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inkykeiji · 4 years ago

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i can take you there but baby you won’t make it back

character: dabi | todoroki touya

notes: stepcest (kind of—ur parents aren’t married yet) with dabi-as-touya x a very naïve and inexperienced reader, normal!AU (no quirks, dabi also has tattoos over his scarred + fully healed skin), university!reader, implied yakuza!dabi, excessive use of the words niichan and good, praise kink, fingering, face fucking, title credit = save that shit by lil peep lmao uhhhh yeah i hc dabi as a very intelligent and perceptive individual soooo i feel like he’d be a master at reading a person & their emotions and then adapting his manipulation techniques

warnings: 18+, pseudo-incest (stepcest), noncon/dubcon, slight somnophilia, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship, size difference, slight degradation, mentions of drug use

words: 7.1k

part 2.1 | part 2.2

synopsis:

“You want to be good for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Of course,” you respond instantly. Later, when you lay awake in your bed, you’ll feel ashamed by your actions, by how readily captivated you were with him, by how easily he was able to manipulate you with those sapphire eyes and that rough voice—

But in that moment, you’ll do anything to pull that little smile from him, anything to hear him tell you you’re good. You just want to be good.

Something dark and primal flashes in those gorgeous eyes as they gaze down at you, a small grin spreading across his face. “Of course,” he repeats softly.

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

Your dad’s been dating Rei for a while—nearly a year, now—when things begin to get serious, and he proposes to her.

She accepts, so it’s not exactly a surprise when she suggests you guys move in with her—she’s got more than enough space, she tells you, it’s just her and her son in that big old house—and your dad seems pretty thrilled about it. This was the next step before marriage, after all.

You like Rei well enough, she’s always been nothing but sweet to you, and anyway, your father’s relationship really isn’t any of your business or concern.

It isn’t that you don’t want to move in with her—her house is in a better part of the neighborhood, a standard detached upper-middle class home, and just a short walk from a bus stop that’ll take you directly to university, which you start in a week.

It’s just…You’re a little apprehensive.

You know she has kids. She mentions them in passing every once in a while, but you can’t for the life of you remember their names, or their ages, or how many of them there are. You know they don’t all live with her, that her relationship with her ex-husband is complicated and rocky at best.

But you’re still surprised to hear that only one of them, her eldest, lives with her. She tells you he’s five years older than you are, that he’s a clever, smart boy, going off on a tangent about how disappointed she is that he didn’t go to university, because ‘he would’ve done so well—he could’ve shone so brightly.’ Something about the way she says that, the way her voice sounds almost sad, makes anxiety turn to lead in your stomach. She talks about him as if he’s already a lost cause, but he’s only in his mid-twenties, isn’t he?

You understand the moment you see him. The man standing in front of you as you shift from foot to foot unsurely in the foyer of this unfamiliar house is about as far from what you anticipated as he could possibly be.

He’s tall, skin pale as moonlight, with jet black hair and the most stunning blue eyes you’ve ever seen. But that isn’t what captivates you. It isn’t the lip ring curled around his bottom lip snuggly, and it isn’t the tongue piercing you’re about to find out he’s hiding in his mouth, either.

Every inch of the exposed skin of his arms is covered in intricate, seamlessly flowing tattoos—or, for a moment, you thought it was tattoos, plural. Upon closer inspection, you realize that each arm is actually covered in one giant tattoo, giving a new definition to the term ‘sleeve’. It’s all black ink, not a splash of colour anywhere, depicting an extremely detailed and anatomically correct mechanical arm, complete with what would’ve been joints, ligaments and bones in the form of wires and steel.

The tattoos extend onto the tops of his hands, made to look as if surgical staples are peeling his skin back to reveal the robot beneath. This same tattoo continues up his neck, along his jaw and onto his cheeks, all the way to his bottom lip, spreading across his entire face and disappearing into his hairline and onto his ears. Finally, there’s a small portion of the tattoo underneath his eyes, the surgical staples lining the edges of the face tattoos, too.

It startles you—you’re not necessarily scared, you just…weren’t expecting that. But there’s no denying the rush of breath that involuntarily escapes your lips as your eyes search his face, raking over his body in a brazen way that should make you feel shameful, travelling back up to find him smirking smugly at you, raising an eyebrow as your eyes meet again.

