause nothing but useless panic and many painful deaths. Scoffing, Tom waltzed back to his seat. It was uncomfortable, it felt as if ants hand made their nets below the seat's support. He wished to ride alongside them.

"You cannot and you will not," The Queen smiled at him, waving to squires as they led the horses away. Tom's head swivelled around to meet his mother's. "I refuse it my son."

"I had said nothing mother," Tom replied quietly, he too doing his duty to the lower noble men who had come out today. Each one sweatier than the last. "Perhaps you are hearing things, 10 childbirths can change a woman's mind," Tom stifled a laugh, too which he received a slap on the arm for.

"Don't play smart with me son," The Queen spoke coolly, her countless rings clanged as she rose from her seat. Tom followed suit, allowing a hand for his now middle-aged mother for gracious help down the impossibly large stairs. "I almost lost your father to one of these silly little cock shows, I will not go through it with you my boy."

Tom raised an eyebrow, watching his mother's golden trim become bleaker by the stain of the grass. "I had half a mind to believe you enjoyed these silly little cock shows," Tom played. The Queen peered up at his through hooded lids. It was dangerous waters even for him, a man who has seen the blood of war. He allowed his mother and her ladies to return to Windsor, watching as if to wait for the shark to disappear.

"Your Royal Highness, if I may have a word," a soft voice called out from below the podium. Tom paced to the edge and stared down. Constance, he thought to himself as he smiled wickedly. She was a short and mildly plump woman, with wild unruly hair that had to be constantly shoved out of her face. He remembers her name because of how sweet his name sounded dripping from her tongue. Countless nights spent in the throes of passion, wearing moonlight as cloth. Tom knew he had dishonoured her just by bedding her, but he couldn't help himself. She was the first woman who really took an interest in him. Still, he had to come to her aid on multiple occasions. While he likes the way, she grips at his biceps, he however, doesn't like when her father comes storming into court demanding his daughter's honour back because Tom had prayed on her. Perhaps, it was the odd lack of ladies that would flock to his side or maybe it was simply because he wanted a little bit of fun before the inevitable.

"You may, my Lady," Tom smiled widely making his way to her side. He could tell the mud was ruining the polished leather of his boots, he completely forgot about his favourite riding boots he had put on in hopes that he may indulge himself in the sports. Still, he pushed the though deep down at met her eyes. He not an unusually tall man but the way he almost dwarfed her was delectable. As he watched her squirm, he wondered as to why she would speak with him where anyone could see. There was no danger for him, but the world's eyes were on her.

She played with the small ring on her pinkie finger, riding it up and down the skin. "Why did you not tell me," she whispered, refusing to look up at him. Tears began to well.

"What on earth do you mean?" He queered, genuinely curious as to what had got her all worked up. His hands went to stroke her cheek gently, but she abruptly pulled away from him. This time her eyes did meet his, the salty liquid glossed over her eyes.

"It is bad enough that I am called the Prince's Whore but now they are cursing my name because I have ruined the royal couple!" she cried out, her deep green dress swallowing the mud below. "That a stupid maid slut has stolen you away from the beautiful French Princess!"

Tom saw nothing but red. Not because of Constance but because of what she said to him. He had begged his parents to let him choose his own wife. If he was to rule England after his father's passing, he wished to at least have a woman whom he truly loved by his side. He said nothing to her as he stormed away. The small drizzle of rain hitting his skin as he picked up his speed. He knew that his father was in a council meeting alongside his mother. Perfect opportunity to unleash his rage. He faintly heard her calling after him, that was muffled by the buzzing in his ears.

He had been told who he was meant to be and what he was meant to be from the moment he was born. Hardly ever seeing his mother or younger brothers because he was eldest, never knowing true companionship because he would be constantly cooped up listening to his advisors and tutors as they taught him the art of war and foreign policies. This was his one chance to spend his life with a woman who understood him and would grow a loving family much in contrast to what he had.

His hands pushed the heavy wooden doors, they hit the walls with a large smack. The entire council stood for the Prince, with the exception of his mother and sickly father. He walked past them with ease and took his seat at the opposite end of table. His eyes focused solely on his father as he absently noted the appearance of his son.

"Wonderful of you to finally join us," The Duke of Essex smiled weakly, in any attempt to deflect the tension elsewhere.

"When were you going to tell me?" Tom spoke, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with venom. His elbows digging into the cool wood of granite of the table. He watched his father finally face him; the man was a wreck. His greying hair stuck to his hair with copious amounts of sweat, his brown eyes had sunk deadly back into the sockets and his skin was pale and filled with wrinkles. "When were you going to tell me father?"

"You were spending too much time with that scullery maid," The King respond calmly, still flipping through royal documents. Tom was on the verge of an explosion. If the Prince was known for something, it was his anger. Much like Mount Vesuvius, he didn't get angry often, he hated how it affect those around him. The times he is pushed to the breaking point however, he was destroy everything in his path. "We had to put an end to it."

"We?" Tom pushed.

"Your mother made the arrangements; she is being brought here as we speak." Once more, the King had no interest with the devastated look on the Prince's face. Too caught up in an attempt to stile a cough.

"You promised me my own choice of bride," Tom seethed. He faced his mother, if the King wouldn't listen perhaps the Queen would.

His mother sighed; the silk of her sleeves draped over the arms of the chair. "That was before you had instinctively made the choice, we hoped that perhaps you would have fallen for the daughter of a Duke or at worst an Earl. You were going to marry that girl, after everything her family has done against the court. We couldn't allow it."

Tom jaw clicked. "Who is she?" He was done arguing, done protesting.

"You'll marry the granddaughter of the French King; y/n of Burgundy," his father spoke up before his mother could sugar coat it. "The family sent a portrait of the girl as the first payment of her dowry; it has already been placed in your room. Hopefully, you can find the slightest bit of attraction for your new bride before the wedding."

"Will I get to meet her beforehand?" He at least hoped to see the girl with his own eyes before calling her his wife. Finally, the King met his eyes. He dropped the quill on the desk as locked his eyes, leaning towards him.

"Did you really think you'd get that luxury?"

━━★✼☆｡

The sea breeze prickled at y/n skin as she sat atop the deck. She could tell they were getting closer. The wind went from a soft tone to a howling scream, something her great aunt had told her all about. English weather could go from a perfect sunny day to god's worst mood. In all honesty, she preferred it to French. It was wild and unpredictable, something she so desperately needed.

She remembered how she got into this predicament as she lay down a 9 ace on the table. Waiting for the ship to land.

"You'll leave tomorrow, it will take you a good couple of days to get there." Her father exclaimed, picking a raspberry from the plate and eating the sweet fruit. y/n stood in silence, still reeling her tears back into her eyes. She refused to weep in front of the Duke. She moved around the large room, in order to hear his words. "You'll make a fine queen," he smiled, placing his hands atop her cheeks. y/n smiled warmly before raising a concern.

"How do you know this will be different than the last?" she asked quietly, staring down at her shoes. Her father sighs before picked his coat up from the chair.

y/n placed her bets, her hand is exquisite. Three queen and a pair of Kings. If she doesn't win, it's as if God is going against her. The men that sit beside her raise their brows in confusion. She's not backing down.

"Because, you know their language and their culture from Great Aunt Mary. You were her favourite after all," her father tells her, the memory of the old lady teaching her English brings a curve to her lips. That was not the answer she was looking for, however. Her father knows it as well, he knows the answer she wants but he cannot give it to her. "Trust me pumpkin," the endearment is wonderful. Unlike her mother, y/n's father has always been kind to her. She doesn't know if it because she is his eldest daughter or because her brother is a lousy boy and she is the only child with a head still attached to her shoulder blades.

She releases her tension; she knows whatever comes out of this she must go along with it. She must accept whatever situation is handed to her and accept her duty as a future queen and mother to the English Throne.

y/n squeals, her hand's won. The rest of the chips are placed in her corner, she is asking if they want to go another round but instead, they all huff and walk away from her. y/n feels her heart sink into her stomach. Perhaps the English wind has turned their moods sour. Soon enough her worries are washed away as the boat docks into Brighton and y/n hears the cheers for her. She can't exactly make out what they are saying. Sadly, she doesn't get a chance to even greet her new subjects as her new English ladies are gently pushing her towards the carriage. The only thing she can do is wave and smile at them, hoping to instil a fraction of hope for the new royal couple. As she steps into the carriage, a huge white dress follows her. The abundance of ladies and herself are stuck in the cramped space for a little over an hour before they start agreeing to change her dress into the one being coddled.

"Why? This is dress is perfect as it is," y/n laughed gently, her fingers playing with the pearls that lace the neckline.

"Forgive me, my lady, but His Majesty; The King has requested that you wear a white gown." One of the younger girls pipes up. Sighing, y/n nods her head to agree and goes to stop the carriage.

While they don't completely undress her, she knows that the smock under her dress is shear and leave nothing to the imagination. Quickly they strip her of the current dress, even unlacing the corset before adding another one. As they place the soft silk of her veil over her head, she can hear the ringing bells at Westminster. It hasn't completely dawned on her what she is exactly going through. Marrying a man she has never met. Marrying a man for all she knows could be a tyrant. She's heard quite a few English Monarchs fall under that said category. Her heart started to jump now; she could fell the beat thump against her vocal box.

The people began to line the city. Countless bodies waved at her as she strolled through the city of London. The abbey somehow seemed ten times bigger in person. White rose petals fell through the air as the coachman opened the door for her. The walkway was paved with red velvet. Her heels felt as though she was ruining the beautiful material as she walked.

Tom can physically hear her pounding heartbeat from where he stands. He can't exactly make out her face, but he can see the white gown strutting towards him. It's the same patterns as the dress his mother wore more than 20 years ago. He's seen it in countless paintings, his mother scowling as she attempts to salvage any positive thing out of such tremendous pain. Harrison lays a hand on his shoulder; the contact makes him jump.

"I heard she looks like a siren," he joked, dusting a small particle of fluff off Tom's shoulder. "Perhaps she'll sound like one too," the comment was enough to grant the knight a hard whack on his arm from the Prince. He truly did wonder if she would as beautiful as the painting which depicted her. A small red rose for his house in her fingertips as she grinned softly. It was as if she was staring into his soul.

Tom reached out to allow her aid in getting up the stairs. She graciously accepted muttering a small thank you as her other hand lifted the countless layers of fabric to mend her steps. Her touch was soft, something he wasn't used to. The gentle touch of a noble woman, even if it was only upon his fingers. The entirety of Westminster Abbey went silent as the faced each other.

y/n could barely hear anything over her rampant anxiety. Though she was eased slightly as she blindly grasped at his fingers, she was afraid she gripped a little too tightly. Finally, she stood in front of him. The gown dipping down the stairs to end in her ladies' hands. She wondered what she looked like to him. Wondering if it was a glorious sight to witness a new bride waltzing towards him. Or if it was one of dread, to be in holy matrimony with someone you've just met for the first time. She's still trying to decide between the two.

The ceremony was beautiful. A simply yet elegant affair, as two young royals wed. She knows that she is marrying the Prince of Wales, a worthy husband for any noble woman. Yet she can't help the dread that builds as the Archbishop drones on. The hymns falling deaf ears. She tries to pay attention, but she can’t, all she can hear is the drumming of her heartbeat. It pounds against her ribs, creating echoes in her head. Before she knows it, his hands reach for hers. There was no strength in his grip unlike beforehand, it was soft and gentle. As if she was a beautiful yet delicate doll, that she would completely shatter if he pressed just that bit too hard. Their fingertips locked; her skin fell into the ridges of his knuckles.

“I proclaim thee, y/n of Burgundy to be my lawfully wedded wife from now until the end of my days,” he hesitated. She could hear it in his voice. “She shall sit beside me as I rule the kingdom.” The ring passes down her skin, the metal biting at her finger.

She repeats him. “I proclaim thee, Thomas – Prince of Wales to be my lawfully wedded husband from now until the end of my days. I shall sit beside him as he rules this beautiful country.” She smiles at the end, though she never intends to. y/n thanks her ladies that they cover her grinning face behind the thick white lace of her veil.

The entirety of Westminster Abbey is silent, no one dares even breathe as Prince Thomas coils his fingers around the tipping of the lace. He lifts it over his now wife’s face. He taken aback slightly. The painter wasn’t paid enough, clearly. She was even more beautiful standing in front of him. The same clear complexion now glistening in the soft sunlight of England. He doesn’t pry of course; it would be rude of him. Just to stare at his bride, as if they were the only people in the hall. Good lord, does he wish it was.

His hands reach her cheeks. Tender once more, he brings her forward. She shifts on her feet as they meet. A quaint and soft kiss, unlike anything either of them has felt ever. He can’t remember the last time, it was this – well, gentle. Thomas doubts he has ever kissed a woman of such luxury in his entire life up to this point. y/n is the first to pull away, her fingers resting lightly on his raised wrists. Their eyes meet for a moment, a short moment.

Westminster Abbey erupts into celebration. Red rose petals fall from the ceiling and music begins to flood the area.

As she stared around, y/n began to think to herself. I do not know what will come out of this, but I already can see that joy my presence brings to these people. I shall not let them down.

Prince Thomas of England, Heir to The English Throne and y/n of Burgundy, Granddaughter of The French King had been wed. They were now locked in holy matrimony, a feeling unlike any other. Both horrendous and hospitable.

━━★✼☆｡

The Hall is a grand party. Laughing and singing is heard from every corner, mugs of beer and wine are flung across tables and scraps of food are being thrown to the dogs. y/n has never seen such a scene unfold. Too contained by the prudish French court. The most scandalous thing she has seen is a risqué dance meant to be for a married lover.

That is what she always despised about the French Nobility. Their secrets. Whispers and Rumours spread faster than fire. If you had committed some heinous act, the entirety of France will hear about it by the end of the week. Perhaps that is another reason why she felt so trapped in Burgundy. y/n could never do a single task on her own before her ladies’ loose tongue would find their way back to her mother. A delicate little flower, such a waste of potential.

Tom noticed her prodding, her fork twirling the few peas left on her plate. He hadn’t said a word to her all night and yet he looks at her if she’s unwillingly to speak. Does she know any basic English? Perhaps not.

“How are you liking the food,” Tom asked her, leaning into her. She smiled up at him, he spoke to her in French. It made her heart swell for a second. y/n turns to face him, smiling warmly. Tom wishes he could keep that smile forever.

“It’s is very well Your Grace,” y/n replies to him. Her flawless English rolling off her tongue with a petite French accent. It’s like heaven to his ears and he’s taken aback. “My Great Aunt was an English Countess, I loved her very much. I was fluent in English before I was 8.” She explained, almost as if she had read his mind.

“You need not call me Your Grace,” he teased, it was somewhat natural for him.

“Then what shall I call you?” y/n queered.

“I am your husband now, whatever pleases you pleases me,” Tom replied, turning back to his empty plate in an effort to hide the rising red flush on his face. y/n knew she should leave it at that, so she turned her attention elsewhere.

“Are royal weddings usually this,” she paused, “loud?”

Tom laughed quietly, he too turned to face the ruckus crowd. Men laying in the laps of maids, dogs feasting over food that had been flung across the floor. Loud chants to the beat of the music filled the hall. He would have been completely embarrassed by the state of his people in front of his new bride, if he hadn’t seen the amused look on her face. “Not usually, I have only been to one other wedding and that was extremely sombre.”

“How so?” she asked, sipping from the freshly poured wine.

“I went to my uncle’s wedding a few months ago. He had also married a noble woman like yourself, but the poor thing was only 11. My uncle was 35 and counting.” He wishes it was different but like all things in this world, he is powerless to the wills of those who think they are higher than others.

He peered at her; y/n was already looking at him. An eyebrow and a lip raised in disgust. It was quaint.

“I wish I could be more repulsed by that,” Tom wondered if she was joking or if she was serious. He couldn’t tell just by the use of her tone. He did however note her wit. Something he so longed for. They talked for hours, sitting by one another and discussing anything that arrived at the conversation. Tom can’t decide whether it’s her honey-like voice or her banter but it’s making him feel things no one should for someone they are being forced to wed.

Just while they are comparing the contrasting jousting techniques, the joyful music suddenly stops. It’s a quick snap and the entire hall is now dead quiet. The Earl of Salisbury mounts himself on one of the tables. His cheeks red with drunkenness.

The Earl points directly at y/n and Tom as they sit in confusion. “The final tradition, an honour for any noble man. The Great Bedding!”

y/n turns to Tom, clinging slightly to his sleeve. He takes immediate notice. “Thomas, what is The Great Bedding?” There was great concern in her voice as she watched all of the men rush towards them. He didn’t get to answer as the women abruptly hauled him out of his seat and down the hall, away from her.

y/n didn’t fear too well either. At least a dozen grimy hands placed themselves all over her body, pulling harshly as they brought her into the air. Dancing her down the halls. She constantly whacked their hands, to no avail of course. They only dropped her once they got to a dimly lit room.

It was already buzzing with people. Hustling around a single bed, covered by finely woven silk. The men dropped her gently, placing her feet against the ground. y/n tried to turn around to give them a piece of her mind but was stopped as her corset began to become loose around her waist. Incredibly uncomfortable, y/n looked up to distract herself in any regard and found Tom at the other side. The maid’s hands undoing every buckle of his coat, tiny fingers unthreading the lavish ropes across his body. y/n blushed at the sight.

Tom was trying his hardest not to look at her, not to stare as countless men of the court undressing her. He could hear the bulky wedding dress hit the floor of the room, he could feel her eyes on him, and he could see the variety of unknown nobles swarming them in any hopes to achieve the right to gossip tomorrow morning. It was despicable.

He climbed in first, the cotton of the blankets itching his skin as he settled. The only comfort he found was in the softness in his unkempt hair. Not restricted by the gel he was forced to wear.

y/n slowly followed his lead, it was dead silent. No one dared breathed as the new Princess of Wales found her spot next to The Prince. All the while, the exact same priest Archbishop chanted away, and priests flung holy water at the bed. Some of the liquid found itself on her skin. Finally, the crowd bowed to the couple and began to take their leave.

Tom watched in peace; he would be alone. He closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, perhaps he would be able to get some well needed sleep. That seemed achievable until he felt a cold grasp around his wrist. His eyes shot open to find his father’s glare directly at him. “Don’t let the spring pass, I hope to see a grandson in the next few months,” The King spat.

It had been hours since the quarry of guests had left the room but the the monarch’s words etched themselves into his mind. Echoing nonstop, getting wilder as Tom felt y/n settle herself next to him. The mere presence of her alongside the duty he had to fulfil was too much for him. Tom shot up and quickly gathered his things, hauling his boots and clothes. He couldn’t be near her for another moment, too afraid of what he might do if she was subject to this sort of cruel punishment. Tom quickly decided he was sleep next door, just far away to have the thoughts no longer plague his mind but not too far that he would impose the wrong meaning on her. He reached for the door when she chimed in.

“Where are you going?”

He halted instantly. He wished that they could have gotten along like most royal couples should. A cold and initially distant meeting, then hopefully something would blossom over the years. Instead they had gotten along quite well, too well in fact. He was used to going slowly, taking his time in bedding a girl. A constant glaze over the court every few days, then promiscuous banter and in the span of months he would have her melt in his hand with a simple word. Now, he was feeling flustered and out of control and all of it was happening over a single night. Tom pressed his forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at her, just like a painting coming to life. Her hair was down, unlike anything he had ever seen. Not grimed with sweat and dirt nor was it pinned underneath a headdress or away from her face. This time, the soft curls framed it. The nightgown clung to her shoulders; the fabric dangerously close to falling off. It made his life that much more difficult.

“I am sorry. You are a beautiful woman, but I just cannot fulfil the expectations that are placed upon me tonight. I will be sleeping in the room next door if you need me,” Tom blurted out. He waited for a response before he could speed out. She sat there, like a perfectly sculpted statue. It was torture.

y/n sighed, “nothing has to happen tonight.”

“But they will ask, they will pry like they always will,” he countered.

“Who says we have to tell the truth?” y/n giggled. God, it was a symphony to him. Tom watched her leave the bed, waltzing around to meet with him at the door. He wanted the tell her to stay exactly where she is, not to move even an inch closer but with ever step she took, his breath hitched higher in his throat. “I would prefer to spend the first night of my marriage with my husband, whether something happens or not.”

He swallowed thickly, “you are incredibly calm.” He now met her, his full attention on y/n as she chuckled in delight.

“I am filled to the brim with anxiety, just not that same fear that you are feeling,” she told him as she sat down the small longue in the middle of the room. She took the wine from the table and poured each of them a glass. Tom was hesitant at first, still wishing to flee the room and into the safety of his own solitary. Still, he found himself pacing towards her. Taking soft and flinching steps until he sat beside her.

“Then what is the fear?” He took the other glass, quickly chugging the alcohol. y/n said nothing but just stared at him in confusion. “The fear you feel, why?”

It was now her turn to become flustered. He looked genuinely curious as to why she was feeling doubtful, but she was unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer. Her father made her promise never to speak of it to anyone, a shameful secret that would ruin her future if it was released. But Tom was now her husband. They were bonded by law, a thought she really didn’t wish to dwell on. Surely, whatever she told him wouldn’t cause them any stress? Still, it would be rude of her not to tell him the reason after he had just clearly demonstrated his own fears in the commitment. “You must promise not to become angry.”

Tom nodded his head gently, even more intrigued then he was before.

y/n quietly exhaled, avoiding looking at Tom. “I was married once before, he passed from the sickness 3 months into our matrimony. Perhaps it was God way of guiding me to a better future, but it ruined almost everything. His death caused create strain for my family as they attempt to rebuild myself as if I was not capable of it myself. I am terrified that I am cursed, that I shall find myself falling in love with you only to be weeping over your coffin months later.” She had poured her soul out, shared such a personal section of her life. She was ashamed to see his face. Too afraid that pure anger and disgust would paint his face.

“Who was he? The man whom you had married?” Tom asked her again. His voice calling out as she stared directly at the purple velvet beneath her dress.

“The Prince of Spain,” y/n squeaked.

“That inbred!” Tom joked, suddenly becoming relaxed by the mere mention of the Spanish Royal Family. “I am surprised you got three months and not three days, that kid was on death doors for his entire life,” Tom was now in a fit of laughter. It wasn’t directed to her but more that they allowed such a beautiful woman to be the wife of such a dull man. y/n peered up, thoroughly embarrassed as she gave him a light whack. Tom finally came down from his laughing fit, staring directly at her. “You are cursed Princess; you are just coddled. Forced into a life clearly not meant for someone like yourself.”

The mere mention of the cradling of her life got y/n riled up, “that’s another thing! The Spanish constantly treated me as if I was some porcelain doll ready to shatter if they dared even look at me! I felt like a child trapped in a woman’s body and he touched me like that as well. God, I was finally ready to truly live my life and then he just was too soft, I wanted something much mor-” Oh. Oh God. She had run her mouth too far, dug her own grave with her rambling. Her hands clamped against her mouth as a heat rushed to her face. She could see the French ships arriving for her next month, giving her passage because she was not in pristine condition. Hopefully Tom didn’t pick up on what she was inferring.

“You aren’t a virgin?” his voice was quiet, almost dark. She felt her entire world shatter. Tom scooted towards her slowly, it was completely unnoticed. She was too deep in panic to recognise the growing flirt rising in the Prince of Wales. y/n shook her head feverously. “That little tick took you?” When he put it like that, it made her stomach tingle. She had never heard such a sentence used in that tone. She was drowning in thoughts.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, that’s why I was so unsatisfied,” she tried to explain, her hands now bunched up the fabric against her knees. “He was just so soft, too soft and I wished he would have-”

“Would have what?” he toyed. Tom doesn’t quite know why he was acting like this. So intent on prying her little secrets out of her. Usually, he would have just simply got straight to the point but now, seeing her become red with frustration was a view causing him great pleasure. Any abstinence he hoped to place upon himself earlier in the night had been thrown out the window. He finally felt back in control, something he longed for. Something she was serving to him on a silver platter.

“I..” she began but the words got caught in her throat. Her tongue stopped completely, almost refusing to finish the damning sentence. She wanted him to be rougher with her, she wanted him to treat her like a woman and not a girl. “What happen to you wishing to keep your hands to yourself?” She attempted to change the topic, trying to flee but to no avail as he quickly caught her wrist in his palms. Their skins igniting on sight.

“Don’t try to change the subject Princess,” he purred, standing up to meet with her at the side of the bed. Her title now held a completely different meaning, it wasn’t being used to describe her. It was being used to utterly destroy her; a nickname only meant to be whispered in the dim light of a dozen candles. “I can see right through you,” Tom’s calloused fingers met the loose fabric on her shoulders, dancing over her collarbone. It was soft but held meaning. “I can see that you wished he touched you differently. Touched you like a real woman, rougher and passionate.”

His words were damned. She should feel ashamed that she was feeling light-headed just by the grazing touch of his fingers above her perked breasts. “Yes,” it was the only thing she could get out. The only single three lettered word that allowed itself out of her mouth. Tom pressed his lips to her neck, underneath her jaw.

“Perhaps, he too was inexperienced.” He spoke through small pecks. “Allow me to show you something different, something better,” it was barely above a whisper, but y/n heard every word. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as he peered at her.

“I would enjoy that very much,” y/n responded just as quiet, all the gentle touches he currently had placed upon her turned darker. He pulled her into his embrace quickly before tripping her feet from under her and ending atop her on the messily made bed. His hand instantly found the inside of her thigh, his finger bruising her skin. It was delightfully, the slight pain sending shivers down her spine.

Their lips met, gentle at first. Her hands moulding themselves against his jaw, moaning into his mouth as he pushed her deeper into the mattress. She wished she could stay like this forever, wrapping in Tom’s embrace as they mended together. Alas, he pulled away from her. Lips separating with a small pop and a soft whine from y/n underneath him. Tom took a distinct look at her; she was sprawled out and whimpering for something more. Did she give this look to him as well? Did she use the melody that was her voice to beg him to do anything? Tom didn’t particularly wish to replay the thought in his head but yet, he couldn’t help himself.

Her nightgown quickly found itself discarded; her nipples perked in the cold. His lips immediately latched on, massaging the soft tissue. He never knew something could feel this smooth, without any flaws or imperfections. Even though he knew he could spend an entire night between the valley of her tits, he too longed for something more.

In a matter of moments, he found himself staring directly at her sex. A glorious sight to behold, glistening with her arousal in the pale moonlight. She was practically dripping onto the sheets below her. He placed a soft kiss to her pelvis, she jumped at the contact. “If you feel uncomfortable, you need to tell me,” he told her all the while his fingers toyed at her hot hole. Dipping even so slightly into her heat. She was already in euphoria just from the slightest bit of pleasure. y/n nodded her head before locking eyes with him.

He didn’t waste another second, quickly licking a fat stripe through her folds. The taste was pure heaven, he didn’t give her a moment to register the feeling before diving right back into her juices. Sucking and pulling at her, wasting the night away feeling her thighs clamp around his head every time he flicked her clit coupled with a singular finger prancing in and out of her.

y/n wasn’t quite sure how loud she could truly be. She knew that even though they were in the far south-east of the castle, there could be a dozen scullery maids listening right outside the door. Or if someone was trying to achieve some sleep right beside them. At this very moment though, with Tom’s head in between her thighs devouring every inch of her throbbing cunt, she couldn’t give a single fuck. y/n allowed the string of curses and praised to tumble from her lips as she clasped onto the bed sheets for dear life.

“Such a dirty mouth,” Tom remarked, releasing her for a few seconds, “for such a pretty and delicious pussy.” He chuckled darkly. y/n wanted to bite back at him, but she was cut short but the addition of another of his digits sliding into her tight entrance. y/n clasped down hard on her hand. A foreign feeling began to drive itself into her stomach. While unusual, it was not at all exotic to her. It was thrilling, feeling her walls contract around his fingers as y/n began to instinctively rock her hips against his digits.

“God,” he purred, “that’s it, make yourself cum on my fingers Princess. Let me see that gorgeous face while you do it.” Tom had now retracted his mouth from her, completely mesmerised by the way her eyes screwed shut as she reached her peak. A cacophony of beautiful and dazzling sounds stumbling out of her mouth as he felt her climax all over his hand. Such a tantalising sight for any man.

y/n was too deep in her own return that she didn’t notice the retraction of his presences from the middle of her legs. So, when he felt his hands roughly pull her to the edge of the bed, she almost choked. The exhilarating feeling of his strained cock rubbing against her drenched folds made her forget her place. Made her speak before her mind could catch up. “I want you to fulfil the expectation.” She told him, her eyes never wavering from him.

Tom halted all his movements. It was painful but he needed absolute clarity before he did anything without her reassurance. “You need to elaborate Princess,” he told her darkly. He knew exactly what she was asking of him, he knew exactly what she desired.

“I want you to come inside of me,” she spoke as if she was a different person. y/n doesn’t quite know whether it’s the shift of mood or her own personal feelings but either way, she wanted to feel their juices mix and then leak out of her. Wanted him to fill her right up to the brim until the possibility was certain.

“You want me to fuck my seed right into you?” his words were dirtier than she expected but so was he as he slid in and into her. His naval hitting hers with a loud smack. He refused to move until he had played with her just that tad bit more. y/n’s head thrashed into the sheets behind her. She was so full, never has she felt this complete in her entire life. He wasn’t even moving but she could feel every inch of him deep inside of her.

“God yes,” she whimpered. “I need it so bad,” she was going to drive Tom insane. Just by a simple sentence, he was going to lose his mind and cum right now without even doing anything.

“Want to carry my child, our own Prince or Princess,” he pulled back out of her and slammed right back in, knocking the wind out of her y/n. It was so profoundly dirty, just discussing it. It thrilled her to the very core, child-bearing was meant for women not girls. Perhaps that is why she is so drawn to the talk, the talk of something so primally feminine set her entire body on fire. She couldn’t speak a coherent sentence instead she just let out a continuous plea.

He began slow, hips rocking to find that perfect beat. He revelled in the only sounds in the room, the sound of his cock hitting the divine spot inside of her over and over again and her delirious moaning. It was a symphony he was lucky enough to hear. He wanted to hear more, listen to the pure sounds of him railing into her. So, he picked up the pace. His thrust became not only deep and harsh but fast.

God, if he could immortalise this feeling he would. The feeling of her walls constricting around him as he pounds right into her, the feeling of her legs wrapping around his constantly thrusting hips and the feeling of her sweating skin underneath his fingers as he grips for support. It’s like the Lord himself made her tight little cunt just for him.

“You’re so big,” y/n praised mindlessly. He’s never had someone say that to him without it sounding forced. It’s so raw that he can’t help but go even harder into with each praise that falls off her lips. “Fill me up, I want to feel you all inside of me.” It’s a dangerous game, she’s tapped on something so feral inside of him it hurts.

y/n wants to prop herself up and explore his body while he pounds into her, but she simply can’t. Her limbs give out with every thrust. Her entire body spasms each time he hits the perfect spot inside of her. She a moaning mess, trying to maintain any sense of normality but failing miserably. It’s a constant state of pleasure, she’s afraid that she’s lost track of time. That is until the faint, but all the desirable fit finds itself lit in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m almost there,” she whispers, it’s the only thing she can get out. His thrusts, that once had gained a steady and harsh rhythm are now falling. He’s losing focus with each grip he receives. With her words though, he gives her the final stretch. No longer does he has some form of structure but instead he’s just railing her like a wild animal.

It’s an explosion and neither knows why but it’s addictive. y/n climaxes around him, her toes curling as her final orgasm hits her long and violent. Shaking underneath, him as she unknowingly milks his own finish out of him. Tom’s fucking his cum right into her, he doesn’t stop for a second. Too focused on the goal ahead of him. Placing it where it counts. It’s a feeling he wants to never forget, better yet it’s a sight he wants permanently etched into his memories. As he pulls out of her, their climaxes tumble out of her. Dripping down her leg.

“Hold your legs up Princess,” he teases as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I heard it works wonders.”

The rose blooms only for those who care properly for her.

━━★✼☆｡

a/n: please don’t flop, omg this is so long and no one asked for this shit. please don’t flop chile 🤡

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sinnamonrolle · 4 years ago

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[ the little moments] ♡ Asmodeus

3 - That moment when Asmodeus cheered you up.

✿ part of a series now! ✿

❀ gender neutral reader ❀

Asmo hummed as he opened a drawer, browsing through his huge selection of high quality nail polish. From where you’re sitting on his bed, you could barely see into it. You noticed that they’re organized by color.

“Hmm, what color should I pick?” he asked and turned to look at you, eyes squinting just the slightest bit as he tapped his lips in thought.

You smiled the best you could, criss-crossing your legs, and responded, “I trust your choices, Asmo. You’re the expert here, not me.”

He smiled back at you, lips curling sweetly around the edges, and he returned to the selection before him.

“I’m glad you trust me, darling! Your nails will be so beautiful after I’m done, just you wait! It'll cheer you right up!” Asmo said, spinning around to wink at you as he bumped the drawer with his hips.

It slid shut, and he showed you the four bottles in his hands. One of them wasn't nail polish but an assortment of small charms, the same ones that decorated his nails.

"Does my master approve?" Asmo asked. "I wanted something that will match well with anything you decide to wear, but what matters is if you like it."

You were too upset to really care about the color at the moment, so you hummed noncommittally and said, "Yeah, it's fine."

Asmo lowered the nail polishes in his hands and set them to the side, the glass bottles clinking as they're pushed aside. He kneeled in front of you and took your face between his hands, his palms warm with his natural body heat.

"My love," he said, and for once, his tone wasn't as flamoyant as it used to be, but it was so soft, so gentle with love that you couldn't help but follow his words. "Look at me."

You looked at him. He's looking at you, and all you could see was his beautiful orange eyes with the barest hint of yellow around the edges. All you could see was the brown lashes that fluttered out as he blinked. All you could see was the way his neat eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"I understand that you are upset about the test. You've been so stressed that your skin has gotten rough, and the lack of sleep made it even worse," he started off, but not in an unkind way, and gently swiped the skin under your eye with a thumb. "Lucifer may have high expectations for you, but that is under the conditions that you are alive, healthy, and happy. Remember—alive, healthy, and happy."

"But this was an important test," you said sourly, lips curling into a frown. All of the stress from taking the test, the frustrations from studying the topics, the hopeless sensation after you recieved the score—they all seemed to crumble from the weight on your shoulders and revealed themselves in the form of your rapidly blurring eyes. "It was a really important test that could pull my grade up, but I screwed up. I bombed it. I failed."

Asmo's hands fell from your face to hold your hands in his and said, "My love, you know we didn't bring you here only for you to worry about tests and school. After the school year is over, what use will be your grades?" He chuckled then, interwining his fingers with yours, and added on, "Five months from now, you'll be shopping with me, picking out some new clothes from Majolish. Ten months from now, we'll be drunk on alcohol and watching movies together with my brothers. A year from now, you won't be thinking about this bad test score that you got today."

You looked down to your interwined hands and didn't speak. You knew that one number wouldn't matter later on in your life, you knew that. But it was the fact that you spent so much time studying, that you put in 110% of yourself yet still received bad results, that you tried so hard yet still failed—you sighed and released one of Asmo's hand to rub at your eye, the rough heel of it digging into your slightly wet eyelids. You were really, really upset at yourself. There was the underlying insecurity that came with being not good enough, and while usually, you tend to push it out of your mind, today, you couldn't. Today, you felt so small.

"Darling," Asmo murmured and stood up to wrap you into his arms, his warmth welcoming as it enveloped you. You felt his arms across your back, the flat of his palm pressed firmly against your spine, and all of your senses were invaded by Asmo. The smell of him, the sight of him, the feel of him. He smelled faintly of honey and lavender.

With his chin resting on the top of your head, you were completely buried into his arms. Your hands gripped onto the sides of his jacket.

"Darling," Asmo said again, but this time, his voice is just a bit warmer, just a bit softer, just a bit fonder. "Let me treat you to your hard work. It doesn't matter if you didn't do well, but it matters, especially to me, that your efforts are acknowledged. Today, it might not be so good, but it can only get better from here. We all have these days. One time, I went to a party with this tuft of hair sticking out the back of my head, and no one told me! Can you believe that? I dolled myself up so well, but that one tuft of bedhair—!"

You snickered softly into his jacket, but he heard you anyway and gave you a gentle squeeze.

"Let me take care of you today, my love," Asmo said, pulling just enough from you so that he could see your face. He smiled and kissed your forehead, purposely making a loud "smooch!" sound before he faced you again. "Pretty please? Will you let me take care of you? I've already planned the whole day out! See, I'll do your nails first, and then we'll get some masks on. After that, we'll strip and soak in the bath together! I've already decided on the essential oils we'll be using, but I need your help choosing which soap to use because they're all just so good! We can spend our evening online shopping, and then, perhaps, maybe you might be interested in some very fun nightly activities?" He sent you a wink.

You went back into his embrace, face buried in his scarf. "Of course, Asmo. Thank you so much. I really appreciate you," you said with every inch of your being.

If it was a regular day, Asmo might have commented on how happy he was that you were so willing to jump into his arms, but today—today, he only laughed, a sound that warmed your heart from the bottom up, a sound that you will cherish forever, a sound only for your ears.

"Anything for you, my love. You deserve only the best," he said as you pulled away from the hug, not as upset as you were before Asmo called you into his room. He beamed at you, his eyes curling into lovely crescents and his lips stretching into a beautiful smile.

You smiled back. It didn't hurt as much anymore. You were still dismayed by the test score, but the reality of it wasn't as crushing. It felt like the fog lifted from your head.

"I like the color you chose," you said then.

Amso blinked in momentary surprise before huffing proudly, "Of course you do!"

He was reaching for the nail polish sitting to the side, picking up the base coat, when you spoke again.

"It reminds me of you."

Asmo whipped his head to you, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, and a light flush to his cheeks.

What a lovely sight.

This moment might have been an insignificant one in all of the moments that Asmo has experienced in his lengthy life, but you won't ever forget the feeling of love lingering on your skin—his love.

-------

Masterlist!

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inviouswriting · 3 years ago

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Lovely nails

Lucifer x domme!fem reader.

Specific kinks - lingerie with high heels, stocking fetish, lipstick, nail polish and brat!submissive. toys, established relationship, polyamory. I’ll add more if I’m forgetting anything.

Smut. I promise a good time, this was burning in my head to write.

When you entered into a pact with Lucifer, he thought he would call more of the shots when it came to your relationship. Yet through your commands, you quickly showed him that the one in charge is always you, even when you are submissive sometimes to him.

Even now, you and him settle for the evening, you had tugged out a box of make up you keep. You look through the colors trying to decide. The lipstick you chose though is a dark red, your lovers favorite color on you. He had gifted you the shade the night you two entered into the dominant and submissive scene.

“Luci~ you’re unusually quiet tonight. It isn’t nice to pout.” You cast your gaze over to him, he is sitting underneath you, doing his best to look anywhere except you.

A light flush on his skin, but you could see him pouting. How he ended up underneath you, he started to kiss your neck and lead into being dominant for the night. You had other plans for your fallen angel, you tug the stockings on your thighs up higher a red and black sheer number the panties to it crotchless and held together by garters. A valentines gift from Lucifer.

“I’m not pouting.” He says hurried, turning his head more to side eye your figure in the black and red lace. You can feel the twitch between your thighs, but ignore it. When he got too handsy you commanded him to stop and lay down. But you had him strip first.

So now here he was sitting with you on his waist, his cock close to being inside, but you just let him have it between your thighs.

“Which color?” You ignore the behavior, and show him a few bottles. Celestial blue, devildom red, starry black, and Asmodeus rose pink. The brother gifted you the bottle when he was proud of how it turned out. You decide to put that one away for when you play with him during the day tomorrow.

“The red..” He notes the dark cherry color in the bottle and likes how it looks when you have it on. You give him a small smirk, you put the black and pink away fully but keep the red and blue.

You give Lucifer some attention, carding fingers through his dark hair earning a hum of gratitude for the petting. He leans his head even into your hand for more. You retreat your hand when you feel he has had enough, and shift a bit to cross your legs at the ankle leaning over the table to grab two of the toys you had selected for your demon.

“Dear...” His attempt to persuade you not to use the cock ring.

“I’ll be good.” He comments after, and you cast a stare at him. You ignore the request in favor of fixing the silver band around the base of his dick till it fit just how it is suppose to. You give him a few teasing pumps feeling him come to life in your hand.

“I know you’ll be good. That’s why I’m putting it on.” You tug up the other item you had on the table, and now his eyes plead you for mercy. A bullet vibrator, you switch it on and rub it along his shaft. You feel him shudder underneath you at the sensation washing over him. You attach it with a strip of silk to tie it in place.

“Tch...” You then proceed to set about your earlier task, to paint your nails two different colors. You selected the celestial blue for your left hand, and the devildom red for your right. The slow process of you dabbing the brush on your nails. It is always Lucifer’s impatience that gets him.

“Don’t wiggle around so much, I’ll mess up, and I’ll have to start all over. And you do not have permission to cum until I am done.” You shoot him a firm glare at the end for him to know you’re serious. He jolts a little under how the calm demeanor you present there is that edge. What drew him to you.

“Understood..” He tries not to focus on the bullet, he does lick his lips at how wonderful it feels when you shift and it presses against the underside of his tip.

“Understood what?” You look at the first nail on your left hand and hold it to him.

“Understood mistress!” He corrects himself, and you reward him for it.

“Blow on it please. To help dry it faster.” He does, he blows a gentle hot breath, while you use your free hand to stroke the head of his erection. Soft gasps escape him and you feel the hot twitch in your hand. You move the bullet away from the tip, instead focusing it down along his shaft nestling it close you the ring at the base.

Once situated again you repeat the manner of painting each nail, and having Lucifer help dry them. By the time you were done with your left hand, you can see his eyes glossy for wanting to cum, but he remains steadfast to avoid disappointing you.

For the good behavior you remove the ring for a bit, and with use of the bullet. You stroke him in full pumps, you press the toy directly to the head of his penis and hold it there watching him toss his head back to hold back.

“You can cum, I did say till I was finished with my nails. You’ve been so good, go ahead let it all out.” You announce he can cum, and it is music to his ears, he bucks hard into your hand when you pump him. He moves with enough to bounce you on his lap, you still had his dick nestled between your thighs adding to the sensation when you squeeze them.

“Thank you my mistress.” He remembers his manners, and closes his eyes as he cums on your hand, letting it spill out on it and it hits the lace of your panties when you squeeze your legs for him.

“Hmm... what a mess you made... you were really pent up, weren’t you?” You laugh as you let your fingers smear the cum collected at the tip around the head. You glance over to Lucifer who stares at you with a hot glare.

“It’s hard not to be when you teased me all day, and even now.” He looks to you for mercy, and you almost give in.

“Well.... you deserved it for being jealous of Simeon. It was his day to spend time with me. Which is why.” You hold up the bottle of Celestial blue polish.

“I chose this color along with yours. You can’t be selfish when I try to make it fair with all of you.” You chide him as you begin to stroke him again. Working him into arousal once more. You catch the slight guilty look on his face, then smile at him.

“I forgive you though, but you’ll of course have to earn your treats tonight.” Lucifer lifts his gaze to your eyes and tilts his head in that manner when you are alone with him.

“I apologize for it... I shouldn’t be jealous. That feels nice... your thumb...” You focus your thumb at the underside of the glands. You needed him hard for the next part you wanted to do with him.

“Apology accepted, tomorrow night though, we’ll have him with us.” You inform him and he accepts the conditions. Once he agreed to it, you lean over him to give him a full kiss to his lips. Lucifer returns it, and sighs into the kiss when your free hand scratches through his black hair. You kiss him for a bit, letting him feel good and loved again before you continued teasing your demon.

Lucifer sees you raise up and move so you could please him for a bit. You press a kiss to the head of his dick, leaving a lipstick mark there. The kind you use is more than safe for internal use. You place loving kisses along his shaft to help further rouse him, even taking him into your mouth to suck on leaving a dark red ring around his base.

You then raise off of him and move enough to tug the opening of the crotch to your pussy and he watches as you guide his dick inside. He sighs in bliss over feeling your slick heat. You admit he is always a struggle to fit with how wide the girth was, but you manage it.

Once you are fully seated on him, you purr as you wiggle a little bit till you are comfortable sitting on him with him deep. You then cross your legs again how you had them earlier and half lean over the table to do your other hand now.

“Dear.... “ You hear to your side, and glance over to Lucifer eying you, wondering if you are seriously doing this to him again.

“Luci?” You chime happily, opening the bottle of the dark red polish and begin to swish the brush inside to ready it for applying.

“What are you doing?” He questions, he knows the answer from your eyes.

“Painting my nails, didn’t think I’d leave them half done till you are satisfied did you? That’ll take all night.” You sigh in that faux tone, and he glares about it. You tease him with a squeeze of your walls, and subtle rocking motion to grind against his waist. The angle had him right at that sweet spot, and you let out your own moan.

“I can’t wait to play with both of you tomorrow. I promised Asmodeus during the day, but I can’t wait for the evening with both of my angels.” You are excited that you wiggle on Lucifer’s lap enough to move up and down his shaft. He aches as you cock-warm him. He wanted to have you plead him for mercy, he supposes that will be the weekend when you shift roles with everyone.

“Dear... if you bounce like that... I’ll end up cumming too soon...” He knows the conditions like before, he’s not allowed to cum until you are done with your nails. You are a little slower on applying the red coat this time.

“That sounds like a you problem. Hold back. You’re also forgetting something.” You tease him, as you grind and roll your hips to feel him inside. His head lolled back on the armrest of the couch as you ride him this way. You are careful as you finish applying the polish and have him blow on it till it dries enough.