The look in his eyes tells you he knows, knows what you’re thinking about, knows how undeniably attracted you are to him, and scalding heat floods your cheeks.

He chuckles a little, which does nothing but add insult to injury, and sharp anger slices through your chest at the way that you stomach absolutely drops at his gravelly voice. You can’t believe yourself, can’t believe your body is reacting and responding so readily to this man—this stranger.

He introduces himself as Touya, in that rough, deep voice that forces a jolt of electricity to run through your veins. You idly wonder what your name would sound like on his tongue, how it might sound if his voice dropped to a growl, find yourself stuck thinking about this for the rest of the night.

✰ ✰ ✰

To your disappointment, and as much as you are unabashedly interested in him, you don’t interact much with Touya for your first few weeks in the house—in fact, you barely see him at all.

This only piques your curiosity about him more, finding that you’re unable to tear your eyes from him on the rare occasion that you are in a room together. He catches you staring every single time, and he has the audacity to chuckle to himself and shake his head when his gaze meets yours, your eyes quickly darting away and cheeks burning at his laugh.

You begin gathering little tidbits of information about him, purely sourced from interactions you witness in the house, desperately praying for something that’ll give you an opportunity to start a conversation with him.

Your efforts prove fruitless when, almost a month and a half since you moved in, you’ve still only spoken a handful of words to him. You do learn a bit about him through observing, though.

You discover that he’s a smoker, which really doesn’t come as a shock at all. Marlboro’s are his favourite, and he’s always got a pack in his back pocket or rolled up in the short sleeve of his t-shirt. He must have them imported—Marlboro’s are incredibly rare to find all the way in Japan.

Touya must have a lot of things imported.

You find out that every other Thursday, Touya discreetly stuffs an absurdly large wad of cash—all composed of ten-thousand-yen bills—into his mom’s hands, forcing her fingers to curl around it. She fights him on it, every time, but he’s firm and adamant that she take it. It always ends with Rei giving him a small, watery smile, Touya pressing a kiss against the side of her head and murmuring that he loves her.

After you witness this interaction for the first time, you begin to notice that, while the house looks relatively normal on the outside, it is stuffed full of luxury on the inside. Flat-screen TVs each complete with full entertainment systems, state of the art appliances that are somehow up to date with all of the latest trends (including a smart fridge—absolutely ridiculous), custom made furniture, ornate rugs, a housekeeper that drops by every Sunday…

You have no idea what he does for work, but you think you’ve got at least some sort of idea when you catch him one night, just past 2AM, exiting his room and using a thumb to brush excess white powder off his nose. His eyes catch yours, pupils blown and shining in the low light, and he smiles darkly at you, winking once as he walks away.

You don’t ask—no one ever does.

You don’t ask about the crimson splattered on the toe of his boot, or why he sometimes smells metallic, like copper, the strong scent wafting after him and invading the halls as he stalks leisurely toward the bathroom. You don’t ask why he leaves the house at odd hours in the night, and you definitely don’t ask about the soft clinking and clicking you hear through the thin walls every so often while he cleans his gun at 3AM.

You’re not sure if it’s really any of your business, anyway. So you stay quiet, and continue to wait.

The opportunity finally comes one Wednesday in October, two weeks before Halloween, when you’re in the kitchen after school busy fixing yourself an afternoon snack. Touya comes home uncharacteristically early—you rarely see him before 10PM, so his entrance scares you, and you jump a little.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as he passes by behind you, just an inch too close, just enough so you can feel his body heat radiating off of him.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, shaking your head a little and trying in vain to stop your hands from trembling as you spread peanut butter across a piece of bread.

You can feel his eyes on you, and it makes you nervous, makes your skin crawl in a way you’ve never felt before. He laughs a little at your struggling, leaning against the counter next to you and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You don’t have to be so nervous around me, y’know,” he says with a smirk, eyes glittering at the way your lips part in surprise, your breath stuttering a little. “I’m your niichan after all, aren’t I?”

You hadn’t even considered using the honorific until he himself uses it.

Your hands freeze, hovering over your plate, and you look over at him slowly. “You…Want me to call you that?”

“You can, if you’d like,” he says smoothly, nonchalantly, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It makes no difference to him, he tells you, but when he finally looks back at you, you think you can see it in his eyes—a sharp, small glimmer of…of something. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you can’t decide if you like or not.

But this is it, you think, this is your opening to finally begin talking to him.