“Dear... I mean mistress! Please show mercy on me.” You praise him for remembering the title, and push harder onto him, lifting a bit higher to fully have him thrust inside. The roll of your waist on his makes you feel incredible.

“My breasts.. grab them.” You order him, and he does without hesitating, his hands cupping and squeezing as he squeezes at your nipples through the fabric of the bra.

“Mistress.. may I cum inside? and sit up?” He asks you against your ear letting a hot breath tickle against your neck.

“Yes... you earned it.” Lucifer sits up and wraps his arms around you from behind. He shoves the table away to not ruin the polish sitting on it, and bucks his hips with yours. You match his movement and push down against his thrusts.

Lucifer moves to lift your legs at the back of your knees and holds them as he thrusts up into you creating an angle to work with. You raise your arms to hook behind his head as he nestles it at the back of yours. You bite your lip now that he has you in his grasp, you push down to meet every hard thrust he makes up.

A few more thrusts, you avoid biting your lip, instead you turn to kiss him and he meets you, knowing more of the lipstick will be smeared. A stray hand of Lucifer’s leaves your leg, letting it loop over his knee so he can play with your clit rubbing it as he hits full inside you.

You shudder in need, allowing Lucifer to pick up the discarded bullet to press it in circles to the nub to encourage you to cum with him. You do, in a shout of his name and breathed sigh, you cum hard for Lucifer letting him make you squirt for it.

Lucifer plants a bite on your shoulder as he buries deep into you, his cum pouring into you. You feel him push your hips down to sink every inch of him into you prolonging the feel of your orgasm, and you sink back into his arms.

“Now you are the one making a mess dear..” You feel a playful bite on your shoulder and more along your arm.

“Like this room would stay clean with both of us in here.” He laughs at your retort, and agrees. He doesn’t mind sharing with Simeon if it means he gets to have a second turn with you during the week.

#lucifer obey me #lucifer #ob! lucifer #lucifer x fem!reader #lucifer smut #hints of a polyamorous relationship #shall we date simeon #simeon #femdom! x lucifer #this will also have a part 2 #maybe three to include Asmodeus #we'll see~

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koumine · 3 years ago

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Chapter 6 is here! [WYILAC] [OM!]

Chapter 6: how do you want me

Fic: wear your independence like a crown

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Author: Koumine Rating: E

Summary [ch 6]: ...And then you were a little busy fucking his brains out over your desk.

(This one takes place sometime between the events of chapter 4 and chapter 5. Chapter title from "Desire" by Meg Myers.)

Content tags [ch 6]: dom!Reader x sub!Lucifer, gn!afab!reader, clothed sex, rough sex, Lucifer's magical ass, pegging, MC’s magical strap-on, hair pulling, mild degradation (“slut”). (full fic tags on AO3)

✨This one's short and (not) sweet, so here's the full chapter! Enjoy!✨

[rated E below]

full, explicit summary [ch 6]:

Here’s a fun fact that you recently learned about Lucifer, and which recently nearly caused you to become deceased due to all the blood in your body instantly relocating south: while Lucifer enjoys having his ass prepped with fingers or toys, he doesn’t actually need it. He can be completely puckered up and untouched, and if you just push your slicked cock into him, he can take it. Something about demon magic and his usual human-looking form being a magical construct that takes whatever shape he desires. You don’t know the details. You were a little busy trying to keep your brain from exploding with perverted joy while he explained it. And then you were a little busy fucking his brains out over your desk.

CHAPTER 6: how do you want me

"I thought you had an exam to study for," he drawls, as though he's not delighted with how eagerly you're groping him while you undo his trousers. "If you think I'm capable of focusing on anything but fucking you over this desk right now, you're a fool," you retort. He just smirks, and holds up his hands. Your strap-on and the half-empty bottle of lube smack into his palms, summoned from across the room. "Handy," you say approvingly. Between the two of you and a lot of overeager fumbling and cursing, you get your pants down and cock on, and Lucifer squeezes a generous amount of lube onto your cock, strips off one glove to slick you up (you suck in a breath so fast you almost get dizzy), and turns around. He braces one hand on your desk, and uses the other to spread his ass open for you. You grasp your cock and rub the head of it against his tightly puckered hole, smearing lube around, still a little hesitant. "Come on now," Lucifer says, looking slyly over his shoulder, all dark eyes and rosy cheeks, "don't tell me you're having performance anxiety?" "Shut up," you protest, "just give me a minute -- this goes against everything I ever learned about doing anal safely!" Lucifer sighs at you, very judgmentally. And then just leans his ass back, and the head of your cock pops right into his hole, easy as that. "Oh my god," you squeak, covering your mouth. "Holy shit, holy fuck," you groan, as he hums in pleasure and sinks back against you, taking your entire cock inside him without a single iota of prep. You feel like your brain is exploding. Is there blood coming out your nose? Are you breathing? Your heart is definitely pounding a frantic drumbeat. Your hands are definitely locked onto his hips. Your cock is definitely inside him, fucking him, pounding into him, oh -- "Oh, oh, oh yes," Lucifer moans, braced over your desk. "Holy shit," you manage. You can't slow down. You can't stop. Some curse of lust, some erotic inertia has you in its grip, and you need like it's a call in your blood. You shove Lucifer forward and down, until his belly and hips are pressed up against the desk, his hard cock pinned between him and the polished wood. You grip the back of his neck and hold him down. He moans like it's punched out of him, and scrabbles to hold onto the far edge of the desk, sending papers flying. "You," you growl, "are fucking … unbelievable." "Yes, yes, yes," Lucifer says, sounding as frenzied as you feel. "You fucking slut," you snarl, barely knowing what you're even saying anymore, but Lucifer whines and clenches up around your cock so tight you almost think he's about to come, but he isn't, he's just -- "Such a slut," you say again, vicious. "And you love being told so, don't you." "Yes, yes," he repeats, babbling, and you snap your hips into him extra hard to make him shudder and cry out and go limp, and you fist your hand in his hair and just use him, and the rest of your words disappear even as Lucifer loses control of his and babbles out a stream of "yes yes Sir yes please yes --" And you just fucking use him. You take and take and take all that he's offering, his submission, his body, his cries of your name, and pour out all your stress, pour out all your want, pour out all the need boiling in your blood. Lucifer comes fast, without warning, tensing up and crying out, but it's still not enough for you, not enough. You keep fucking him, keep going as he goes even more limp against the desk, as the tone of his moans changes to somewhere between fucked-out and frantic. And then he says, "Please." And then he begs, "Give it to me." And then suddenly it is all more than enough, and you gasp as you buck into him so hard the slapping of skin on skin stings your hips. And then you come so hard it dizzies you, dragged under by a sudden riptide, and Lucifer moans so loud and long as you fill him up that your choked "Oh my god" dissolves right into the sound of him. "Shit, shit, oh fuck," you gasp, pant, wheeze, holding onto him for dear life.

Lucifer lays sprawled out across your desk, panting hard. A scattering of papers, all your notes and books, lay haloed around him; some of them probably have traces of lube on them now. Your chair and his have both been knocked askew -- his coat has slid off the back of his chair and crumpled to the ground. The adrenaline in your veins swaps out for fatigue all at once, and you slowly collapse forward onto his back. After a moment, Lucifer props himself up on his elbows, dislodging your hand from its fist tangled in his hair, and looks over his shoulder to give you the smuggest damn Lucifer Look you've ever fucking received. He doesn’t even bother with a snide comment. He doesn’t need to. “Fucking … unbelievable,” you say again, groaning out the last of your life force. He just laughs smugly at you, proud and incredibly self-satisfied at having just ruined you for life.

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jimlingss · 4 years ago

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Kitchen Romance

➜ Words: 11.1k

➜ Genres: 95% Fluff, 5% Angst, Chef!AU

➜ Summary: You come from a long line of matchmakers. Your ancestors' ancestors were matchmakers and it's all because of a special, inborn gift. A gift that allows you to see each person's fated ones above their heads. But it's not so much a gift when one day, your boss walks in with YOU above him.

cr.

The kitchen is in chaos.

The heat swelters in the still air, stifling with the summer warmth that’s forced most people indoors with air conditioning. But here, there’s no such privilege. Not when open fires on frying pans were at every stovetop and grease was splattering everyone like a water fountain show. You feel yourself being roasted alive, a layer of oil sitting on top of your skin, and there’s barely a moment to wipe away the sweat rolling from your hairline. Your hands are wrinkled as you scrub down the nth dish from the pile that’s stacked above your head, but before you can finish, Taehyung’s desperately calling out for you. You shout back at him that you’re coming and then you’re helping him peel the potatoes. There’s no room to complain. Especially not when— “What is this?!” For a moment, time itself stops. The pandemonium halts, fire flickering, knives held mid-air. Everyone’s head has swiveled over to the dark-haired man standing at the end of the island. Kim Seokjin holds up a plate of baked salmon with methi prawns. His plump lips are pulled downwards. That’s never a good sign. “The presentation is sloppy!” he yells and you flinch from the sheer volume of his booming voice. “Are you people blind?! We can’t serve this! It’s an embarrassment! Do it again!” “Yes, chef!” Everyone apologizes, including you, and Seokjin huffs, moving out of the kitchen. Namjoon, sous-chef, shakes his head. “Focus! Dinner service hasn't even begun yet!” Luckily, everyone’s on edge and meticulous enough with Seokjin walking around and scrutinizing every action that the rest of the night goes off without another hitch. By the end, you’re finishing up on cleaning and washing the dishes. “Good night, Y/N.” Jihyo waves, bag strap slung on her shoulder. “See you.” You muster a smile while you keep scrubbing. “Bye.” “Night,” Yoongi says while Taehyung fixes you a grin. You watch them leave and then focus on completing the rest of your tasks. It’s not long before you’re switching all the lights off and changing from your uniform. The walk back to your apartment proves to be excruciating. You’re beyond exhausted, lugging your legs along to carry the rest of your body while forcing your eyes to remain open, so you can at least see where you’re going. When the door opens, you immediately jump into the shower to wash off the grime, nearly falling asleep in the process. By the time you flop onto your bed, your hair is still dripping wet, but as your muscles ease into the mattress, you’re knocked out into a deep slumber. Rest is merely a blink of time. The alarm on your phone is blaring before you can dream or feel even remotely refreshed. It’s deafening to your ears and you reach over to shut it off. Finding the sun already up in the sky, you force yourself to sit up, get ready, grab breakfast and eat on your way to work. “If it’s too hard, you should come home,” the voice on the other side of the line coaxes. “Your dad and I are so worried about you sometimes.” “I’m fine, mom.” You’re chewing in your cheek, phone sandwiched between your ear and your shoulder as you parade down the block. “Trust me.” “Have you at least been eating well?” You glance at the granola bar in hand. “Yeah. Sort of.” “The city is scary. There’s no shame in coming home, dear. Your grandma misses you a lot. She always asks about you.” “I’m fine, mom,” you reassure her for the second time. “I really am. And tell grandma—” Accidentally, your shoulder collides with a businessman’s. Apologies spring from you, but rather than looking at the stranger like you should be, your eyes unintentionally wander above his head. To the cloud of fog. And a woman’s smiling face you see emerge from it. The man’s brows lift at how you’re staring into space and he moves out of the way. You’re forced out of your trance and you continue to apologize until he’s completely gone from sight. You damn yourself for not being more careful. You come from a long line of matchmakers. Your ancestors’ ancestors were matchmakers. Your mother once told you that back in the day, some peasants in your family couldn’t sew, sell or do any labour, so they begged heavens and out of pity, they were granted a small gift. A gift that’s been passed down to every generation since. While you’re not sure if the story is true or not, what’s certain is that from the moment you were born, you could see a cloud of fog above everyone’s head. It’s like speech bubbles or thought bubbles in comic strips. But instead of words, the fog comes with another person’s face. It’s the one who they’re meant to be with. Ironically enough, you’ve never seen one above your own head. Though you’ve come to accept that. Romance will never be a major aspect of your life, so you’ve switched gears into focusing on your career and finding fulfillment elsewhere. You also knew early on that you didn’t want to be a matchmaker like the rest of your family. You want to be a— “Good morning, chef.” “Good morning.” Namjoon nods with a smile. “Things weren’t too bad yesterday, but let’s try to be less sloppy for dinner service tonight. Hoseok, what time is the shipment of seafood coming in?” Namjoon continues going through the daily routine, updating each person on the schedule and the shipments. But it’s not long during the morning meeting in the kitchen that the back door creaking can be heard. Instantly, everything comes to a halt. Everyone turns themselves and greets the head chef simultaneously. Seokjin rounds the corner. “We have a lot to do today, people. Tonight’s special is going to be watermelon with smoked salmon mousse—” You gasp. Automatically, your hands lift to cover your mouth, yet too late to muffle the loud noise. Your eyes are as large as saucers. Your heart stutters in your chest, nearly giving out. Instead of the polished brunette woman above Seokjin’s head that was always there, you see someone else. Someone very familiar that you’ve seen in the mirror a thousand times. You. You’re frozen — palms clammy, knees weak. And everyone’s turned around to stare, even Kim Seokjin himself. His brow is cocked and he eyes you intensely for daring to interrupt him. “Are you okay?” Jihyo whispers, leaning in and nudging you with her elbow. You start to breathe again, frantically. Yet no matter how much you gasp for air, you can’t feel the oxygen entering your lungs. But you force yourself to bow your head anyway, retaining an exterior that’s not oozing of sheer panic. “S-S-Sor..ry. I…. have something in my throat.” You clear it and Seokjin sighs, continuing with what he was saying. The first task is to wash the salad and it’s easy enough, but your eyes continue to wander up to the dark-haired, doe-eyed man from across the kitchen. Black shirt with a white apron around his waist, he emanates intimidation from his god-like looks alone and constant frown. Your eyes connect and you instantaneously whip yourself around. You start to sweat when Seokjin beelines to you. “Do you have an issue with me?” You shake your head furiously. “Then focus!” the man spits. “You’re drowning the salad!” You wince as he slams the faucet down. This can’t be. This can’t be it. It doesn’t make sense whatsoever. On your break, you’re crouched over by the bathrooms and much to your dismay, your mom is hysterically laughing at you. “Just because you never saw your match, doesn’t mean you’re alone, Y/N! Poor soul, where did you ever get that idea from? No one can see their own. I didn’t and neither did your aunt or grandma.” “Why didn’t you tell me that?” The syllables hiss out of you and you spare a glance over your shoulder to make sure no one’s coming. You’ve come to accept that you would never be romantically involved with anyone. To find out that Seokjin, your boss, is your match out of everyone, it’s taking you for a hysteric spin. “I thought you already knew!” she exclaims on the other line. “Plus, nothing comes from knowing your own. But who is it? Are you going to bring them home? I would love to know what sort of person is going to end up with my dear daughter. Oh, your grandma will be so excited to hear the news!” “Now’s not the time, mom,” you grieve, palm pressed to your forehead. There’s an overwhelming urge to cry. “I’m never going to end up with him.” “You can’t change fate, Y/N.” “Fate changes all the time.” “Are you okay?” There’s a lower voice behind you and you flinch, turning around to see Hoseok’s alarmed expression. You stand up, apologizing internally as you hang up on your mom. “Sorry. It...was a family emergency. But everything’s fine.” “Okay. Well, Namjoon wants you to grab some more flour from the storage room.” “I’ll be right on it.” You swiftly return back to work before you risk losing your job any more than you have today. But all the while, you damn yourself. This is the worst thing that could’ve happened. You ending up with Kim Seokjin, the scary boss that notoriously fires people in your position, is the last thing you wanted to occur. It’s like you’re living in a nightmare where you’re the only one who’s aware of your own dire circumstances and inevitable doom. // “Would it be that bad if he fell in love with you?” Hyoyeon eyes you lazily from across the table as she stirs her drink with her straw. She’s one of your oldest friends who happen to live in the city and one of the few who knows about your gift. “Yes. It would be that bad!” You’re exasperated. You thought she would be up and arms about it like you are. “How could I ever look at my boss like that?!” “You never know,” Hyoyeon sing-songs much to your chagrin. “Don’t give me that. How would you like it if your boss fell in love with you?” “My boss is a Karen going into her sixties.” “Exactly.” Her lips pop off her straw, wearing a visage of distaste. “This and that aren’t the same, Y/N. I didn’t think Soobin would be with me and when you told me, I was mad. But look at us now! He’s not half bad.” “You’re married.” “Precisely.” She laughs, practically glowing from happiness. “And you know, Seokjin isn’t bad either. He’s like what? Only a few years older than you. Ambitious. Wealthy. Handsome. He did that one photoshoot for that magazine and he was so goddamn handsome. Like holy fuck, I almost got pregnant from just—” “Alright. I get it.” “—and he’s like one of the top chefs of the country. Imagine having that kind of food for the rest of your life.” “That’s not going to happen,” you mumble. If it changed once, it can change again. The more you think about it, the more assured you become. You’ll do everything in your power to change it. // The kitchen has fallen into a lull. Jihyo, the pantry chef, works on tossing salads while the butcher chef, Yoongi, is filleting fresh tuna. Sauté chef Hoseok is preparing his piccata sauce while you help Taehyung, the entremetier, with ingredients for the soup. Everyone has their designated roles here, most of which are fancier than yours. As a kitchen assistant, if you aren’t helping Taehyung then you’re washing dishes. But everyone needed to start from somewhere, so you aren’t going to complain. Working for Kim Seokjin is a privilege, albeit, he’s fearsome and hard to please. You clear your throat. “Has...anyone seen that woman lately?” Taehyung turns his head. “Who?” “That woman came to the restaurant a few times and was with Chef Kim....” A petite and dainty physique. Long, dark hair. Her eyes glimmered in the light and her pinked lips pulled softly when she greeted you all. She was poised, oozed of grace, sophistication, money. And she was the one who you saw above Seokjin’s head since you met him. Hell, you saw him above her head, and while you were surprised that in spite of his scariness, he actually had someone, they strangely suited each other well. They were supposed to be together. Until recently. You wonder what happened. What the change was. Why you’re suddenly his match now. Jihyo turns around, ears perked from the conversation. “Right! I haven’t seen her around lately either! I wondered if something happened.” “You mean Kim Jisoo?” Yoongi lolls his head to the side and when Taehyung gives a curious expression as to how he knows, he says, “Hoseok and I were sent to her flower shop to pick up an order once.” “Were they even dating?” Taehyung asks, looking up from where he’s chopping cucumbers. “They were,” Namjoon pipes up and you look towards him, having expected him to shut down the conversation around the head chef, but he merely smiles. “But I haven’t seen her recently either.” Jihyo hums. “I wonder if something happened.” “Maybe they broke up,” Yoongi offers absentmindedly. “Well, that wouldn’t be surprising.” Taehyung pauses and looks over to you, lifting a brow as if trying to find an ally. “He seems like he can be pretty hard to get along with.” But the opinion isn’t unpopular and there are several snickers throughout the kitchen. “Seokjin’s just serious about his work,” Hoseok says with a smile. “But they were pretty serious.” “Really?” You turn to Namjoon directly. It’s not often that you’d be so straightforward, but you want answers. You want explanations. “Did he ever say anything to you? On what could’ve happened?” He shakes his head and then there’s a loud boom of the backdoor. Your blood runs cold. Everyone’s eyes widen, but there’s no time to react or to take back what he could’ve heard. Seokjin walks in with his eyes narrowed in on you specifically. “If all of you have enough time to talk about my personal life, then you can work twice as hard and twice as fast tonight.” Everyone holds in their sighs. With your downcast head, your eyes search the floor. “I’m sorry, chef.” But the apology falls onto deaf ears. // It’s a busy shift. With your tail caught in between your legs, it’s either a cutting board in front of you with a knife in hand or plates and a rough sponge by the sink. Oil from the fryer nearby splashes onto you, the grease coating bowls staining your apron, the heat sticking your tied back hair to your scalp. Yet you wish you could do more. Not just chop bell peppers, finely mince garlic or prepare starches. Not just rinsing bowls to stack into the dishwasher and wash large pots and plates by hand. While you’ve become accustomed to knives, keeping a rapid and constant beat as you slice whatever is in front of you, you wish you could cook. Not just be an accessory to the kitchen. Or an extra member to assist the chefs. But for now, you count your blessings. Humming to yourself late at night while you finish. “What are you still doing here?” The crystal clear voice has you flinching, startled to death and you turn around to see Kim Seokjin in the flesh. White shirt rolled to his elbows, black trousers, expensive Rolex on his wrist that could pay the rest of your student loans with. You gawk at him. Speechless. Scared. He doesn’t wait for you to find your tongue, dismissing your silence. “Where are the others? They should be cleaning up too. Just because dinner service is over, doesn’t mean they can leave.” He clicks his tongue in annoyance, no longer speaking to you but himself. “I won’t have anyone slacking in my kitchen.” “I-It’s fine, chef.” Your voice is barely a squeak, but you muster the courage, not wanting them to get yelled at tomorrow. You turn around, quickening up your scrubbing until your nails start to hurt. “I’m supposed to be washing the dishes anyway.” “It shouldn’t be taking you this long.” You wonder if he’s scolding you. It goes silent. “Finish up and go change,” Seokjin says shortly and you nod. It takes another ten minutes for the task to be completed and then you’re wiping down the counters before heading to the lockers to change out of your apron and uniform. Usually, you’d come out, turn off all the lights and begin the final trek home. But today, your blood runs cold. Your mouth fills with cotton when you step out. Against your own assumption, the head chef has not in fact left. Instead, Seokjin is leaning against the counter with his coat on, furiously tapping on his phone with his thick brows furrowed like they usually are. You swallow hard and bow your head as you pass him. “Good night, chef.” “Wait.” Immediately, you halt. He pockets his device. “Are you walking?” The absence of an answer is enough of an indication for him. “I’ll drive you. It’s dangerous to walk home at this time of night.” It isn’t a suggestion. It isn’t an offer either. It’s a command. And soon, you discover yourself in his expensive Mercedes. The vehicle is black, sleek and you’re afraid of touching the leather seats more than you have to in case you stain it with poverty and have him sue you for damages. Or fire you. “Turn left,” his fancy navigation system deadpans and it startles you. Yet Seokjin is undeterred and with one hand on the wheel, he turns at the light, allowing the car to roll smoothly over the pavement. The passing lamp posts’ glow also illuminate his features, his plump lips and the slope of his nose. If Hyoyeon was here she would be salivating at the sight, how his chin is lifted, head slightly cocked. You would be too, if you weren’t so afraid. Kim Seokjin exudes confidence and intimidation, rightfully so too. He’s worlds out of your league. And as your eyes stray from his profile to focus on the cloud above his head, your smiling expression still emerges. You don’t understand how someone like you can be with someone like him. “Is there something on my face?” His question leaking with annoyance shakes you out of your trance and you tear your eyes away from him frantically to look out the window. “N-No.” The tense quietness that follows is enough that you want to bang your head against the dashboard and hope you get knocked out to spare you from this awkwardness. Then again, you might just end up with a bruise and his car repair bill which would be even wors— “You won’t be seeing Jisoo anymore,” Seokjin suddenly says and your head swivels to him. “She decided to cheat on me and that was a deal breaker, so I broke it off.” “Oh.” “I didn’t know you were one for gossip, but go ahead and tell the others if you’d like.” “I..I’m sorry.” Your downcast head faces your lap and you swallow hard. “It’s personal and I shouldn’t have intruded or asked. It was wrong and unprofessional of me for bringing it up.” “No.” There’s a moment of silence as he looks straight ahead. “It was wrong of me to act the way I did.” You blink wide-eyed and Seokjin parks at the curb. “My reaction was a bit uncalled for — it’s something I’m still working on.” You stare at him and finally, the man meets your gaze. “You can get out now.” “O-Oh.” You scramble out the car. “T-Thank you.” The moment the door shuts, he drives off. Fate can be changed. It’s rare, but choices influence futures and who someone ends up with can change depending on the actions they take. You just never expected Seokjin’s reason for the change to be so heartbreaking. Even if he stated it factually and his expression never wavered, you could sense it in his voice. The sadness you didn’t know he could possess. // “What made you think I would like him?” Jihyo is exasperated as she wipes down the counter and Taehyung grins as he sweeps the floor. “The guy literally kept on going about rock climbing, bungee jumping and skydiving. Do I look like an adrenaline junkie to you, Kim Taehyung?” “Hey, hey. Yeonjun is nice, okay? I just thought you would be into the rough look.” “Not at all. This is the last time I’m letting you set me up.” Yoongi smirks as he passes by. “I’ll take it that your blind date didn’t go well?” Jihyo glares at him. Hoseok turns around with an amused smile. “It was your fault with trusting Taehyung with this sort of thing. What kind of guy are you into? Maybe I could set you up with someone better.” She sighs wistfully. “I don’t even know anymore. I just want someone reliable and half decent.” In the meanwhile, your eyes flicker up to the cloud above her head. There’s a bright eyed young man there and you smile, unloading the dishwasher as you continue listening to their conversation. “See? It wasn’t my fault!” Taehyung pipes up to defend himself. “How am I supposed to know what kind of person you’d be into if you don’t know yourself?” “Oh, so you know?” “Of course I do!” He scoffs and becomes dreamy as he muses, “I want someone with long hair and dresses fashionably, someone who’s sweet and gentle, like a puppy.” But based on the person above him, they appear rougher around the edges with shorter hair and a frown. But you let Taehyung have it, not commenting a single word. You’ve learnt from experience that it doesn’t work well if you come out of nowhere and try to involve yourself. They continue talking about ideals, even Namjoon that pinches in he’s been seeing someone lately — an old friend who he went to school with that he never thought of romantically until recently. You’re having fun just listening in until the question is directed at you. “Me?” You laugh awkwardly. “I don’t know either. I haven’t really thought about it before.” “Oh, don’t give me that.” Taehyung nudges you. “Everyone has some idea.” But you’ve sincerely never considered it before. You always thought you would live in solitude without another companion and even came to terms with it. But things have changed. “I guess….someone kind and considerate. Thoughtful. I don’t care what they do, except that they have to be a good person.” It might be a generic answer, but as you think about Seokjin, you know you don’t want someone domineering and frightening. Yet from last night, Seokjin didn’t seem so daunting in the car. “Yeah, I can see that.” Jihyo nods. “What about Chef Kim?” you ask, eyes glistening in the light, curious beyond belief. “What do you think his ideal is?” The people around the kitchen hum, speculating over the boss’ preferences. They’re equally intrigued by the question. “Anyone who won’t shit their pants when he’s around,” Taehyung laughs as he finishes sweeping and pours the grime from the dustpan into the trash. As Yoongi wraps a bowl, he mindlessly offers, “He seems to like the serious type,” “What was Jisoo like?” Jihyo asks, tapping her chin with a frown. “Sophisticated,” Hoseok suggests and you look at him, breathing a sigh of relief. Out of all things, you were definitely not sophisticated. “Gentle.” “Sweet,” Namjoon says with confidence, having known the man the most after years of working together, “He likes the hard-working and earnest ones who prove themselves to be more than he expects.” As if summoning the devil himself, Kim Seokjin comes from the back area and walks straight through the kitchen. “Stop slacking,” he states in a monotone and everyone returns to their tasks with a simultaneous ‘yes, chef’. But as he passes by you, he pauses for a moment. “Everyone needs to leave on time today. If there’s anything that isn’t clean, you need to work together so that it is.” “Yes, chef,” sounds throughout the kitchen once more. You know being passive won’t solve anything. You need to actively do something that will repulse him, make it so he’ll vow never to get involved with you. If he makes the decision, fate itself will change and you won’t have to end up together. The only plausible strategy to repulse you have at the moment is to embody the reverse of what Seokjin’s ideals are. The opposite of what appeals to him — sophisticated, sweet and gentle. // It takes you a while to pinpoint what the exact opposite is. But you find it. Loud. Obnoxious. Aggressive. You need to be these things in a way that doesn’t get you fired, but just enough that it alters who his match is. Part of you isn't sure you have it in you to be this way, but it’s worth a shot. You’ll do anything to change fate. “What the hell are you still doing in my kitchen?” Seokjin is standing meters away, half shrouded in the darkness. Your eyes flicker up at him but you resume dicing the carrots into one inch lengths. Only half the blade is lifted off the wooden cutting board and it descends at a rapid rhythm, rather therapeutic to listen to. There’s an urge to cower down, but you channel your aggression, pretending it’s Taehyung and not Kim Seokjin — head chef with two Michelin stars — enough money to assassinate you and cover up the crime. “Everyone went out to have dinner together, but I came back to get a head start on prepping ingredients for tomorrow. I need the practice anyway. Why? Is it a problem?” The man’s brow is lifted at your upfront behaviour. “Get out. I’ll drive you back.” “I’m going to finish this first,” you retort without a breath to waste. Seokjin scoffs and puts down the keys he just grabbed. He sighs exhaustingly and you feel his stare burning into you. It’s hard to ignore it. You even start sweating until he moves towards the fridge, and that’s when you finally steal the chance to peek at him. “Are you going to eat? I can make you something.” “It’s fine.” He grabs two eggs, some shredded cabbage, a handful of spinach and a stick of butter. You don’t question it, solely focusing on your task until there’s sizzling on the pan and he leaves the stove to look over you. “Your technique is poor.” “What?!” Your voice is loud unintentionally, but you’re wholly shocked. If there was one thing you were proud of, it was your knife skills. You’ve spent countless time on refining it and getting it to meet standards. “You could go faster,” he deadpans. “Your grip is too tense and you’re holding the knife too high up. You want to hold it at that balance point, so you have the most control over it and the weight is properly distributed.” Seokjin smoothly grabs a knife off the rack and holds it in front of you. You copy him. “It's easier to push the blade through when you're holding it there.” “Like this?” You begin chopping again and he hums. Against your will, a smile finds your features. It’s the first time he praised you— well...it’s less of a praise and more of a half-hearted noise of approval, but it still counts. Seokjin takes the pan from the heat and switches it off. He grabs a fork from the drawer to start eating and you look over, finishing the job. It doesn’t take long for him to notice your blatant ogling. “Do you have an issue?” You smile at him, stepping forward. “Can I have a bite?” Seokjin scoffs. But you lean over and he steps aside, allowing you to nab a fork from the drawer to take some. It’s not like you’re particularly hungry, but you’re curious as to what he’s made. It’s been a long time since you’ve had food from the head chef himself and asking him for his dinner might just be off-putting enough that he’ll hate you forever. It wouldn’t be impossible considering he’s so picky. You swear, one mistake is all it takes for him to hold a grudge till the day he dies. Yet, what you don’t expect is for the scrambled eggs to melt on your tongue. He’s sautéd the spinach, left the cabbage undercooked to add a crunch, and the eggs are fluffy in your mouth, a vivid gold that adds to the haphazard presentation. “This...this is delicious!” He chews in his cheek. “It’s something I eat when there’s nothing in the fridge.” You’re amazed. The fact that Kim Seokjin can’t recognize his own ingenuity is painful. “You should add this to the menu.” He scoffs. “You think I would add scrambled eggs next to the caviar and truffle? I think you forgot this is a fine dining restaurant.” “It’s fine,” you mumble. “I mean if it tastes good, it tastes good, right, chef?” A tiny smile fixes at his visage, tugging his plump lip upwards. “You sure have a lot more opinions tonight.” “Well, I’ve decided to speak my thoughts more,” you hum, scooping up another spoonful of his meal. Your eyes flicker up as you chew with your mouth wide open. “Why? Is it unattractive?” “It’s interesting,” he says with a smile that’s more visible until he barks, “Hurry up eating so I can drive you home.” You scoff at him as he walks away and you finish his dinner off. // Everyone’s on edge. “It’s more akin to pretentious artwork without any real flavour than real food,” Hoseok reads from his phone to the entire kitchen. “Head chef, Kim Seokjin, is not far from what his cooking lacks too. A pretentious and egotistical nature, it’s no wonder his personal life is in shambles.” Your fist tightens. Not only did the published article criticize his dishes, claiming it lost its touch and that he’s lost his roots, but they attacked his personality. His personal life. Going into detail of how his relationship was broken off unexpectedly. “Oh shit,” Taehyung exhales. “Was that really posted online for everyone to see?” Jihyo asks in a pitched voice, equally horrified and panicked. Hoseok nods and before anyone can say anything, the backdoor is heard. Without prompting, everyone swiftly moves to their station, not uttering a single peep. Seokjin comes in, his expression unchanged and he deadpans the usual greeting as he moves past the kitchen. Your face above his head hasn’t changed. But you know it’s not the time to dwell on it. For the rest of the shift, Taehyung’s on his best behaviour and neither Jihyo nor Yoongi make snarky comments. It’s come at a cost — the morale is lower than usual. The atmosphere is tense and even Namjoon’s earnest encouragement can’t help. Out of the corner of your eye, you can’t help but watch Seokjin. He doesn’t make mention to the article, yet by the deep furrow of his brow, you can tell he’s in a grumpy mood. It’s understandable. But you wonder why it seems like he’s less angry and more hurt. If it were you, you’d be furious. The personal details of your life outed publicly and not only were your skills scrutinized, but your personality too. Seokjin was cheated on and now chastised. Even if he’s resilient, it’s too much for anyone to take. It doesn’t look like he has friends to rely on either. “Are you coming, Y/N?” Jihyo asks, turning around as you linger behind her. The restaurant’s lights are turned off, the kitchen long cleaned and your clothes changed into a fresh pair that doesn’t reek of dish soap and fish. But you feel unsettled. Like there’s still one more thing you haven’t finished doing. “No, it’s alright. I forgot something. You can go right ahead.” She nods, joining the others and you walk to the back, pushing the doors of the kitchen open. There’s still a light on and you find Seokjin sitting on a stool by a counter. He looks up at you, visage in a neutral state. Neither a frown nor a smile. “What are you still doing here?” Your hand tightens on your bag strap and you approach him. “Are you okay?” Seokjin smiles at you. For the first time, it isn’t mocking — it’s gentle and tinged with sadness. The corner of his plump lips quirk ever so subtly and his arm extends, hand plopping on top of your head before it slides off. “I’m fine. It’s still early enough that I don’t need to drive you. You should go home before the sun completely sets.” Wordlessly, you begin to walk away. But then a sharp inhale is stolen through your parted lips. Before you can second guess yourself, you grab Kim Seokjin. Your hand wraps around his wrist and he glares at you. “We should go out for a drink.” You don’t waver even with the incredulous look on his face. “What’s wrong? Never had a drink with an employee before? It looks like you need one and I’ll only offer once. I’m pretty busy myself, you know.” It’s aggressive, obnoxious, a bit loud. It’s all the things you suppose he dislikes in a person, yet somehow the two of you have never been closer. You end up in some hole in the wall, drinking shots of soju that burn its way down your throat. Seokjin sits across from you with an amused smile on his face that’s so irritating you want to slap it off, and you damn yourself for letting it slip your mind that you’re a lightweight. “Aren’t you hurt, Kim?” The words slightly slur on your tongue. “‘s ridiculous! To criticize your food is one thing, but to criticize your personality and talk about your personal life ‘s just crossing the line!” His lips pull, his eyes flicker down to the empty bottle beside you. “Yeah. It is.” “Then why aren’t you mad?!” Your fist pounds the wooden table. “Getting cheated on is sad enough! Why do they gotta rub it in, huh?” His brow lifts, but you continue, “should sue them!” Seokjin exhales on a sip. “It’s part of the business.” “No, ’s not!” “It was my ex who told them anyway. She’s upset that I kicked her out of the apartment.” “Then that’s more reason to be mad!” You press your face into your hands, angry at how he’s not angry. “How can you be so nice? How can you be so nice and no one knows it?!” Seokjin smiles to himself. “This freaking sucks,” you moan. He sighs at your drunken state and orders water for you. The old lady tottles by with a big smile and you get a chance to see the cloud of fog and the face above her head. “I brought the bean sprouts back,” her husband calls from the entrance at the same time with a grocery bag. “I’ll be right there.” She places the glass down in front of you. “Here you go.” Jealousy colours you pink inside. “You met your soulmate,” you exhale at her quietly. The woman’s eyes twinkle. “That old man? He gives me more headaches than anything. I’d rather this handsome man be my soulmate,” she quips, casting a glance at an embarrassed Seokjin who thanks her for her compliment. Her husband calls her again and she hurries back. Seokjin leans forward with a skeptical look. “Are you okay?” “I’m envious,” you sigh wistfully, looking on at the married couple at the back with your chin rested in your palm. After a moment, you shift towards the man across from you. Seokjin really is handsome. “I come from a long line of matchmakers, you know, and I have this ability.” He plays along. “What ability?” “I see the faces of who people are gonna end up with.” You drink the water, cooling your throat, but above the rim of the glass, you recognize his scoff and amusement. The glass slams down on the table in your protest. “It’s true! It’s been like that since I was a baby!” “Okay, okay. I believe you.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. Irritated, you straighten your spine. “A long, long time ago back in High School, I really, really, really liked this guy.” Seokjin’s brows raise, not sure where you’re going with this. “Alright…?” He nudges the glass of water back to you. “I knew he wasn’t gonna end up with me, but he asked me out. And like a total idiot, I-I went out with him anyway. Then guess what happened?” He has no idea. A thick lump forms in your throat and makes it hard to speak. “He met the girl he‘s supposed to end up with, so I broke it off. They got married a year after high school. So I was right. I was...right.” Tears flood your vision, clouding the dark-haired man in front of you. You forgo the water for the shot Seokjin poured himself and you down it. You were right. But it hurt. Seokjin’s voice is soft, though it does little to console you. “So….because of your ‘ability’, you haven’t gone out with anyone else?” You nod. “I’d be setting myself up for a failure anyway.” Your head lifts and your tired gaze connects with his. “My family wanted me to be a matchmaker like them. But I love, love, love cooking and I wanna be a chef. Like you.” The corner of his mouth quirks. You’re honest — in a way he wouldn’t have expected from sober you. But he doesn’t mind it whatsoever. “I know you don’t believe me. But look.” You reach over, tapping him relentlessly on the shoulder and your hand barely comes to cover your mouth as if you’re children exchanging secrets across the table. “See those two women over there? They’re gonna end up together.” Your whispers are all too loud and Seokjin glares, not sure if you’re hysterical or delusional. Or both. You turn to the window and he follows your line of sight. At the same time, a couple holding hands passes by and you shake your head. “They don’t end up together.” “How do you know?” “I already said! I see it. Above their heads.” Then you turn your head, looking at him. Seokjin’s startled, having not realized that you’ve leaned in so close, that your faces are mere inches away. But before he can shift back, your lip pulls and you murmur, “We’re supposed to end up together.” His brow raises. “It was gonna be someone else. Then one day, you came into work and poof! It was my face! Just like that. I almost got a heart attack, you know!” Giggles start to spill out of you. “It was a huge shock cause I always thought I was gonna be alone since I can’t see my own. Well, sometimes fate changes, so it might change again! Don’t worry!” He exhales, squeezing out the air from his lungs. He stands, grabbing his coat and then tugging your arm up. “You’ve had too much to drink. C’mon. Let’s go.” “Aye, aye, captain— I mean chef!” His smile is small, but all too evident. He should smile more, even if it ruins the cold and aloof exterior he’s got going on. It’s cute and makes him look younger. So you express the idea and he chops your head lightly with his hand and gives you a rather gentle ‘shut up’ that has you grinning more. // The sunlight burns your vision and there’s a pounding headache at your temples. There’s an overwhelming urge to pull the covers over your head, but as the slits of your eyes open and you realize there’s a strange floral scent to the sheets, you bolt upwards. It hurts all the senses in your body, but your eyes register the neat recipe books lined on the shelf, trophies and certificates on the walls, a poster of the planets, a telescope and Kim Seokjin’s family picture by his nightstand. And then you scream. “Christ. Relax!” He appears at the doorway, eyeing you with his arms crossed. “You were drunk, so I took you home.” Absentmindedly, you tug the covers up to your chest in spite of still wearing the same clothes from last night. Your dry voice croaks out. “We...we didn’t do anything scandalous did—” “No!” He shuts the thought down before it runs wild in your head and Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t do anything to you, jesus christ, woman! Just get up. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. I’ll make you some breakfast and a hangover drink.” You follow his instructions, cleaning yourself up to the best of your abilities with the limited supplies, but it’s surreal to be in Seokjin’s penthouse. It’s clean and organized, like you expected, though a lot more cozy and warm. You didn’t know he traveled so frequently and that he had an interest in astronomy — if there’s anything the telescope and posters tells you. “Stop snooping,” he calls out from the kitchen, looking up to where you’re investigating his movie collection. You come over with a half-hearted apology and he sets down a bowl of oatmeal and a mysterious concoction in a tall glass. Both taste heavenly, enough to work up your appetite ten folds. But then he says, “Eat fast. It’s a special day today.” You’re not sure what he means by it, but you simply nod and nurse your headache. You remember what you told him last night, how you revealed all your secrets in one long tangent and you cringe at yourself. Seokjin probably thinks you’re a complete nut. But strangely enough, when you look at the cloud above his head, your face hasn’t changed. “Why are you staring?” “I’m not,” you mutter and tear your eyes away, unsuspecting to his smile. But in spite of how close and upfront you might’ve gotten with Seokjin, he still tells you to walk to work yourself — that it’s close enough and too much of a hassle if he drives you. So you cuss him out as you’re striding down the block as he zooms past you in his expensive vehicle. You hope he notices your glare from across the kitchen, but if he does, he doesn’t comment. “Today, we have some special guests for dinner service. A few of my friends will be coming and one of them will be proposing, so let’s make sure we give them a good dinner and memory.” “Yes, chef.” The news is exciting and even puts a buzz in the kitchen. “Finally, we’re doing something cool,” Taehyung says to you with a swollen smile. “I love a good proposal story.” “Always the one watching the proposal, never the one getting proposed to,” Yoongi quips as he brushes past and Hoseok snickers. “Hey, I’m working on it!” “I’m surprised Seokjin actually has friends though,” Jihyo comments and right when Yoongi turns to add something, they both pale as Seokjin strides past. He glares at them and is even more frightening in his silence. They immediately apologize and he hums, moving out the kitchen. You, Hoseok, and Namjoon laugh. Evening eventually comes and Seokjin temporarily calls a halt to the kitchen in favour of his old friends meeting his staff. It’s unusual to see him in such a good mood, smiling and being sociable. It’s strange in general to see this side of him, but it’s not unwelcome whatsoever. There’s seven of them, a mix of females and males, and you follow Hoseok’s lead in greeting and shaking their hands. Quickly, you recognize who's going to be proposing to who tonight. It’s not hard to miss considering the man is visibly nervous and the close female by his side keeps glancing at him in worry. “Are you alright, Jimin?” “Huh? Yeah.” The blonde with full cheeks and soft features smiles timidly, scratching the back of his neck. He’s dressed too nicely for this to merely be a dinner. “I’m fine. Just not feeling well.” “Are you sure you don’t want to stop by the clinic?” The short-haired female asks, concern evident in the faint knot between her brows. “There’s one down the street. I can go with you.” “I’ll keep an eye on him, Yuri,” the man who introduced himself as Jungkook reassures her, “If anything I’ll take him.” “Jimin’s just excited to try out the food.” Seokjin grins, drawing attention away from his friend. “Rest assured, everyone will feel better after eating and if you get sick tonight, it’s not food poisoning, alright?” There’s laughter in the group and another says, “You’ve been bragging about your restaurant for so long, I thought you were never going to invite us to eat here.” “Well, we’re usually booked full house, but it’s a slower season so I thought why not.” Yet the conversations drown away from your ears as your eyes unintentionally flicker upwards. You don’t mean to — it’s still a habit you’re trying to break. But you feel blood drain from your face as you discern the image that emerges from the fog above Jimin’s head and above Yuri’s. “Y/N?” Taehyung waves his hand in front of your eyes and you snap out of your trance. “Why are you staring into space? We’re going back.” “O-Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about something.” You return to the kitchen, forcing yourself to focus and getting back to your task. It’s none of your business. You know better than to involve yourself and it’s not like anyone would believe you in the first place. People’s lives have nothing to do with you. You have to turn a blind eye. It’s none of your business, it’s none of your business— But as you leave to the back area to grab ingredients, you catch the man leaving the bathroom. “Oh, you’re one of Seokjin’s chefs right?” Jimin stops and smiles at you, inhibiting your escape. You shake your head. “I-I’m only a kitchen assistant.” “But you’re still part of his staff.” His eyes are rounded and bright. “Is he mean at all? We’ve been trying to squeeze it out of him, but he won’t give us any details. I heard a bit of shouting, so I was curious.” “Oh, he’s always shouting.” The corner of your mouth quirks and Jimin grins. “He’s a bit mean, but Chef Kim’s just serious about his work and we respect him for it.” “It seems like you understand him better than I do. Anyway, the soup was amazing. I already told Jin, but I thought I should let you know since you’re the one who brought it out to us.” “Thank you.” Your eyes travel above his head and then you notice the way he’s fiddling with a box inside his pants pocket. You swallow hard. “Are you proposing tonight?” Jimin’s head whips up. “How’d you know?” “Chef Kim let all of us know, so we can make sure it’s a memorable dinner service.” His expression softens and he bobs his head. Jimin takes out the ring box and studies it carefully. “I am. I hope it wasn’t too obvious. I know she’ll say yes, but I’m still nervous. She’s the love of my life and these things only happen once,.” “Well….” You give an awkward chuckle. “Sometimes it happens more than once for people.” “Not for us,” Jimin declares in such self-assurance that it’s uncomfortable. His smile filled with affection doesn’t help either. “She’s the one. I don’t think I’ll love anyone more than her.” Your pupils flicker up to the cloud above his head that says otherwise. It gnaws at you, mocking you, and you’re uncertain if you can sleep tonight if you don’t say at least something. So you take the leap. “Are….you...sure?” “What?” “Never mind.” You turn around, having regretted it the moment it spilled. “Please enjoy dinner!” “Wait!” The man unexpectedly grabs you out of sheer instinct, halting you in your spot. He searches your face while his own crumples into a frown. “Did Yuri say something to you?” “No!” you frantically spit before taking a deep breath to calm down. “I’m just….I just….” The philosophy you’ve forced yourself to take collapses at his earnest visage. You were never good at being unattached. “D-Do you think this is a good idea? Are you absolutely sure about this?” “What’s going on here?” There’s a lower voice, a husky timbre. Seokjin stands at the end of the dark corridor and all traces of his outgoing personality are gone. It’s replaced with the serious demeanour you’re used to. He beckons you. “Can I speak to you for a moment, Y/N?” Jimin returns back to the table, even more unnerved than before while you’re pulled outside. You feel small with your back against the brick and Seokjin looming over you. “What the hell are you doing?” You flinch from his tone. You’ve never seen him so angry. He isn’t shouting, screaming or imposing. But the irritation seethes out of him, simmering underneath his skin. You swallow hard, downcast eyes searching the gravel. You think about how dark it’s getting with the sun setting over the horizon. “I…” “Are you seriously trying to talk him out of it?! What gives you the right—” You snap. There’s no reason he should be upset, no reason you should be treated this way. So with your teeth gritted, you give him the truth that’s hard to hear. The truth that you alone must bear. “They’re not going to end up together!” “What?” Seokjin wears the same incredulous look from last night. It’s futile. Still, your mouth runs off into mumbles, “I can see it above their faces. That woman, Yuri, she’s…..paired with that other man. Jungkook.” You give up. Waving the white flag. In the silence that follows, you expect Seokjin to fire you, or call the nearest hospital. Either you’re a nut or unsuitable to work in his kitchen. Maybe both. What you don’t anticipate is his startled expression, horrified as if you just told him there’s a ghost behind him. “How….how’d you know that?” The syllables unusually stutter out of him. It’s not like Seokjin to be inarticulate. “Jungkook hasn’t told anyone he loves her except for me.” It’s your turn to be surprised. The quietness lingers. Then, he sighs. “Don’t get involved,” he scolds, gentler than before. At the same moment, there are cheers from inside that leak out — clapping and hollering — you know Jimin’s proposed. Seokjin turns away, returning to the restaurant floor and you resume your position in the kitchen. Jihyo asks if there’s anything wrong, but you brush her off. For the rest of the night, you concentrate on your job and Seokjin’s friends bid farewell after their stomachs are full from dessert and there’s a diamond on Yuri’s finger. “Job well done everyone.” Seokjin has a satisfied look when he returns and Namjoon shares a smile with everyone. Clean up finishes soon after, but before you can leave, he calls you specifically. “Y/N, come here.” Taehyung looks at you with widened eyes, but you don’t utter a word, staying behind. The kitchen filters out and even Yoongi sends a sympathetic look your way before departing. It’s never a good thing to be called back. You brace yourself. If Seokjin didn’t make a scene firing you earlier than certainly will now. There’s no reason not to — you tried to stop an engagement between his close friends and he probably thinks you’re psychotic. You stand there in silence for a good minute as he fills out some paperwork. It feels like you’re in the principal’s office. Then, the corner of his mouth moves as he casts a glance at you. “Sometimes you borrow the kitchen to practice, right? You can practice tonight.” Confusion renders you immobile, filling your mouth with cotton, but you manage a slight nod. You start to chop vegetables into bowls, dicing and mincing ingredients that will be needed for tomorrow. All the while, Seokjin sits meters away from you with a bunch of papers. Either doing his taxes or filing a report to admit you into the hospital. You’re not sure which one it is. But halfway through, he pipes up again. “You should make something for the two of us to eat.” “Yes, chef.” On any other night, you would be bursting with excitement, knowing it was a chance to impress him. But now you wonder if this will be your last chance to cook. Within minutes, you have a pot on the stove, boiling for ten minutes. “Sit down,” he commands, motioning to the other stool and you oblige. Seokjin makes drinks in the meanwhile, asking what you want. When you mumble anything’s fine, he pulls out a few bottles from the back cabinet and starts mixing. You didn’t know he can bartend, but it’s almost expected that Kim Seokjin can do anything at this point. The atmosphere is terribly awkward, so you exhale from your nose and speak up, “I’m sorry. I...I know I stepped out of line. I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. I’m really so—” “I believe you,” Seokjin interjects, gaze meeting yours across the counter. Your breath hitches. “I didn’t believe you at first. About the whole ability thing. But when you told me that Jimin and Yuri won’t make it, I knew there was no other possible way.” He pours the drink into two glasses. “Jungkook and Yuri grew up together. He told me a long time ago he was in love with her and I was sworn to secrecy. No one else knows. Not his brother, his mom, or Jimin.” He passes it to you and sighs, taking a sip. “But there’s nothing I can do to stop Jimin or to help Jungkook. It’s something they have to figure out on their own.” You nod, gripping the stem of the glass. “I know.” There’s a pregnant pause. You lift your eyes and it connects with Seokjin’s. Instantly, you feel yourself breaking into a sweat at how intense he looks at you. “Is it true then?” he asks in the quaintness of the kitchen, his voice thick and low. “Are we going to end up together?” “It might change!” The words come out all too frantically in fear he’ll freak out like you did. You know it’s a lot to take in. “Things change all the time. You were supposed to end up with Jisoo, but then, but then things happened so….nothing’s ever certain. It all depends on our actions and choices. I know you don’t like people like me. I don’t have anything to offer you anyway—” “You need to have more confidence in yourself.” Your voice dies on your tongue. Seokjin’s staring at you again in a way that makes your palms clammy, so intense that you wonder if he’s scrutinizing your pores. You swallow hard, tearing your own gawking away until you hear sizzling. The two of you turn to where the pot is almost over boiling and you run over, grabbing it off the stove. “I-It’s done.” He grabs bowls as you set it down and uncover the lid. “What do we have here?” You’re embarrassed. It’s nothing like his fine dining dishes, or even his comfort food that somehow tastes like heaven. “It’s just carrot and potato curry stew. It’s actually something my family cooks…..so it’s nothing fancy.” Seokjin’s spoon dips into the liquid and it’s your turn to watch intently. He smells it, sips and his expression is kept blank. You stand. “I can throw it out if you want—!” “Why are you so jumpy today?” The corner of his plump lips curls. “And why would I want to throw out something so delicious?” Your heart stutters in your chest and tears fill your vision. He might not fire you after all and on top of that, both your inborn ability and cooking skills have been validated. You feel overwhelmed. Especially when he finishes his first bowl and goes for seconds. “This is what I’ve been missing in my cooking,” Seokjin murmurs with a tiny smile. “When they said I was missing my roots, I think I know what they mean now. Thank you, Y/N.” You’re not sure who’s filled with more gratitude. He smiles and you nod at him earnestly, speechless on what to say. At the end of the night, Seokjin drives you home in his black Mercedes. A kind of lull fills that car and it isn’t frightening like it usually would be. Rather, it’s comfortable. A little too short lasting. He parks the car at the curb in front of your apartment and you get out. “Thank you.” Yet after you shut the door, he rolls down the window and stops you. “Y/N.” You look at him and he smiles again. A phenomenon that used to be so rare that seems to happen frequently now. “I hope it doesn’t change.” Kim Seokjin gazes at you, eyes connected across the distance that feels like it’s closing. He never wavers and a lump forms into your throat. “Are we going to end up together?” — Your own words echo in the recesses of your mind— “It might change! Things change all the time.” But here he is. Going against all your efforts of trying to change fate itself. “I hope it doesn’t change. And I hope you don’t want it to change either.” Seokjin drives off, leaving you absolutely stunned. You wonder if he knows what he’s saying. But as you watch his car fade into the distance, somehow you’re not appalled or scared at the idea of being with him anymore.