So you do. And the smirk he gives you the first time you address him by the honorific, voice quivering slightly as you ask him where Rei normally keeps the blender, is nothing short of predatory.

“It’s on the top shelf. It’s too high for you, though,” he says, voice so sickly sweet it almost sounds mocking. “Let niichan get it for you,”

It isn’t, but you let him get it for you anyway.

And he knows—knows he’s got you the moment you gasp at the honorific leaving his lips, trying to hide it behind your hand, nodding quickly and squeaking out a thank you.

It starts after that. He begins playing with you; a sick, perverse game of cat and mouse, hunter and hunted, and you play your part perfectly.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it, if you said it didn’t send wicked sparks of excitement shooting up your spine and an intense fluttering in your stomach.

And it starts slow. It starts with gentle pet names—honey, sweetheart, princess—and fingertips trailing down your arm as he passes you. It starts with a large hand placed on the small of your back, guiding you—out of the house and into his car, out of the kitchen and into the living room, out of the hallway and into his bedroom—and with little pecks on your lips stolen when no one’s watching, quick kisses that leave you feeling exhilarated despite their chastity.

Suddenly, he’s home a hell of a lot more. He’s sitting too close to you on the couch while you curl up with a textbook, his thigh pressed against you and flesh burning hot through his black jeans. He’s joining the family dinner a few times a week, idly hooking and unhooking his ankle with yours beneath the table while smirking at you from across it.

Suddenly, he’s asking you if you need a ride to school, or if you need someone to pick you up. You don’t, you tell him, the bus is just fine, but he insists. It’s what niichans do, he says. He wants to take care of you, he says.

Who are you to deny him that, really?

✰ ✰ ✰

The first time you experience Touya angry is about a month after the inciting incident, when he catches you walking home with a few of your university friends.

He had texted you earlier that day, telling you that he—very regretfully, he said—would be unable to pick you up from school this afternoon because ‘something had come up’.

You didn’t question what it was—you knew he’d lie even if you did. So you accepted it obediently, reassured him that it was fine, that you’d find another way home.

You’re pretty sure if you had told him that you didn’t have any extra change on you for the bus suddenly whatever important thing that had ‘come up’ which so desperately needed his attention wouldn’t be so urgent anymore. But you didn’t want to be a bother, or inconvenience him, so you say nothing.

Two friends decide they’ll accompany you on your walk home, so you aren’t lonely, they claim. Normally, the walk from campus to your house is about thirty minutes, but that day it takes you nearly an hour, wasting time goofing around and walking slowly as you talk idly.

Touya’s already pissed that it’s taken you so long to arrive home, that you’ve ignored all of his extremely considerate texts asking if you’re alright, but when he sees you squished between two boys, giggling as the three of you stumble up your driveway—he’s fucking fuming.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asks, voice calm and monotonous, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Your head snaps up—you swear he wasn’t there just a second ago—blood running cold.

His stance is relaxed, arms crossed loosely over his chest, lazily raising an eyebrow as your wide eyes meet his. Technically, the only indication that he’s furious is the blazing blue fire in his eyes, but your friends can read the tension in the air surrounding him, shuffling a little closer to you. This minuscule action does not go unnoticed by Touya, sharp jaw clenching once.

“You had niichan worried,”

You’re frozen a few feet away from the porch, unable to find your voice, to move your legs, to breathe at all.

“I didn’t know you had an older brother,”

Your eyes do not leave Touya’s as you speak, the words hoarse. “Oh, we’re—”

“Yeah,” Touya bites, irritation finally bleeding into his voice. “She does,” his eyes float back to yours. “Come here, princess,”

Your body snaps into action, moving automatically before you can even comprehend it, allowing Touya to tuck you into his side the moment you reach him.

Your hands are shaking, but you have no control over them as your fingers curl in his white t-shirt, clinging to him. To your surprise, the arm around your shoulders hugs you closer in response, thumb caressing you.

“Thanks for making sure she got home safely,” he tosses over his shoulder, managing to make the simple sentence sound like an insult, tone bordering on patronizing, while he turns on his heel, marching you both inside.

“I-I’m so sorry,” you’re rushing to say the moment the front door shuts behind you two, Touya’s arm still wrapped firmly around you.