The kitchen is an organized pandemonium. A place where everyone knows exactly what they’re supposed to do and moves in fluid motions by one another, like a busy crosswalk in the downtown area. It’s a kind of silent teamwork and while you’re merely helping Taehyung chop vegetables or washing the accumulated dishes, you know your role is still an important one. You just wish you could a little more. The moment the back door creaking can be heard, everything comes to a halt. Seokjin rounds the corner as everyone simultaneously greets him. “Good afternoon, chef.” “Afternoon.” There’s a smile on his features, one that surprises a few and makes the others unsettled. “There’s going to be a special menu item today, so I want that prepared as soon as possible.” He hands the new recipe to Namjoon who frowns upon the sprawled notes. “Carrot...and potato soup with chickpea crumble?” “If you need details, ask Y/N,” Seokjin says with a tiny smile. “It’s her recipe.” At once, everyone turns to you with shocked expressions. It’s one thing for Seokjin to suddenly introduce something new, but to introduce yours, it’s both unprecedented and a privilege. You stare at him and his smile widens slightly. “I hope you don’t mind.” “N-Not at all.” The daily tasks commence, but not without a pat on the back from Yoongi, a congratulations from Jihyo and a smile sent your way by Taehyung. Namjoon and Hoseok ask for your help and it’s the first time you’re not just mincing garlic in the corner or washing a stack of dishes. Pride bursts through you and you look across the kitchen to Kim Seokjin. He scoffs at how big your smile is, feigns a glare and tells you to get back to work. The rest of the dinner service goes smoothly. Your appetizer gets compliments from several and you couldn’t be any happier, even when everyone’s left and you’re still scrubbing dishes. There’s a click of a tongue beside you. Seokjin stands with his arms crossed. “You always find ways to make me pay you overtime. Move over.” He rolls up his sleeves and helps you wash the last pots and pans. “Thank you for today. It was a good surprise.” He hums and the pair of you finish up before he tells you to unload the dishwasher tomorrow. “Go change and grab your coat. It’s getting late.” “Are you going to drive me home?” “No. We’re going to scope out some competition.” “Competition?” “We’re going to eat at a restaurant called Dog World,” Seokjin brushes off quickly, but when you continue to blink at him, he sighs and waves you off. “Don’t ask too many questions, alright? This is my excuse for asking you out on a date.” If you weren’t caught off guard before, you’re wholly stunned speechless now. A deer in headlights. And it makes the older bastard grin widely. “Don’t worry.” His voice knocks down into a gentler tone. “You can reject me if you want. I don’t want you to be pressured because I’m your boss, even though I don’t think that matters to you. But you should also know I’m not doing this because of what you see.” He gestures above his head, unknowingly batting the cloud of fog you can perceive. “I’m doing this because I want to.” It sinks into you and your head tilts to your shoulder. “You….want to go out on a date with me?” The corner of Seokjin’s lip pulls and he diverts his vision elsewhere. You notice how his ears are turning red. “Ever since you sat down with me and told me that getting cheated on was sad enough and that they shouldn’t rub it in.” There’s silence. The first stretch of it is because you genuinely don’t know what to say to him. But the second stretch that follows is when you realize just how nervous he is and there’s a ruthless urge to keep him on the edge. You make him simmer in fear, a similar kind to the countless ones he’s given you during stressful shifts in the kitchen. There’s something powerful yet endearing about how Kim Seokjin anticipates your answer. You never thought he could be this way. He just keeps surprising you. When you can’t contain it anymore, you burst out laughing. “I’ll accept on the condition that if you take my recipe permanently, you’ll need to pay me royalties appropriately. Don’t think I won’t take you out to court, Kim.” Seokjin grins and for the first time, certainty sews into you. You have a feeling fate isn’t going to change and you hope it doesn’t either.

[Epilogue] The kitchen is your home. You’re sure Jin would adamantly argue that the house was perfectly fine to be considered your home, but there’s still a charm to the busy kitchen that has drawn you in since childhood. Even if the heat swelters in the still air and is stifling, even when grease and oil splatter and stains your clothes, the effort in cooking makes the food that comes from it even more delicious. “What is this?” All heads turn at your voice and you motion to the plate about to be brought out. “The rice is on the wrong side of the plate! Re-do this, and watch the plating people! I know it’s easy to forget but it’s important to be consistent with the presentation!” “Yes, chef!” It’s strenuous and difficult to be here. It took years to get to where you are, but you wouldn’t trade it in for anything. The reward is worth it. You love your job — maybe even more than Jin, and while you’re sure he wouldn’t be surprised, he’d still playfully whine about being casted aside. The rest of the night goes off without a hitch and once the kitchen is all clean, you switch off the lights and lock the doors. And like magic, the person you’ve been thinking about all day is leaning against the car parked on the curb, arms crossed as he stares out into the starry sky. “About time. I’ve been waiting for the past twenty minutes.” You scoff with a smile and discern the cold cloud emitting from his lips each time he exhales. This is the exact opposite of what you intended to happen. Sometimes you wonder if it was a self-fulfilling prophecy — by knowing he was going to be with you and trying to avoid it, you inadvertently made him closer to you. But whatever the case may be, you’re glad for the outcome. You close the distance and slap your hands against his frozen cheeks, trying to warm them up. A smile tugs on your features. “Sorry. You’re cold, aren’t you? You should’ve just waited in the car.” “But I wanted to see you right away,” he mutters, putting his hands on top of yours to keep you there, then he adds, “and it gives me reason to do this.” Seokjin grins and leans in to press a soft kiss against your lips, one that you smile into. If any of his old kitchen staff or even the current group saw him now, they’d faint with how grossly affectionate he was being. Then again, they might just be used to it considering Jin hasn’t ever paid mind to other people. He’s never been one to opt out of public displays of affection either. “You know I’ve been thinking lately.” “About?” “How hard I tried to get rid of you and how I couldn’t. You’re kind of like a pest.” Your husband of two years straightens his spine, wholly offended. “Pest?” Laughter bubbles out of your chest and you press another chaste kiss to his lips before you’re pushing him aside to get into the car. Seokjin chuckles, rounding the vehicle to get into the driver’s seat. “Are you hungry?” “Not really.” “Namjoon and Taehyung want us to go to the opening of their restaurant.” “Their opening event lasts for three days right? We can always go tomorrow.” You turn to him as he pulls off, driving down the street. “I’m kind of craving your comfort food tonight.” Jin grins, easily obliging while your eyes flicker up to the cloud of fog above his head. You see yourself smiling as widely as you are now, and you’re thankful you have your ability.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #seokjin fanfic #jin fanfic #jin fluff #jin scenario #jin reader insert #seokjin fluff #seokjin scenario #Jin as a scary chef :( who's just hardcore about his passion #yo this got Jungle Park Hoseok vibes lol ngl #actually it was inspired by the k-drama Oh My Ghost #I never finished watching it really but I based off the way their kitchen worked with this fic #so if it doesn't seem like a traditional kitchen that's why #I hope you guys enjoy this oneshot!#It's a more classic Jimlingss fluff #with a decent storyline

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fanmoose12 · 4 years ago

Text

at the coastline of memories

For the longest time, Hange had been lost.

(or a fic about amnesiac!hange, based on that one ask i’ve received ages ago)

Hange wakes up, and the world is still dark. She blindly reaches to the bedside table, lights up the gas lamp on, grabs her glasses and puts them on. The world comes into focus and Hange glances at the opposite wall, checking the time.

4:32

She curls her lips in a slight smile. She woke up just in time.

She swings her legs of the bed and yawns, stretching her limbs. She gets up and heads to the kitchen, putting a kettle on a stove and firing it up.

While the kettle heats up, she moves to the bathroom, grabbing a soothing balm on her way.

Once there, Hange takes off her glasses and starts applying the balm, carefully smearing it all over her face.

The burns don't hurt anymore, at least not as much as they did in the beginning. Hange learned how to live with it just as she learned how to live with not knowing how she had received these burns or how she got there - to the middle of nowhere, on a coastline next to a ruined structure that she could only guess was once a port.

Finished with her face, Hange moves to her hands, applying the balm to the inside of her fingers and the backside of her palm. The balm cools her still tender wounds and Hange softly signs, relishing in the pleasant feeling.

The whistle of a kettle shakes her up and Hange whirls around, hurrying to turn it off. She gives another look at the clock, worrying her lip between teeth as she sees that it's past quarter to five. It's only the beginning of spring and the sun doesn't raise up that early at this time of year, but Hange feels a pressing need to hurry. She can't be late, not today, not after she spent weeks, chasing the mysterious man.

The man that had been visiting Hange's cabin for as long as she was living there. He brings her food, medicine, clothes and other supplies. Sometimes he even goes as far as to bring her little gifts - books, flowers and sweets.

He never shows his face, though. He never approaches Hange, never talks with her. Whenever she attempts to catch him, he disappears without a trace. She has only ever seen him from far, in the rare moments when she was lucky enough to catch him leaving her cabin. Frustratingly so, he does his best to remain hidden.

Hange doesn't understand it. The man - for whatever reason - obviously cares about her. Then why is he so dead set on staying away? Why doesn't he let her express her gratitude at least?

She thinks every night about it. She curses her mind for forgetting.

Her previous life exists only in the flashes of sound and images. They're bright, loud, blurry and swift. Hange can't make sense of them no matter how hard she tries. It frustrates her to no end, makes her want to tear out what little hair is left out on her scalp, but nothing comes back to her.

She's sure that the man is important, she's almost sure that he was a part of her old life. What reason does he have to help her now after all?

But the man doesn't want to see her, and Hange needs to see him, so she resorts to different methods. He won't be running away from her anymore, she is going to make sure of that.

With that in mind, Hange pours hot water in two cups, adding tea leaves to it. She throws some sugar in her cup, but hesitates to do the same with the cup she's preparing for that man. She doesn't know why, but it feels wrong.

Your sugary shit destroys the true essence of tea, she suddenly remembers. For the life of her, she can't recall who has said that to her. Or when. Or why.

Deciding to tackle this issue some other time, Hange goes back into the room, wraps a blanket around her shoulders and then takes the cups with steaming tea.

Pushing the front door open with her leg, she comes out on a porch and breathes in deeply, savoring the fresh, crisp air. She puts the cups down on a small table and settles down in a rocking chair, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. Hange shivers slightly, the morning chill freezing her fingers and toes.

She hides them inside the warm cocoon of a thick fabric and turns her eyes to the horizon. The stars slowly disappear, showing a narrow strip of golden light. It paints the sea below it in a gentle purple color.

A smile pulls on her lips as she continues to watch the sunrise. Hange sits back in a chair, rocking slightly. She glances to one side, then to another. Confirming that the coast is clear, she allows herself to close her eyes for just a second.

Just a second, and the world around her is dark again.

***

Hange groans, shielding her eyes from a light shining right at her. She looks up and nearly jumps. The sun is high in the sky. She was going to rest just for a bit. For how long that bit had lasted?

She swirls her head from side to side. The coastline is clear. Already clear. There is no one there, and she is alone.

She looks down then and sees a small package by the door. She glances at the table with teacups on it. One of them is empty.

Despite her failed attempt at catching the mysterious and annoying, but extremely nice man, Hange smiles.

"Have you enjoyed the tea at least?" she asks, hoping that he listens.

***

Hange spends the next couple of mornings, watching the sunset and anxiously waiting for the man to show up. She slaps her face and pinches the skin of her arm, stopping herself from falling asleep. It bears no result, however, because the man doesn't show up.

It is only when Hange finally gives up, returning inside her cabin that the man returns. She disappears for just a moment, going inside to make another cup of tea. When she comes back, a package with fresh fish, a journal and a few quills is already awaiting her. Hange sighs, annoyed at the man, despite his gifts. She needs another plan, it seems.

***

She has more than enough time to think about it. Hange’s life is dull and uneventful to a point of making her feel weird. She doesn’t know what life she led before she was found on the coastline near the port, with severe burns and wounds and before she stumbled into abandoned, old cabin, but this— this peace and quiet that defies her every living moment now, it’s— it’s not unwelcome. But it seems wrong. There is a need, a desperation set deep in her bones. It torments her at night, nudging her to do something, anything. It always keeps her on edge, pushing her in the unfamiliar direction.

That direction feels a dead-end.

***

Not every part of her life is lost. There are some memories that persistently linger in the depth of her mind. She still remembers her childhood - the bright, sunny days, filled with carelessness and wonder. The way wind blew through her hair, the way sunlight danced on her skin and kissed her cheeks, these memories don’t fade. On the contrary, there is more life in them than in Hange herself.

She knows the gentle touch of her mother and remembers the strict face of her father. She can close her eyes and see her puppy, running towards her every time she came home from the never-ending adventures, greeting her with loud, happy barking and wiggling tail.

Her school, a grand beautiful building with big windows and polished floors, still lives in her memory. And the image of the school’s library – the favorite place in the whole world for little Hange, where she spent countless afternoons – fills her with happiness and content even after all these years. She remembers the displeasure and annoyance she felt in the moments when she couldn’t reach the higher shelves. She jumped and stretched out her hand and balanced on the balls of her feet, huffed and scoffed, but nothing ever worked out, until she let go of her pride and went to fetch a chair. She still recalls the wonder and excitement every book evoked inside her. Her fingertips, although scarred and burned, didn’t forget the feeling of yellowed pages. The voice of her teacher, scolding her for reading without proper lighting, still echoes in her ears.

However, everything after that, past the playgrounds and school yards, is nothing more than a blur.

She remembers the cold, dark nights, spent by a fire, surrounded by merry laughter. She remembers the feeling of adrenaline, of excitement and agitation, yet can’t recall what exactly had caused these emotions. She remembers the parchment and a quill, remembers that she used to write, write, write. Not a single written word comes back to her, though. She remembers a bright, imposing figure right ahead, a reassuring, calming presence just behind her shoulder, and someone standing right next to her, their hands almost touching.

These people were important, Hange knows that. She wants to remember them so desperately.

But no matter how much she tries— she can’t.

***

Whatever life she used to have, it most certainly couldn’t have been easy. It was not a life of leisure and prosperity, because her body, despite its weak and injured state, still isn’t used to lazing around.

The spring only just began, and the earth is too cold yet for gardening. As long as the cool weather holds, Hange has nothing to occupy herself with. There are no seeds to plant, no weeds to pull out, no crops to look after. She has all the time in the world.

She can sleep as much as she wants, yet every morning she wakes up at the very break of dawn. Still exhausted and weary, she forces herself to sleep for a little bit more, but she can’t.

So she walks out on a porch, a cup of tea in her hands, and watches the sun slowly rise up over the sea. The sight is mesmerizing, Hange watches it every morning and yet she’s not bored of it in the slightest. She feels like she will never get bored of it, she drinks it more eagerly than the hot tea.

Watching the world growing from black to light, cold blue, before settling into palette of bright yellow, orange and pink never fails in making Hange sigh in wonder. The crush of waves across the shore, the sun beams illuminating the dark green water, the white foam swirling around evoke a warm, tender feeling inside her. It’s a confusing bundle of excitement, pride and happiness.

It makes her think – maybe, it was all worth it.

It makes her think – maybe, we can finally be free.

*** There is nothing much for her to do, so Hange concentrates on getting her memories back. It’s not an easy task, and it proves to be even harder, when Hange comes to conclusion that she has but a single clue, nothing more than a thin, uneven string that connects her past and present life.

That man.

So she thinks long and hard about her next course of action, writes one plan after another in her recently received journal. The process is oddly familiar, it brings her a sort of nostalgia, although Hange doesn't know the source of it. Still, it's comforting and she spends long mornings, days and nights, sitting at her porch under the light of sun, gas lamp and stars, thinking how to get closer to that kind, but irritatingly distant man.

In the end, she can't come up with a decent enough plan, and so Hange resorts to leaving a note to him. She wants to show her gratitude, and if she can't do it face-to-face, if he wishes to continue hiding from her, then so be it, she'll play by his rules.

It frustrates her, she can't deny it, but she needs to do something, and it’s the very least she can do after all the kindness this man has bestowed upon her.

***

The next time, when a package is delivered to her doorstep, it contains fresh apples and seeds. With a smile on her face, Hange brings it all inside and sets out to work.

She washes her hands, puts the apples on the counter and fires up the oven. Next she takes a bag of flour and pours it into a bowl. She adds water and sugar and mixes it all up. She opens the oven, places the bottom crust and spills the contents of the bowl there. Then Hange moves to the basket, delivered by a man. She grabs a few apples, washes them thoroughly and starts cutting them.

It takes her a while to finish, and so Hange starts humming under her breath, losing herself in the routine of gripping one side of apple with the fingers of her left hand and then slicing it with a knife she's holding in her right one.

The quick chop-chop-chop sets a tune to the melody she's humming and Hange smiles, enjoying the mundenity of it all.

At least, nothing will explode this time...

The thought is so bizarre, it appears completely out of blue. Hange freezes for a second, ruining the rhythm of her work. She looks up to the celling and repeats that thought, muttering it under her breath.

Explosion, explosion...

What could it possibly mean? Why does it fill her with anxiety? And what is that another feeling? Fear?

Tree branch hits the window in that exact moment, and Hange jumps. The sudden sound rings unusually loud in the silence of her little cabin.

It sounds almost like a gunshot.

This thought leaves Hange feeling even more shaken that she was before.

She exhales nervously, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles go white. She feels dizzy out of sudden. Like there isn't enough air in the room.

Like she's swimming underwater and struggling to take a breath.

Why does that feeling seem familiar?

Hange shakes her head, wipes her forehead with the backside of her palm, hoping that it would help get rid of those ridiculous thoughts.

"I should spend more time outside," she mumbles, her voice still trembling. With unsteady hands she returns to the apples.

She quickly finishes chopping them and then puts it all in the oven.

Now all she has is to wait, and so Hange heads into the bedroom to get a paper and quill from there. After all, the pie is worth nothing, if she doesn’t write a note.

***

When the pie is ready, Hange puts it on the best plate she possesses. She covers it with the only napkin she has and then she takes it outside, setting it on a table at the porch. She brews a cup of tea and puts it next to the plate. Then she lays down a note.

Since you don't let me thank you any other way, it reads. Hange hopes it won’t go unanswered.

***

Next morning she wakes up and immediately dashes out of the house, stopping only to put her glasses on and get her warm robe. She forgets about her morning balm applying ritual, too excited to see the results of her little experiment.

Just as she hoped, the pie and tea are gone. Her note is gone too and another one lies instead.

Grinning from ear to ear, Hange eagerly snatches it in her arms, grips it tightly with her fingers and squints slightly, quickly reading it.

Work on your cooking skills, four-eyes. The pie was awful. Try adding less sugar next time. I think just a piece of this shitty pie could give someone cavities. Tea was good, though.

Hange rereads the note a few times, struggling to understand. She can't quite decide if she should be angry or amused. She settles on a mix of something in between.

Her experiment produced an unexpected results, it seems. It helped her realize that her assumption about that man was a bit wrong. He's kind, yes. Caring too. But he's not nice. Quite the contrary. He's a little piece of shit, Hange decides with a gleeful smile.

How curious, she thinks and lets out a happy snicker.

***

Hange's shirt rips at the seams a few days later. It's not her only shirt - the mysterious man has made sure of that - but it's her favorite one. So Hange searches the house, turning it upside down to find a needle and a thread.

Her hands tremble as she tries to fit the thread into the needle and Hange curses, as she misses the small aperture once again. She pushes the glasses up on her forehead and squints, struggling to get the thread inside.

After a few failed attempts and more than a few colorful words, Hange succeeds. She celebrates it with a wide grin and grabs the shirt, starting to stitch the torn parts together.

The stitch is even and neat, Hange wonders if she has been taught that. As far as she remembers, her mother tried numerous times to teach her how to do embroidery, but little Hange always refused, running away and hiding in the library. Evidently, she changed a lot since then.

I managed to stitch his face just as perfectly.

Hange blinks as that thought appears. She closes her eyes and instead of a shirt, she sees a bloody mess of ripped skin, muscles and tendons.

She blinks again and that vision is gone. Hange closes her eyes, tries to recreate the image, but she's drawing a blank this time. She is greeted with nothing but darkness.

She growls in frustration and throws the goddamn shirt away.

She was so close to remembering something, to getting back a part of her life. But, as before, it had ended in a failure.

The feeling is strangely familiar to her.

***

She spends the next week, writing little notes to the man. Sometimes he answers, granting her with more of his crude and sarcastic comments. Other times, when she attempts to ask a personal question, when she begs him to tell her his name or when she laments about wanting to get to know him, the messages go unanswered and her note stays exactly where she laid it, fluttering in the wind.

The frustration gets to her after a while and Hange starts to feel bored. The routine is pressing onto her and so she packs what little provision she has, grabs one of her warmer sweaters, puts on a patch to hide her missing eye and decides to go exploring.

There is a town near enough that it takes only a couple of hours to get there. Hange visited it once, before the winter came and the snow made the trip impossible. The town isn’t big – truthfully, it’s hard to even call it a town – the place stands in ruins with only a few houses rebuild and ready to let people in.

Now, as Hange enters the town after three long months, she sees that it’s changed. Not much, but enough to attract attention, enough to make Hange marvel at the additional buildings and appreciate the hard labor done by the townspeople.

She walks through the town slowly, gawking at everything and everyone. Despite the chilly weather, the people are working hard, rebuilding what was once lost.

When she came to this town for the first time, she asked about the cause of this ruin, thinking that it could be linked to her own wounds, and, consequently, to her old life.

The answers she received, though, didn’t satisfy her. The tales of giant people, destroying everything in their path sounded familiar, almost similar to the stories her mother used to tell her. It reminded her of the tales about titans Hange read in the school’s library. She was scared of them back then, and at the same time excited too. She always wanted to see one up close, and so she felt something close to regret when the townspeople informed her that there are no titans anymore.

“Those island devils got rid of them, thank gods,” one woman said to Hange back then. “Everyone now calls them heroes, but do you wish to know what I think? We should have destroyed them all along with their damned island.”

Hateful words left a bile taste in Hange’s mouth. They made her angry for a reason she couldn’t even understand. She left quickly after, her mind even a bigger mess than usual.

Now, as she strolls through the narrow streets, Hange thinks back to that conversation. Is it true that those islanders are to blame? Could it be that they’re the reason for the burns on her body? For the memories she lost? Maybe, Hange should hate them too?

It’s easy to hate someone when you don’t know them, she remembers words from one of her teachers at school. Hange finds it hard to agree with that statement. She thinks the contrary is true – it’s impossible and irrational to hate someone, when you don’t even know them.

She banishes these thoughts as she turns a corner and sees a man struggling to carry a large wooden pole. Hange isn’t that strong herself, the wounds taking its toll on her, but she rushes over to him, ready to help. She grips the pole with her hands and lifts it up, putting it on her shoulder to support it.

The man slightly turns his head, probably with intent of thanking her. Their eyes meet and he drops the pole almost instantly.

“You!” he gasps, his eyes wide. “It’s you!”

Hange puts the pole down and frowns. She wants to ask the man so many questions. What does he mean? Does he know her? Did they meet before? When? Who is he? Who is she?

Before she can at least open her mouth, the man grips her shoulders and stares at her face, his eyes running up and down frantically, as a wide smile pulls on his lips.

“It really is you,” he concludes happily. “Captain— he was right! He didn’t imagine it all, oh god, it’s a miracle!”

“I’m sorry,” Hange says slowly. “But who are you?”

“Oh.” The man lets her go immediately. He takes a step back and fixes his shirt. His eyes fill with sadness.

“So he was right about this as well,” he whispers more to himself than to Hange. “Forgive me, please,” he adds, and he does look apologetic, but Hange suspects it’s for entirely different reason. “I mistook you for a good friend.”

“Onyankopon!” someone calls from inside the house. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Sorry,” he repeats, flashing her a painfully forced smile. “I need to go.”

He leaves before Hange can reply and ask him to stay and explain.

“Onyankopon.” Hange mutters, pronouncing each syllable.

The name doesn’t seem familiar. But it spreads a wave of warmth through her chest.

***

She keeps muttering that name under her breath on her way home. It results in absolutely nothing, but Hange is nothing if not persistent. When she comes back home, she finds a few hyacinths planted in a pot that stands at the table at her porch.

Hange’s heart swells at the sight of it. The flowers are purple, and it’s her favorite color. She wonders if the man knows that little bit of trivia about her and if the choice of color was purposeful. She writes a quick note, asking him exactly that.

At the bottom of a page, she asks if the man knows a guy, named Onyankopon.

As always happens with that kind of questions, she doesn’t receive an answer.

***

Too soon, life returns to the world. The trees become greener, the sun shines brighter, and the water in the ocean gets warm enough for Hange to dip her toes in it.

The birds return back to the coastline too, the seagulls filling Hange’s quiet life with cheerful squeaking. When she isn't busy with crops and flowers in her little garden, Hange walks out on a beach and spends her days, watching the little things fly around. The sight is strangely calming, soothing her weary soul.

It’s during one of those perfect, peaceful days that it happens. There is not a cloud in the sky and a soft breeze moves through the air, entangling in her hair and moving through a thin cotton shirt she’s wearing. She curls her lips in a smile, squinting against the bright sun.

In that moment, Hange feels blissfully content.

It happens faster that she can react. She looks up, shifting her eyes from the sea to the flock of seagulls, flying high enough that Hange needs to raise her head.

There are eight of them – two bigger ones are on the front, leading the others, while the rest is flying behind, keeping close to each other.

Hange’s smile widens at the sight of the small family.

And it slips from her face, as she sees that one of birds, the one of two at the front, starts falling. Hange watches it as though in slow motion, staring at the sudden descent with wide shocked eyes.

The seagull’s body hits the ground with a soft sound that isn’t loud enough to be heard over the ocean’s hissing or the beating of Hange’s heart.

The other birds halt their movement but don’t dive in the sand. They hover above the body on the ground, silently mourning one of their kind, before continuing their flight.

Looking at it hurts.

Hange stares at it for another long moment, and then scrambles onto her feet, gathering the little bird into her trembling hands. She can feel the faint heartbeat beneath her fingers and Hange rushes back to her cabin, desperate to help the injured creature.

***

She spends the whole day, nursing little one back to health. After all of her efforts, it lives and breathes, but it’s too weak to fly or even move yet. Hange prepares a makeshift nest for a bird and leaves it there, watching closely.

She falls asleep right at the table, where she left the seagull, using her own elbow as a pillow.

It’s there, where, later that night, Hange has a nightmare.

She had dreams before, always blurry, filled with silhouettes and shadows, always disappearing from her mind with first rays of sunshine.

This one is different. This one is terrifying as it is vivid. It still isn't concrete enough, but it evokes something inside her— something that hurts.

The dream – it was full of desperation. It was full of confusing feelings, of ‘there is no one, but me, who can do this’ and ‘I don’t want to go, not right now, not from him’. The thing that feels the most real, the thing that makes her heart ache is a feeling of a hand on her chest. It’s warm, so warm that it burns. It gets through a few layers of clothing, marking her skin, before finally reaching her heart.

And before she can enjoy it, before she can savor this sweet torture, the hand is gone. The hand is gone, and she’s still burning, but this— this fire that spreads through her veins is different. It kisses her skin, but not gently, not like a lover. It kisses her with dispassionate hatred, with apathy that is set to destroy her. It kisses her, sucking all the air out of her lungs.

And then— then Hange is falling.

***

She wakes up before her body hits the ground. A loud, annoying noise stirs her sleep. She lifts her head and the sound doesn’t stop.

Hange groggily looks around, confused and disoriented. It takes her another few seconds to locate the source of the commotion.

It’s the window at the far side of her cabin. Someone is knocking on it. A sound between a gasp and laughter bubbles out of Hange’s throat as she takes a good look at the intruder.

It’s a seagull.

She slowly rises to her feet and approaches the window, opening it. The bird instantly flies inside, and Hange isn’t at all surprised to see that it stops in front of the nest she made for her winged patient.

From across the room, Hange watches the birds interact. The newly arrived seagull approaches its friend cautiously, slowly. When it reaches to wounded seagull, it opens his beak and puts a small fish down, so the other bird could reach it.

Hange almost coos at the sight.

The caring seagull doesn’t stay for long. It waits until the wounded one finishes the fish, and then it flies away, leaving Hange’s cabin through the still opened window.

“I’ll call you Sawney,” she whispers, as the bird flies past her. “And you will be Bean,” she grins, approaching the wounded bird.

As she checks the state of the bird, the strange dream continues to linger at the back of Hange’s mind.

Is that what had happened to her? Did she almost burn alive? Whose hand was on her chest? Who was the person she didn’t want to leave? Where are they now?

Why just thinking about it hurts so much?

She’s desperate to get her answers, and she knows a person, who most certainly has them.

In a last, almost definitely futile attempt to find the truth, Hange sits down and writes a letter. She writes about her dream, about lost memories and torn connections. She writes, asking, begging the man to let her know who she was. Who she is.

The next day, she receives her answer. It’s a disappointingly short one.

Forgive me. It’s better this way.

***

After that, Hange tries to forget about her forgotten life. She lost her memories. She’s still alive and able to make new ones.

The life goes on, and so does Hange.

The summer rolls around and suddenly she's constantly busy, tending to her crops and garden.

She continues to look after the injured Bean. The progress is slow, but Hange's patient. The bird's family is patient too, and they frequently fly inside Hange's cabin to bring more food or simply to visit. Suddenly, it’s not just Sawney and Bean. It’s a whole flock of seagulls.

When the mess inside gets too much even for Hange, she moves the nest outside and the rest of the flock starts living there, caring about the injured bird in little ways they can.

The birds can be loud, but Hange doesn't mind. They provide a company in her quiet life, they help keeping the loneliness at bay.

Birdwatching becomes one of her favorite past times. There is a certain appeal in studying the winged creatures. Hange notes different kinds of movements and habits each bird exhibits. She watches them hunt and eat, watches them interact with each other. Sometimes she even brings out a journal, cataloging everything she finds peculiar about her small test subjects.

It’s comforting in some way. It almost fills the void inside her chest.

***

One day, she receives a bag of sweets. On top of it lays a note that says:

Are your hobbies so boring that watching the birds is somehow fun for you?

Hange giggles, as she reads it, and quickly writes a reply.

It's much more fun than you think!

***

Something changes after that small exchange.

The man starts leaving her messages more frequently, and Hange, now that she let go of her attempts to get her memories back, answers each and one of them.

Her mysterious friend is actually funny, Hange realizes after his secrecy stops annoying her. He’s sarcastic and crude, and has quite a foul mouth.

Hange enjoys that aspect of him more that she probably should.

She enjoys their little conversation too, even though they’re not particularly lengthy. The man doesn’t visit her every day, but when he does, he always leaves a small note, asking how is she doing and what does she need him to bring. Hange answers him with more varied questions. She asks about his favorite color, his favorite season and if he sleeps on his back or on his side. She etches every answer into her mind, collecting bits of trivia about him like it’s the most valuable treasure.

Despite never seeing his face, Hange likes him. A lot.

His notes always bring a smile to her lips. Hange starts to miss him when he doesn’t show up for a few days. And after a while she realizes – she starts caring about this man. Not as an acquaintance from her past life, not as a means to get her memories back. He becomes something more to her.

He becomes a friend.

***

It all happens in almost unbelievably mundane way.

A vicious storm catches Hange unaware. The weather was sunny and warm one moment, and in the next – the wind picks up, throwing sand in her eyes. The rain starts a mere seconds after, drenching her clothes in a record time. The seagulls she was watching don’t waste a single moment and soar into the air, hurriedly leaving to seek a shelter.

Hange needs to find a hiding place too. She gets to her feet and starts walking. Her steps aren't swift or hasty, she slowly strolls back to the cabin. Despite the harsh rain and wet clothes, she doesn’t shiver.

The rain turns into a downpour, but Hange enjoys it nevertheless. The droplets that persistently hit her face feel warm. They soothe the burns that still ache. They elevate the pain that hides deep in her bones.

The lightning strikes, the sudden booming sound ringing over the empty beach. It startles Hange, but she doesn’t cry out – she laughs, louder than rain and thunder. She spins around, yelling in pure joy.

In that moment, Hange is happy. In that moment, she is free.

It’s with laughter still bubbling out of her throat that she sees him. His hand shielding his head from a downpour, he descends from the porch. His eyes are cast down, watching his step.

Hange freezes in her spot, watching him.

He lifts his face, their eyes meet, and— and everything makes sense now. Everything comes back, the memories return as though she never lost them.

“Levi,” the name stumbles from her lips unprompted, unplanned. “Levi.” She repeats it again, because she likes the sound of it. Without realizing it, she missed saying his name, she missed him. So she calls his name again. And again.

Levi watches her, clenching and unclenching his fist. He takes a deep breath, shakes his head and then asks. “So your memories returned?”

“They did,” Hange nods.

“When?”

She shrugs. “Just now.”

“And you…” he clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to another. His eyes don’t leave her face. “You aren’t freaked out by this?”

She shrugs again. “I guess I’m still processing. Would you like to… help me with it?”

And before he can answer, Hange adds. “I know I’ve talked about living in the forest but… will the coastline be good enough for you?”

“You’re more than enough,” he says and takes a step closer. Hange takes a step too.

They meet in the middle.

#is this thing too weird? probably!#levihan #levihan fanfiction

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distinctlywhumpthing · 3 years ago

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Together 12: First sight.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

CW: Alright, this is pre-captivity but you all know where it's going so this is *creepy*. Breaking the law, stealing, smoking.

I was waiting in line at a convenience store when I first saw her. She was in front of me, completely unremarkable until it was her turn at the register.

“Excuse me,” she said sweetly, innocently. “There’s something wrong with the drink machine.” She pointed across the store, the laziness of the gesture not matching her theatrical tone.

“Huh?” The clerk craned around the displays on the counter. Sure enough, red and blue slush were drizzling onto the counter and had already swirled into a purple puddle on the floor. “Oh, Shit!” They scrambled across the store.

When I turned back to face the register, the girl was already hopping up backward to sit on the tall counter. Legs crossed under her pleated skirt, she leaned back through the hanging lottery tickets and racks of sunglasses and plucked a pack of cigarettes out of the overhead case with practiced accuracy. When she straightened and saw me watching, she raised one perfect, arched eyebrow, daring me to speak up, before hopping down. Picked up a candy bar and walked out of the store without looking back and swung a left.

The employee returned a few minutes later, frazzled, and wiping purple-stained hands on paper towels from an industrial roll under their arm, babbling about the mess. Eventually, they gave me a sour look because I wasn’t participating in the expected back-and-forth about the inconvenience of the preceding event.

I made eye contact with them until they looked away and finally surrendered my change.

I slid my cigarettes into my jacket, took a left out of the door, and followed the strip mall to the end. Another left and I found her. Tucked in the alley between the flat side of the building and a tall fence, sitting on the half-wide sidewalk with a stolen cigarette balanced between her lips. She ran her hands through her braided hair, shaking it out. She stretched her tights-covered legs out in front of her and leaned back against the brick wall, closing her eyes and sweeping the cigarette away between two fingers as she exhaled.

“You’re a little young to be shoplifting,” I said as I walked over.

She looked up, squinting in the sunlight behind me.

“They usually say that about the smoking,” she said, sounding bored and turning away. Thin, graceful fingers brought the cigarette back to her lips and she took a long drag.

“They’re not wrong,” I commented.

Her wide eyes slid over, looking at my shoes. Hers were well-worn with deep scuffs but had recently been shoddily shined, probably in observance of dress code.

“What do you want?” she asked with a hint of an edge to her tone. She was used to being bothered or taught to expect it. She looked young but not at all naive. Delicate but not fragile. Beautiful.

“How about a cigarette?” I said.

She turned and glared up at me despite the sun hitting her eyes. “You seem like you can buy your own.”

“I’ll owe you one.”

She snorted but held up the pack, torn plastic still half-on, foil already crumpled by her fidgeting.

I pulled one out and she offered me a book of matches. I was familiar with the club they were from. It was popular among kids who had fake IDs to get in but there was also a whole underground scene there, too. I couldn’t imagine her there. I didn’t want to. I passed them back and crossed the narrow alley so I could see her face and lean against the fence while I smoked.

Her dark gaze followed me, curious. No, discerning. Her eyes flicked from my watch, to my hair, my fingers holding the cigarette, and finally my eyes. Sizing me up. I continued to do the same. Her uniform was well-ironed but the cardigan was missing a button and there was a run in her tights on the ankle. It stopped there like she’d dabbed glue or nail polish on it to try and save them. She didn’t have a bag or anything with her. Just the stolen cigarettes and candy bar on the curb next to her and the book of matches. I recognized the crest on her polo, the school was just a few blocks away.

“Cutting class?” I guessed, knowing the answer.

“It’s just a test review. I already got a perfect score,” she said, her tone mocking.

Whether she mocked this class or the whole institution, I wanted to know. Her eyes briefly dipped down to the left after she spoke. Underneath the bravado was discomfort.

I watched her hand float to her mouth again with the cigarette. She wet her lips unconsciously before she placed it between them. Her cheekbones and jaw looked even more chiseled as her inhale made her cheeks dip into her face. Even after she let her cigarette hand fall, she pulled in air on top of the smoke, filling her lungs completely so there was a bit of a delay before her exhale was visible.

She calmly watched me watching her, somehow not uncomfortable like most people are under uninterrupted inspection. Her gaze felt bottomless.

“I never finished school,” I told her.

That eyebrow raised again and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Seems like you survived.”

I shrugged and looked down as I flicked ash off my cigarette. “It’s overrated. ‘Best years of your life’ and all that quintessential bullshit. Never came close,” I said. “Being an adult is much better.”

“Well, I'm already eighteen. Seems like the bullshit's gonna outlive me,” she deadpanned, searching my face unblinking. Daring again but I saw the rawness underneath.

I tilted my head as I held her eyes and took a slow drag of my cigarette before dropping it.

She didn’t react as I came to stand in front of her, just kept her eyes on my face. Not daring me anymore. Something softer. Waiting. Calm anticipation.

I fished a card out of my pocket and held it out to her. “If you want to call in that favor.”

Her gaze dropped. I couldn’t see her full expression anymore but what I saw looked almost like chagrin. She took my card anyway, pinched between her thumb and forefinger right next to her cigarette.

“Wyatt,” she read, then looked into my face again.

I nodded. “I owe you one…?”

“Emma,” she offered softly.

“Emma,” I repeated, returning her gaze. “Really. Anytime, Emma,” I added before turning away.

Those dark eyes were enthralling. I couldn’t decide if falling into them was unnerving, gratifying, or both.

Either way, I wanted more.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Taglist: @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @whumpy-writings @maracujatangerine

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some-kindofgnome · 4 years ago

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Kinktober #13: can we always be this close? - Mirio Togata

In which you and Mirio spend a very romantic birthday evening together.

Characters: Mirio Togata / f!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+ please!) Quirkless Mirio, aged up characters, fluffy smut, fluffy fluff, this is tooth-achingly syrupy, with the barest edge of heartfelt angst. Boxed-birthday cake sweet.

Notes: It’s my birthday today. This is extremely feelsy and self-indulgent. I offer no apology.

Title inspired by this song.

Kinktober Masterlist

“Are you almost ready? Seriously gonna explode out here.”

You’re putting the last finishing touches on your hair as Mirio knocks on the bathroom door. Bless his heart, he’s been nice enough to give you full reign of the bathroom for the last hour and a half for the sake of your big reveal when you’re finally ready to go.

But you know Mirio well- big heart, small bladder.

“I’m coming!” You promise. “Thirty seconds and I’m outta here.” You take one last spritz of hairspray through your style, tousling the strands gently with your fingers. Then you unplug your styling tools, smooth on your favourite lipstick (the one that makes you look ‘the most kissable,’ according to Mirio) and pivot toward the door.

Your fingers hover over the handle for an instant. You take a deep breath.

When you pull the door open, Mirio’s standing directly on the other side of it. He looks polished as hell in a pair of well-fitting dark wash jeans and a turtleneck sweater that you bought him last winter. Your heart goes squish as you brace one hand in the frame of the door and watch his expression light at the sight of you.

“Aw, man,” he hums. His eyelashes flick downward as he takes you in. You’re dressed in the same fashion that he is- casual but polished, in a way that makes you feel the most comfortable and beautiful in your own skin.

“You sure it’s not my birthday?” He reaches for you, pulling you closer by the wrist. “’Cause lemme tell ya, that was worth waiting for.” He leans down and goes for a kiss, ducking sideways at the last moment to catch the corner of your mouth instead.

“Get in there,” you giggle, gently brushing past him and ushering him into the bathroom. “I’m hungry.”

Tonight’s dinner is something that Mirio insisted on. While the company you work for normally gives you a day off for your birthday, this year, yours happened to fall in the middle of the week. You decided to defer your day off until Friday, giving you a long weekend to enjoy instead. It means you still had to work on the actual day, but… you don’t mind. Not when Mirio’s been treating you like a princess from the moment you woke up.

He even stopped by your office earlier to drop off your favourite takeout for lunch. All your coworkers know him- he visits you at work a lot- and they’re completely smitten. You can’t help but adore how likeable he is, even if it tries your envious nerve every once in a while.

Your friends joke that he’s more like a golden retriever than a partner. But you know it goes both ways. You would do anything in the world for him.

You hold hands on the train like a new couple all over again, leaning against the doors and kissing between stops. You don’t care who sees. Mirio’s thrilled to be getting away with so much PDA. And when your stop finally comes up, you’re still grinning as you tug him onto the platform.

He takes you to your favourite restaurant, a ramen place downtown. You get potato dashi ramen, which comes with chewy egg noodles and a scoop of sour cream. It’s like a baked potato in a bowl of noodles. You know it’s not exactly the romantic evening that most couples would have planned, but there’s nothing that brings you more joy than cozying up in a little table by the window and slurping away on hot broth and noodles with Mirio smiling across at you.

As you’re finishing up, a slice of white chocolate cheesecake with a sparkler (and two forks) comes to your table. Mirio swears he had nothing to do with it, but he adores embarrassing you on your birthday. And the sparkle behind his navy gaze is a dead giveaway.

It’s not until after you’ve both scraped the plate clean and you’re holding hands across the table that you decide to forgive him.

He’s brushing his thumb over your ring finger, toying back and forth with the sparkly diamond that sits there.

“Y’know,” he muses, “I was actually planning on saving that for tonight.”

You’re resting your chin in your other hand, but that doesn’t stop you from grinning. “Really?”

He nods, licking his lips to hide an indulgent smile. “I carried that thing around in my pocket for weeks. But then, when you said there was gonna be an eclipse…” He trails off and shrugs, smiling brighter. “It’s like it all fell into place.”

A couple of weeks ago, the moon fell into the Earth’s shadow for the first time in years. It was a beautiful clear night and just warm enough that the two of you could climb to the roof of your apartment building and huddle together under a couple of blankets.

It was there, under the dim glow of the eclipsed moon, that he’d dropped to one knee and promised you forever. To you, it was a complete surprise.

You’re still moony about it now. If you close your eyes, you can picture every single detail. But when you open them again, the look on Mirio’s face is not so different as he admires you across the table.

“It was perfect,” you told him. “That night was perfect.”

He pulls your hand to his lips, kissing your ring. “C’mon,” he mumbles. “Let’s get outta here.”

He takes you home and skirts you in the front door. Your apartment is still dark when he strokes your cheeks and kisses you, lingering and sweet in the hallway.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers to you, soft and vulnerable in the low light.

“I love you,” you murmur, holding him tight. He gets like this sometimes. He’s lost so much, it’s easy to imagine you slipping through his fingers, too. You know he’s trying hard not to let it show tonight but you’re not about to let that stop you. You reach for him, cupping his cheek and pulling his shadowy gaze to yours.

“Hey,” you whisper. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he huffs, stealing another kiss as he scoops you into his arms. He whisks you into the bedroom, laying you across the sheets. He flicks on the lamp by your bedside and it casts a warm blanket of light across your body.

His weight descends on top of you and you catch yourself thinking if this is it, if nothing comes after this life with him, I’ll be okay.

He strips you down, piece by piece, kissing every inch of the skin he’s exposing. Every moment you spend together feels precious- you’ve both been reminded, time and time again, how quickly it can all be stolen from you. Not this, you pray when the night is at its darkest, take anything, but let me have him.

“Let me love you,” he whispers to you, sliding down your bare body, “with everything I have tonight.”

He loops his arms under your thighs, nuzzling the soft skin where your leg joins your body. His eyes stray to your face as he licks up your slit. He watches you sigh, watches you shiver, watches you fall.

But he’s always there to catch you.

He licks until you’re begging him to stop and comes back to you bare. His body is strong and sculpted but scarred, serving as a solemn reminder of the life he was forced to give up. Just another dream that had been stolen from him.

But you, the life that you’re capable of building together- that’s become his new dream. He’s promised to love you completely. He wants to raise your children. He wants to build you a home. Maybe he’ll never save a million souls, but if he can bring you happiness, if he can be good for you, that’ll be enough.

When you’re finally ready for him, he keeps his body as close to yours as possible while he pushes inside you. One of his hands grips your thigh, but the other is intertwined with yours, smoothing across the bedsheets as his thumb strokes your knuckles.

He’s steady and strong, but tender as a lamb, whispering his love for you as he fucks you slow and rhythmic. You clutch at his back and grab his ass, urging his rhythm forward. But he keeps it easy until he can’t take it anymore.

And when he breaks, he breaks hard.

He thrusts into you with a brutal rhythm, letting all the words die between you. The harsh breath that you share is punctuated by the slap of his thighs against yours. He slips a hand between your bodies, driving you to the edge one more time- whimpering and sighing and quivering through your climax- before he can’t hold out and slips into ecstasy alongside you.

When he loses himself against you, you hold him tight and savour every moment. The tremor of his thighs against yours. The way his voice jumps from his chest to his throat as his expression scrunches into one of sheer ecstasy. The spill of sloppy warmth inside you-sinfully satisfying. But more precious than anything is the way that he collapses on top of you and peppers slow, sweaty kisses across your skin before he’s ready to pull out.

When he finally rolls off of you, you’re quick to shift onto your side, reaching for him. You wind your arms around one another, and he draws you in close, letting you rest your chin on top of his head as your legs tangle.

“Happy Birthday,” he mumbles into your neck, for only the dozenth time that day. You close your eyes and try to suppress your laugh, but you know he can feel it vibrating in your chest.

“What a time to remind me,” you tease. “I’m getting old.”

“Oh!” He bolts upright, suddenly alert. “Your present, baby.”

“No way. Give it to me tomorrow,” you hum. “I’m not letting you out of bed.”

“But…” He turns back to you, pouting. “I can’t give it to you a day late. That’s like… like I missed it.”

“How about…” you trail off, “I open it first thing in the morning. You’ll know and I’ll know. Nobody else will. Please? I’m so comfy.”

Satisfied, he settles down again. This time it’s your head he tucks under his chin, kissing the top of your head.

Later that night, moments from sleep, you feel him stir in your arms. He kisses your head again, wraps his fingers gently around your palm. You don’t move.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispers to you. “I’m the luckiest man in the world, y’know that?”

You drop off a few minutes later in total peace. It’s not something you ever thought you would have, but… with him, it comes as easy as the morning.

#mirio togata x reader #mirio x reader #mirio x you #mirio togata x you #kinktober #mirio togata #lemillion #my hero academia #mha #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction

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cherry-interlude · 3 years ago

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Lana Del Rey Unreleased Ranked (2)

This is a re-ranking of Lana's unreleased songs, after making a first a few years ago. This is all my opinion, which I don't mind anyone disagreeing with but don't come for me for it - honestly, I like every song, despite any criticism, and this ranking is very vague. It's based on objective and subjective opinion.

This is the second of five posts, going past my least favourites.

Money Hunny

Lana details the downside of money, detailing the ways it ruins lives and causes more problems that good for some. However, it’s simplicity isn’t what makes Money Hunny fall short – it doesn’t resonate at all compared to Lana’s countless songs where she is either rich and famous or she is desperate for money (or men with money). As thought-provoking as Money Hunny is, it feels too twee and out of place in her money-adoring music to really hit hard. If Lana has spoken on the topic of how money can literally damage lives more, it would perhaps gel better with me, but with songs like Money Power Glory, National Anthem and Off To The Races (among many, many others), it doesn’t hit the mark as a Lana Del Rey (alternate names included) song.

Strangelove

Strangelove is hypnotising, from Lana’s mesmerising voice that gives her the impression of a Las Vegas desert temptress, seducing strangers and wishing for the simple pleasures of Christmas lights and mint juleps. It hits best for the first opening chorus.

Stoplight Delite

Opening with a tuneful mechanical whir, Lana’s song wouldn’t be amiss in a teen romance film. I’m not convinced by the mishmash of music – the more classical band instruments with unrelenting whirring begins to overwhelm the song. Lana’s at her sweetest in this however.

Daddy Issues

The music is a bit too harsh but it’s a nice enough song, referencing Baby Blue Love among others. It isn’t Lana’s best by far, messy with lyrics that go all over the place, but (yet again), it would be more promising if it was completely remade and produced properly. The demo, I Was In A Bad Way, is a lot more maudlin and less enthusiastic, so it does fall behind Daddy Issues.

Catch and Release

It’s another song that’s kind of creepy, with an eerie vibe thanks to the relentless, whining music and Lana’s razor-edged warnings in her lyrics. Lana is practically a megalomaniac in this song, completely selfish and unafraid to ask for – and get – what she wants. Yet it’s quite a hypnotising track that, with further production, could be more cohesive and dramatic.

Marilyn

One of her old live performances, Marilyn is too simple in its lyrics but is a strangely erotic tribute to Lana’s icon. Lana owns the stage in this performance, a more carnal honouring than some of her other outputs.

Noir

Lana really goes for it in this furious song of crushed self-esteem and badly treated lover. Lana lets her vocals rip and tear as she growls about her “papi”, her being merely his dolly to do as he pleases. It's not her most perfect song but she doesn’t hold back from letting her hurt and frustration spill over.

Bellevue

Lana utilises haunting harmonising in Bellevue and though she seems hung up on her lover not wanting her around (she repeats it, as if she can’t let go, throughout the song) she still convinces herself she could go back to the old days of drinking and not being hurt. It helps – her chanting – to bring out the emotion of the lyrics, and maintain that broken feeling she is so good at conveying whilst saying how happy she is.

Put Your Lips Together

Taking on the character of a femme fatale who can hold her own, Lana seduces the listener on top of a chilled instrumental. Her lyrics are little bit dirtier as much as her vocals aren’t their best in the choruses (of course, it being a rough demo might have something to do with that). It’s definitely a song that, if completed, could rank alongside Beautiful Player and Ooh Baby in her seduction library.

Starry Eyed

Starry Eyed is a romantic enough song, with a gentle plinking intro that leads to a rumbling, Born To Die-esque track – complete with Lana’s pretty vocals. However, it does tend to drag, a slow song that I find majorly skippable. The dragged-out choruses get tiring after a while of listening so I don’t frequently listen to this song.

Breaking My Heart

Lana is fully materialistic in this song, referencing multiple designer companies as well as her desire to be loved and party. It’s not too imaginative in its lyrics, instead pure pop with a mixture of lyrics that never quite come through with a particular meaning, but it’s a good enough bop.

Butterflies Part 1

A little love song about a tumultuous teen romance, Lana plays off the lovestruck teen ultimately in love with a guy not good for her perfectly. It’s heady and full of the rushes of love, emotive enough to get the feeling of a girl going mad from her relationship.

Ben

Lana, using the rain to her advantages, moodily comforts her executive love in the full femme fatale façade, quietly passionate. Lana, as much as she loves him, is still her own woman, insisting she will smoke if she wants and playing with her voice to showcase such control.

All Smiles

Lana puts on a happy smile as she mopes over Jimmy in this small-town, fifties-painted tale of a girl who wants a man she can’t have. She mostly hits the mark in this acoustic track and has the right foundations for a decent country ballad.

My Best Days

My Best Days is a short song of cleverly utilised trap beats, autotune and slowly layering instrumental in which Lana isn’t happy without her lover. The organ outro is gorgeous, and it’s a track that can perk you up or calm you down.

Get Drunk

Restless pace, whispered mocking and an overall darkly seductive tone – it’s unembellished and, in some ways, could play as Lana dealing with her past alcoholism (demanding whomever the song is directed to should get drunk). It’s a vibe Lana should explore more over a decade since Get Drunk and the like were made.

Let My Hair Down

A simple and spooky track, Lana has an acoustic jam session consisting of unsettled guitar, bongos and her voice. It’s rather repetitive but it’s something different that works well. It shows Lana doesn’t need too many fusses and frills on her tracks to make something captivating, much like her Sirens album.

Every Man Gets His Wish

The intro of upbeat whistling climbs into a lowkey track that goes from sensual stuttering and a sad chorus that still sounds like Lana has a smile on her face. The mood shifts along with the tune but it is altogether cohesive.

Dance For Money

As stripped as the pole dancer Lana plays, Lana gently teases and cajoles in her ode to older men, lemonade and motorcycles with little else.

Back To Tha Basics

Much like the title, this track is a little bit basic but it’s still zesty with a wonderful instrumental and some pop-inspired vocals.

Butterflies Part 2

Production isn’t perfect on this track but Lana has such promise in this song in which she compares to lured in girls to butterflies pinned to a wall, all at once melancholy, knowing and cheeky. It’s unfortunate that the lyrics are so hidden beneath the dominating instrumental, but with tweaking this stormer could be even better.

Children of the Bad Revolution

The kind of song that would be found on one of her albums, Children of the Bad Revolution is a pacy dedication to Lana’s life as a delinquent a la the 1950s starlets. It’s good but it’s not anything too impressive, instead a chilled track that is simply about being free.

Beautiful Player

Lana mopes in the track about a somewhat disliked girl (perhaps they’re all jealous of her) who is in love with one of her players, giving the feel of a villain club performer smiling with red lipstick on and black mascara staining her cheeks.

Lift Your Eyes

Lana takes control in this song, instructing her lover to lift his eyes, rise above his demons and join her in self-respect. It’s a fine alternative to her gushing and moping characters, and with machine-like music running under the song, Lana sounds stronger than ever.

Valley of the Dolls

In this compact track Lana is once again frustrated by her lover. It’s pained but pretty with her vocals once again taking the forefront.

C U L8r Alligator

Just an acapella demo, C U L8r Alligator is simply Lana’s voice with her beating a rhythm in time. However, I really do like this song. I think it would sound even better polished and complete, but for a rough demo it’s promising. The Kristijan Majic remix is the version I most listen to, which makes it sound even more eerie (and if anyone remembers the D1ETPUSSY video that went with it, you’ll get why this song doubly haunts me). It’s not Lana’s finest but it’s a song I would have loved to see developed.

In The Sun

In The Sun is so hot it burns, more heatwave than refreshing sunshine, as she scorns her ex-lover. It’s not the finest instrumental but Lana sticks her fingers up with incredulous shock that someone could betray her so. She keeps the vibe great paired with blue skies and swimming pools with the upbeat music.

Hot Hot Hot

Big Bad Wolf, a slightly different demo track, is what I favour – stripped back, sexily uneasy, the lyrics letting the vivid imagery of red skirts, red cars and devilish men shine. Yet Hot Hot Hot is a decent, if not cheesier, song too, the chanting great for singing along.

Trees

Lana and The Rich Whores strike out with this kickass band-driven track that showcases Lana’s feistier vocals strongly. The lyrics are sparse but the overall feel of Lana going nineties-rock-chick keeps me wanting more of her in this style.

Push Me Down

Rather than being like the controversial Ultraviolence, Lana keeps the ‘violence’ fun in this pacy song, demanding her bad boy treats her badly in the best way possible. With a mildly rock edge, it’s still distinctively party-Lana, reminding of a pop-ier True Love On The Side.

She’s Not Me

It isn’t particularly imaginative pop but Lana lets the guitars do the talking as she whispers her warnings to her ex-lover. Lana owns this track, and though it feels a bit amateur in comparison to her discography and some of her stronger unreleased music, it shows she would have been great even if she went for the noughties chart pop scene. Fun and punchy, it’s a song to play on repeat.

I Don’t Wanna Go

The tentative and tight intro gives me the vibe that Lana wants to avoid going home rather than simply wanting to hang out with her lover, and her pain-tinted vocals in the chorus only add to the theory. She compliments her fascinating guy throughout the verses, a little more restrained but ultimately tense in delivery, before confessing how much she wants to stay out.

St Tropez

This is a great track for dancing and a celebration of being a party girl with plenty of attention. Best played when you want to imagine yourself as the main character.

Summer of Sam

Lana has yet another song of being a cutesy bad girl, comparable to the likes of Dangerous Girl and Playground, but it’s still fairly generic, standard pop fare. Summer of Sam is still quite fun however, drenched in pop and even with a hint of rap-talking keeping the song lively.

I Talk To Jesus

Lana returns to her religious roots in a less blasphemous way (Body Electric, for example) and instead sings a sad ditty about wishing she could have her old life. Solemnly it remembers her past (as seen in her older music) where she had the trailer parks, Christmas lights and her equally holy boyfriend.

Axl Rose Husband

The imagery is rich and gorgeous, not to mention the reference to one of Lana’s idols, but Axl Rose Husband doesn’t always do it for me – despite her strained, desperate vocals that perfectly exemplify her emotion.

Ooh Baby

Sampling Sexual Healing, Lana ramps up the sex appeal as she lets the listener know how much they want her, all while keeping it a little but more upbeat than the original song.

Other Woman

Lana’s tired of being the other woman in this track, and I like the way the lyrics flesh out the story a bit more rather. However, the chorus does get a bit tiresome sometimes.

Girl That Got Away

Lana shows you exactly what you’re missing as she mopes for her ex-lover with a smile on her face, taking the reins and knowing she has something he misses in a bubble-gum pop song about being the it girl you’ll regret letting go of.

#lana del rey #lana del rey songs #lana del rey unreleased #cherry-interlude

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babbushka · 4 years ago

Text

Biting Dust - Ch. 1

Life ain’t too easy for a woman, ‘specially not a woman on the run like you. With a bounty on your head and gunpowder in your nose, you’ve grown adjusted to a life of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of civilization. That is, until you meet one particular man who’s got a face you’d only ever seen in your dreams – or on wanted posters. And when he offers you a proposition that sounds too good to be true, well. You don’t think your life will ever be the same again...

Outlaw!Kylo Ren x Reader

Tumblr Masterlist | Available on AO3

5.5k ; Warnings: Mentions of murder, hanging, arson.

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

You wonder, sometimes. Wonder how it all turned out like this, how this was the life you now led. You wonder if you could go back and do anything over, if you’d do anything different. Sometimes you don’t do so much wondering, there ain’t the time when you’re on the run with sheriffs at your back; but times like this, with nothing but the uncharted desert sprawling out in front of you, all you could do was wonder.

Something wisps up into your eyes and you cringe as you scrub it out -- sand, stinging and coarse. Nothing but sand, as far as the eye could see. You really fucking hate sand, you think, as the rising sun carries on up into the sky, bringing with it a gentle enough breeze that makes your horse, Agnes, toss her mane in delight. She whinnies softly, and you pet the back of her neck as she does, trudging through the sand after a long night of riding, a long night straight through the desert.

“Almost there,” You reassure her, “Shouldn’t be too much farther now.”

You’d robbed a bank the day before, and damn it all that had proven to be a poor enough decision. Ain’t no money in the bank, nothing at all, nothing but a whole group of cowardly men who were quick to whistle for the dogs that went bitin’ at your ankles.

They paid for that offense against you, had paid with their lives.

If only they had had any money for you to take with you, as you sped off into the night, not daring to stop until you had put enough distance between you and the men with steel.

Now, you don’t even have robbing on your mind. No, you think as Agnes chuffs and complains about the tiredness in her hooves, you’d settle for something as simple as a cool and dry bed, a hot bath, maybe enough time to clean your clothes and have a bite to eat before you’re off again.

A bed, bath, and crust of bread which you were looking forward to in the next town over. Robbing that bank hadn’t been entirely useless after-all, you use the morning sunlight to figure out this chicken-scratch cartography off the map you’d quickly grabbed before dashing out of the blazing bank, flames engulfing everyone and everything inside it as you make your escape.

“If we did this right, we should be there before the sun comes up over the canyons.” You tell her.

She only chuffs again, and you know that she too will be looking forward to a soak in a lake somewhere to wash the blood off her hide.

If you weren’t so damn tired, you might appreciate the view. The marbling of the earth around you as the sun begins to shine down on the many layers, millions of years in the making, should be breathtaking. The all-encompassing orange and reds, the slight hints of purple, the occasional dappling of yellow speak to a world ancient, as old as time.

It really puts into perspective, this whole thing, your whole life. See, dammit there you go thinkin’ again, wondering again. You clench your jaw and urge Agnes forward a little further, knowing she really can’t take much more before needing a rest. You know, but still you ask her gently to keep on moving, because the sooner you get into town, the sooner the both of you can rest.

“I think…I think that’s it, just up ahead.” You say softly to the old gal, patting her shoulder encouragingly. “You did it, thank you, thank you Aggie.”

Your horse catches wind of the scent of something, something that excites her, and suddenly she’s bolting in the direction of the town, of the piece of civilization that you can just barely see. There’s civilization of some sort, that’s for sure, you can see the little specs of buildings out in the distance. There’s many of them, which is good, really good. It doesn’t look as big as a trading post, but that’s okay – there’s less of a chance that anyone would know who you are.

You hold on tight as Agnes gallops through the canyons, falcons flying overhead, their shadow blurring past on the sandy ground as the wind whips through your hair. You feel elated, feel like you could fly, just like those falcons, flying and soaring straight to salvation in the form of a sheltered room and a drink of water.

Your canteen isn’t empty, but anything left you have will go to Agnes. She can’t tell you when she’s so thirsty she’s half to death, so you don’t ever let her get close. Your last sip of water was two days ago, and you know you can hold out a little longer, will drink the bathwater if you have to, but Agnes does more hard work and so she gets the water.

None of that matters, because Agnes is sprinting, and you’re reminded of why she’s called the fastest Beast in the West. Huge plumes of sand kickback as her hooves dig into the earth, bringing you closer closer closer to the town, at a speed which will no doubt raise suspicion, will no doubt cause unwanted attention.

“Not so fast there girl!” You calm her down, “I know, I’m excited too, but not so fast! They’ll start shootin’ at us!”

That seems to make enough sense to her, because her breakneck pace reduces down to a trot pretty quickly. Your hair is tangled and in your mouth and eyes, your hat nearly flung straight off your head, but all is well. Nothing had fallen out of the knapsacks on the saddle, and the entrance of the town is only a few more hundred feet away.

“Woahh, stop for a minute.” You command her, tugging on the reigns ever so slightly. She looks over her shoulder at you, and you know you’ve spent too much time alone when you can begin to read the annoyed look in her eye. “Just a minute, I need to change.”

Hopping down from Agnes, you take her by the reigns and guide her behind a large wide stone which juts out into the air some couple dozen feet. You’re just past the edge of the canyons now, but you’re thankful for these little hidey spots, because they’re the perfect cover for swapping out clothing.

Clothing was crucial a lot of the time, for you to go through the world unnoticed. It wasn’t all that common for outlaws to have more than one set of something, and you use that to your advantage, stripping down completely naked right there in the middle of the desert. Stuffing the blood-stained and filthy riding clothes into one of the knapsacks, you exchange that for a beautifully clean and well maintained dress and undergarments. It wasn’t fancy like some high society woman might have, but this particular shade of blue cotton looked nice on your skin tone.

It reminds you of your old life, how you would wear something like this damn near every day, not just on special occasions where a disguise was necessary. The cotton was blue and the cut was perfectly flattering. The high neck concealed some unsavory scars, and the puffed sleeves accentuated your frame. There was some frilly detailing around the chest which you thought was a nice touch, but most of all, it buttoned down the front instead of down the back, which was nothing short of a lifesaver, when you had to dress all by yourself.

Over a clean pair of undergarments and petticoat this dress goes, and back up onto Agnes you climb, your transformation complete. You now look nothing like a filthy sharp-shootin’ bank lootin’ outlaw, instead you look like…well, something far more innocent than that.

If you can just keep your head down and stay out of the way for the rest of the day, not bother anyone and leave first thing a morning from now, you’ll be on to bigger and better adventures. Nevermind that your entire life feels like running away from something instead of towards something, nevermind.

“Show time Aggie.” You tell her, nudging her hindquarters with your boots once more.

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

The layout of the town is as basic as they come, which you appreciate. Two long strips of main buildings on either side of a dirt road, beautiful wooden structures some two stories high. Some of them have got signs hanging from the porch denotin’ that that’s the general store, that there’s the post office. Some others have their names painted on the window, letting you know that there’s the bathhouse and over yonder there’s the armory.

No bank, you notice.

What you do notice, is the large saloon right at the end of the road, a culdesac of sorts, and you are sure that you hear the heavens open up and shine down on you, angels singing, because there’s a small sign that proudly announces vacancies. The building is huge, three stories tall and framed with the most beautiful wooden support beams with decorative carving. There’s music coming from inside, distant strumming of guitars and harmonicas that seem cheerful and jovial, and you’re glad that this town isn’t immediately hostile.

While you’re busy trying not to weep of relief that you’ll have a relatively safe spot to lay your head, a spot to let Agnes rest, the townsfolk are busy noticing you. They must not get many visitors round these parts, because everyone you pass stops in their tracks and stares.

They don’t exactly look unfriendly, just confused, as if they’d never seen a lone woman ride into town before – and maybe they haven’t. Oh well, you think with the hint of a smile as you tip your hat to a little girl with beautifully thick and long braids down her back, you can only hope to be an inspiration.

There’s men bargaining about something who stop and turn to you, women who drop baskets of bread as you pass. The children which laugh and play round polished bronze statues in the courtyard all halt and whisper amongst themselves, wondering who you are, what you could want, why you’ve come.

You just smile at them, show them all you mean no harm, knowing that this is their home, and you’re only passing through. This seems to appease the adults, but the children with their wide-eyed curiosity aren’t so satisfied. You try not to chuckle as parents have to steer their sons and daughters away from the road to keep them from rushing straight up to you and asking a million questions.

“You rest here, eat up.” You whisper to Agnes when you finally approach the end of the road, hopping off her back as elegantly as possible, leading her to a covered set of posts and a trough of water and feed, tying up her rope so she can’t go wanderin’ anywhere – not that she would.

With a deep breath of courage, knowing that your gun was hidden safely inside a makeshift pocket in the dress, should you need it, you push through the double swinging doors of the saloon.

All at once, the music, the chatter, the jovial laughter and clinking of glasses grinds to a screeching halt, as every patron of the bar stops and turns towards you. You can feel the weight of their stares, but you hold your ground, keep your chin up.

“Sorry to disturb,” You clear your throat there in the doorway, “But is this where a lady might be able to rent a room for the night?”

At the question, the saloon deems you to not be a threat at all, and you can practically taste the way the tension in the air dissolves. A lady looking for a room wasn’t nearly that interesting, not compared to a winning hand of cards, or the dregs of a beer, and you’re glad for it.

“Up the stairs.” The elderly bartender smiles at you real friendly-like as he shines some glasses.

“Thank you kindly.” Your curtsey is rusty, and your entire body aches from the exceptionally long journey, but you ignore the protest of your sore joints as your botos carry you over to the staircase and you ascend up away from the bar.

The second floor lobby of the saloon looks like a proper hotel, which surprises you. There’s a woman at a front desk just beyond the stairs, and she sure seems excited to see you. She’s a portly woman with greying hair plaited nicely in braids that rest along her chest, but she’s got a sharp glimmer to her eye, a glimmer you can appreciate.

“Well hello there! You lookin’ for a room?” She calls over to you, beckons you towards the front desk.

You take your hat off and hold it between your two hands, your own hair twisted and pinned into the messiest bun you’d ever done just so it didn’t look such a wreck from the long ride. You walk over to the desk and are more than grateful when she offers you a cup of crisp cool water.

“Yes ma’am, I am, my name is Mary Elizabeth Sampson,” You lie, “I saw the sign out front and was hopin’ that them vacancies might still be around.”

You try your best to not slam back the water the second the glass is in your hand, instead you bring it up to your lips in a measured sip, savoring the way the clean smooth taste of it travels in rivulets down your throat. You would never take this for granted, water.

Never in a hundred years would you not be eternally thankful for this elixir of life. The old woman at the desk smiles at you with a slight amusement, for she must know how badly you want to chug it. Instead of saying anything about it though, she pulls out a thick book and opens it up onto the desk, flips to the first blank slot.

“You’re in luck – we’re a fair price and good for it. Beds cleaned every day, breakfast lunch and dinner brought right up to you if you’d like from the bar downstairs. We’ve even got a hot bath out back, although that’s an extra price.” She says it so casually that you nearly miss it, but there ain’t no denying the way you choke in your excitement at the luxury of this place.

“How much would one night, meals and a bath cost, altogether?” You wipe water off your chin with the back of your hand, lick it off straight from your dirty knuckles, heart thrumming in your chest.

Were you dreaming? This place sounded like damn near a dream, you can’t help but think. It’s got everything you had asked for, and seemed nice enough to boot. You know your purse is light, you’ve only got five gold dollars to your name since the bank last night proved to be a bust. You’re hoping beyond hope that she doesn’t take your last coin – but you know that you’d give it to her if you had to.

“Altogether you’re lookin’ at about a buck fifty.” She replies, relieving you immensely. She points out the prices of the amenities on a piece of paper she pulls out from behind the desk so you know she’s not just high-ballin’ you, “Fifty cents for the room, buck for food and bath. You won’t find a fairer price around.”

“Do you happen t’have change? I’ve only got solid coins, I’m afraid.” You’re quick to show that that’s acceptable, more than acceptable, as you reach into your other pocket – the one that doesn’t have the gun – for a little drawstring purse.

You pull out two dollars, try not to think about how light your purse becomes from it, and slide it across the desk. The old woman clamps her teeth around the coins to make sure they’re good, and is very pleasantly surprised when she sees that they are.

“I sure do, here’s the key to your room, it’ll just be down the hall and to the left.” She hands you the leftover fifty cents, and an old iron key from a series of hooks up on the wall. You gratefully accept both items, and return the glass to her, now empty of every last drop of water, prompting her to say, “You know, it’s funny. I’ve been runnin’ this hotel for ten years and I ain’t never had two customers in two days. Is there some sorta movement happenin’ ‘cross the West?”

Your eyebrows shoot up at that, at there being another stranger. No wonder they had all stopped and stared so dramatically, you think. The townsfolk might think there must be something going on, to have two visitors so close together. You shrug in earnest though, trying to be as non-descript as possible, not give anything away one way or the other.

“I think there’s always going to be some sorta movement, but anything specific I can’t say for sure.” Your answer is open enough that the woman catches on and chuckles, waves you off and begins to step away from the desk, off back to do who knows what.

“I won’t keep ya, it’s so early you must’ve ridden through the night. I’ll bring breakfast up shortly, you just go on and get comfortable.” She says, and you nod in thanks before --

“Oh! Oh – wait, before you go, my horse, I’ve got a horse. Is there an extra charge to groom and board her for the night? She’s out eatin’ from the trough right now, I don’t want to go skippin’ out on any bills.” You rush back to the desk, and with all your commotion, the old woman can’t help but laugh.

“No Miss Sampson, we’ll take care of her for free. You go on and rest now.” She’s firm and kind, and you’re grateful for it.

In fact, you’re grateful enough that when she’s out of sight beyond the desk, you reach over and open the drawer where she took your payment, and you drop the change she had given you back into the little slot she’d taken it from, a silent thanks for the kindness, and lack of questions.

As you turn away for the final time to head towards your room, you stop cold in your tracks.

For up on the wall is a series of wanted posters, all printed and hung up recently, thick black ink letters boasting grand rewards.

Among them, your heart thuds a little bit quicker in your chest, is your name.

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

(Y/N) ‘ANGEL EYES’ (L/N)

MURDERESS – ARSONIST – BANK ROBBERY

REWARD - $25,000

The image of your face is crudely drawn, so much so that you barely recognize yourself. They didn’t get a single one of your features right – but who could blame them. You never left any witnesses, never left anyone alive. Still, it’s enough that your name is up there, your real name.

Slightly above your wanted poster, is a poster you’ve seen damn near everywhere. Part of you is proud, proud that you’re movin’ on up the hierarchy of danger, as it were. You recall the days where Sheriffs were advertising only a couple hundred bucks for your head. Now you were a whole quarter of a hundred grand, which surely had to mean something, some sort of stepping on up in the criminal world.

The poster above yours though, now that man was a legend.

PROCLOMATION OF THE GOVERNOR OF KANSAS

REWARD FOR THE CAPTURE OF EXPRESS AND TRAIN ROBBERS

GANG HEADED BY NOTORIOUS MURDERER

KYLO REN

$100,000

Kylo Ren, now that was a name. And what a name for such an outlaw! He was well known all across the desert, in every canyon and mountain, every cliffside and town and trading post had his face slapped up on the walls.

Well, not his face.

No one had ever seen his face. Unlike you, he frequently left witnesses, people to tell the story of the chaos that took place that day, people to spur on the legends of his greatness. He was a train robber, one of the meanest around. They said he was a Pony Express boy back in the day, and had dodged death at nearly every turn. Seems as though he turned a page and started dealing out blows rather than taking them, him and his notorious gang who call themselves the Knights of Ren, like somethin’ out of a medieval fairy tale.

The photo on the poster, despite not showing anything other than a black bandana and a blind eye, seems to stare straight through to your soul.

You wonder if you’ll ever get up there, get up to $100,000. It doesn’t do to dwell though, and you know that if that old woman were to come back and see you staring she might get suspicious, so you just move along.

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

The room isn’t much more than four walls and a bed, but you don’t care – this is the first time you’ve seen a bed in weeks, possibly in months. Losing track of the days was a bad habit of yours, but everything begins to blend in together when you’re out there, out in the desert. All you have are sun ups when the heat is so stifling as it ripples in waves across the sand, and the sun downs with the venomous critters that’ll kill you dead if they manage to get a hold of you.

Slipping off your shoes, you tuck yourself under the sheets and let your eyes close. It feels good, this. Feels good to not have to worry about imminent danger. You’re here tucked up, Agnes is out enjoying fresh water and food, and though your stomach rumbles, you know that eventually breakfast is on its way.

It mustn’t be any later than ten in the morning, but you’re sure you could sleep the whole day away anyway. It’d do you good, would keep you out of the way. Hopefully the folks around would forget about you entirely, and there’d be no trouble.

The door knocks then, and you suppress a groan as you get back out from the covers, and go to open the door. On the other side is the woman, holding a wooden tray with a bowl of steaming hot porridge, johnnycakes, and a fresh brewed mug of coffee.

“Sorry to disturb, I just wanted to get this to ya while it was still hot.” She says, and you invite her in by opening up the door a little further. “The stable boys are givin’ your horse a good wash right now, she’ll be boarded up in the stable right on the side, should you want to ride her ‘round at some point in the day.”

“Thank you ever so kindly, but I think she and I’ll just catch up on some much needed sleep.” You gratefully accept the tray, put it right on the edge of the bed where it won’t be disturbed. The food smells delicious, better than anything you’d had in weeks, and you can’t wait to dig in.

The old woman regards you for a moment, and while you’re turned away from her, she says ever so softly,

“Is it a man?”

Your hands still just as you go to pick up the coffee, and you sigh.

“Pardon?” You ask, turning to face her slowly, knowing exactly what she means but needing to play dumb enough so that she doesn’t know that you know.

“What you’re runnin’ from. Is it a man?” She asks again.

You sit down on the bed, warming your palms with the mug.

Casting a glance out the window, you see the townspeople milling about in the street, all going along with their daily business. Once upon a time, that was you. It feels like an eon ago, and it might as well be, because you know that you can never return to a life like that, a life like the one you watch from your window. Never again.

She’s still standing there, and you don’t want to be rude, so you swallow your pent-up feelings and simply shrug sheepishly.

“That obvious, ain’t it?” You put on a façade of shyness, even though it’s not really a lie, not really.

“No.” The old woman huffs out a little laugh, putting her hands on her hips and surprising you by saying, “I’ve just been in your position, and I know kindness don’t come often.”

“The visitor who came through yesterday…” You suddenly grow curious, “What were they like? Are they still here?”

She waves you off though, probably thinking you’re insinuating that a man might be following you now. And that may very well be true, very well could be the case. You burned that bank down to the ground but that doesn’t mean someone could’ve sniffed out your trail and was headed straight for you. The woman shakes her head reassuringly, and your curiosity both grows and lessens.

“Nah Miss he’s long gone. Sheriff had him dealt with when he caught him trying to steal one of the horses out of the sheriff’s own stable, if you can believe it!” She chuckled, making your eyebrows shoot up.

“When you say ‘dealt with’..?” You trail off, wondering what kind of people these were.

“Oh well hanged of course. They don’t hang horse thieves where you’re from?” She asks you as if such an idea were unheard of to her.

That’s very interesting, you think. Very interesting indeed, such a sharp punishment for a crime that didn’t even happen. Most towns would have given the poor guy a trial, but he was only here for less than a day before hanged? Maybe these folks weren’t as friendly as you had assumed.

That’ll teach you to assume, you know the old saying.

“They rarely punish the folks who deserve it, where I’m from.” You say quietly, and the old woman gets the hint.

“I won’t ask where that is, but do you mind me askin’ where you’re headed?” She moves towards the door and you figure why the hell not, tell the truth for once.

“Colorado, much like everyone else it would seem.” You say, say out loud this dream you’ve had for so many months, “Hopin’ to get lucky and strike some gold before it turns into another mess like California.”

She’s pleased with that answer for whatever reason, and she gives you a knowing smile.

“I wish you luck with that, Miss Sampson, I really do.” She nods in the direction of the tray, where the porridge and sticky sweet pancakes are still nice and piping hot. “Enjoy your breakfast, take a bath. I’ll leave lunch outside your door and knock in case you’re asleep.”

With that, she’s gone, and you raise your armpit to see just how badly you smell to encourage – oh shit, you think, your whole face scrunching up after taking a whiff. Awful, is the conclusion, you smell awful. So badly that you almost lose your appetite from it, something that makes you laugh because it catches you so off-guard.

That woman had more patience than you could ever imagine, waiting so long to say anything about it, the stench, and that only makes you laugh harder, for you haven’t had a moment to laugh like this in a long long time.

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With food in your belly, and after a long soak and scrub in the boiling hot tub out back, you sleep. You sleep the whole day away, sleep and let your dreams wander to simpler times, kinder times.

Your mind conjures up images of beautiful farmlands, cattle and gently baaing sheep. Numbers and letters dance behind your eyelids, midnight swims in the lake rush over your skin. It’s a good dream for once, a pleasant dream, not like the nightmares that typically plague you. Nothing like the flames which engulf your vision, or the booming laughter which turns to screams or or or --

“Speak of the goddamned devil --!” you gasp awake, your dreams ruined in an instant.

Bolting straight up, you’re disoriented for a moment, reaching for the gun in your pocket before sighing and recognizing this as the little hotel room. There is no danger here, you try and calm yourself down, try and stop the racing of your heart, but the cold sweat that’s shocked you awake grows clammy on your skin and you have to gulp down air.

The room is buttery golden, from the light of the setting sun which streams through the glass pane window. You quickly get out of bed and rush to the window, rush to see if anyone’s come, if they’re calling to run you out of town the way they did that attempted horse thief.

“I can’t stay.” You realize out loud, sighing into your hand as you rub your forehead, willing the spotted visions to blink away. You’d slept just about seven hours, which is probably more than the whole week’s worth of sleep combined, and you’d gotten your money’s worth of food and bath – plus they’d taken care of Agnes for you.

All of this justification runs through your head as you gather up your meager belongings and step into your boots. You twist your hair out of your face and open the front door, ready to place the key on the knob and slip out the back while everyone is at supper.

At your feet is another tray, a bowl of beans and a generous cut of beef along with a tear of bread and dried fruit.

You sigh, looking longingly down at it. Well, you think, better to not let the food spoil. Scarfing down the hot beans and the meat, you wrap the fruits and bread up in a cloth napkin and store it in your pocket. It’ll be a fine addition to the collection of foods you have packed in Agnes’ saddle, and you’re sure the addition will come in handy, not knowing of another town for many miles ahead.

You picked the perfect timing it would seem, because the saloon is empty, all the patrons at home for a home cooked meal with their families, and no one is around to see you head down towards the stable.

Agnes is happy to see you, as always. Her coat is shiny and white, she looks almost pearlescent so clean as this. Guilt pangs in your chest, you wish she could be so clean all the time. When you make it to Colorado and form your new life there, you decide you’re going to get yourself some land and let her spend the rest of her days grazing in peace.

“Ready to go gal?” You smile sadly, petting through her silky smooth mane.

She only whinnies softly, and without much more ado, you lead her out of the stable, and ride off into the sunset, on your way to the next stop en route to the Rockies.

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On the outskirts of town, as the sky blazes beautiful oranges and reds, purples around the edges of the horizon and not a single cloud to be seen, you think about the old woman, you never got her name.

You can’t go back now, can’t go back to thank her more for her hospitality, her understanding. Who knows, you think to yourself, maybe you’ll see her again one day. Maybe you won’t, but life had a funny way of working out, didn’t it?

Up ahead, you see a poor soul hanging from a great big tree, his horse standing underneath it. That must be the thief, you reckon, the one the Sheriff was not too kind to. Goosebumps shiver up your spine, and you do your best to avoid looking at him out of respect. You knew that if you were strung up, you wouldn’t want any ogling eyes, so you simply urge Agnes to go a little faster, hoping that you might simply pass him and continue on.

You wonder if that might’ve been your fate, had you stayed. Perhaps that Sheriff would’ve gotten wind of the bank from the town over, might’ve warned him about any newcomers, might’ve warned him about you. You’ll be far out into the canyons by then, should that happen, you know. You know, and you just do your best to keep your head down, trying to let this man have some semblance of dignity.

Until that is, that poor soul doesn’t seem so poor at all, because as you grow closer, the moment he catches sight of you, you can hear the booming baritone of a voice shout across the desert,

“Hey! Over here! Hey!”

And you think in shock, that this man ain’t poor, he’s got to be the luckiest sonofabitch you’d ever seen in your life – because somehow, against all odds, he ain’t dead.

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Tagging some pals! @steeevienicks @solotriplets @formerly-anonhamster @lookinsidemyhead @candycanes19 @adamsnacc-kler @whiskey-bumblebee @autumnlovesadam @goodboybensolo @the-marvelatic @miasera @proxyfoxy @disaster-rose @hazydespair @yosoymuyloca @1-800-choke-that-snoke @ktellmeastory @anongirl007 @zimmerxman @okk--maaan @flapjacques @aweirdlookingtree @callmemania-pls @theold-ultraviolence @og-selene @schopenhauerdeathsquad @nekonaomitard @feminine-machinegun @contesa-lui-alucard @danceyreagan @supremehaunter @refletction @paljonkaikenlaista @pinkmoontribe-blog

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfic #reader insert #x reader #adam driver #adam driver character #my writing #historical au #western au #biting dust

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