He looks down at you coldly. “Don’t you dare pull shit like that again,” he tells you, eerily calm voice forcing spikes of icy dread up your spine. He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in as his eyes bore into yours. “You had me worried sick,” he breathes out then, squeezing you again. You’re surprised in the sudden change of tone, feeling your chest swell at the thought of him fretting over you, a small smile gracing your lips.

“I…I did?”

Touya’s eyebrows furrow, as if he’s offended at your questioning, mood morphing in the span of a second. “Of course you fucking did,” he spits like you’re stupid, arm dropping. “Do you ever check your phone?”

“Wh-What?”

Touya rolls his eyes. “Check your phone,” he calls out airily as he begins walking into the kitchen, shaking his head a little, disappointment rolling off him in waves.

Hastily fishing your phone out of your bag, you’re astonished to see eight texts from him and three missed calls. You scroll through the texts quickly, each one making you feel more nauseous than the next. ‘Is everything okay? You should’ve been home by now’; ‘Please answer me, princess, you’re making your niichan nervous’; ‘Where are you? Answer my fucking calls already’. Guilt turns sour in your mouth and you hurry after him.

“I-I really am s-so sorry,” you force the words out, unsure as to why there are suddenly tears stinging your eyes. He isn’t even doing anything—his back is facing you as he nonchalantly begins brewing a pot of coffee.

But the thought of him being upset with you, of losing his approval, sends a sharp pain searing through your chest.

“Are you?” he asks, and although his voice holds no malice in it, it causes your whole body to stutter with a harsh breath.

“Yes,” you whimper out, latching onto his arm and tugging in an attempt to draw his eyes to yours, to see how regretful you are, the remorse written across your face. “I should’ve…That was so careless and inconsiderate of me,”

“It was,” he agrees simply, voice still light, as if he’s discussing something as mundane as the weather. “But you’ll never do it again, right?”

“Right,” you agree readily, breathing out the word before you even realize what you’re agreeing to.

“Tell niichan you’ll never worry him like that again,” he finally looks over at you.

“I-I’ll never worry you like that again, niichan, I pr-promise,”

His eyes hold yours for what feels like eons, before he finally twists his arm out of your grasp, instead wrapping it around you and tugging you against his body. You stay staring up at him, eyes wide and obedient, breath bated as you wait for your next order, so pliant and ready to serve him.

“Good,” he whispers, eyes finally softening, and you feel like you can breathe properly again. His free hand cups your face, thumb running along your lips, then your chin, then your jaw. “You want to be good for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Of course,” you respond instantly. Later, you’ll lay awake in your bed, feeling ashamed by your actions, by how readily captivated you were with him, by how easily he was able to manipulate you with those sapphire eyes and that rough voice—

But in that moment, you’ll do anything to pull that little smile from him, anything to hear him tell you you’re good. You just want to be good.

Something dark and primal flashes in those gorgeous eyes as they gaze down at you, a small grin spreading across his face. “Of course,” he repeats softly.

✰ ✰ ✰

He begins to trust you more. You meet his friends, each one terrifying in their own right. Jin is alright, although his brain is fried from drugs, and he talks to and contradicts himself a lot, earning the nickname Twice from Tomura.

Tomura horrifies you to your very core—a tall, lanky man with sunken red eyes and sickly pale skin who looks like he’s one bad day away from death—and Touya tells you very sternly to stay away from him.

A university student not unlike yourself, Keigo is your favourite. Keigo is the most normal, with his wild blonde hair and enticing gold eyes that always look like they’re playfully holding the secrets of the universe just out of your grasp.

Keigo’s brain is always going a hundred miles a minute, although you’d never guess it with his trademark lazy drawl, speaking as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. But he can always keep a conversation going, knows exactly what to say to avoid awkward silences or lulls in the discussion, and you appreciate that. You think he’s so cool—he has so much knowledge about the oddest things, everything and anything, ‘a walking encyclopedia’, Tomura calls it, and it fascinates you to no end.

It’s the speed, Touya tells you one night while you’re laying on the couch, your body on top of his, the pads of his fingers dragging down your back in rhythmic strokes. Speed is Keigo’s drug of choice, you find out. Speed is the reason why Keigo knows as much as he does.

“Sometimes he doesn’t sleep for days,” Touya says. “That’s how he has all the time to memorize everything he knows—though that big overactive brain of his plays a part in it, too,”

The thought inexplicably makes your heart sink in your chest, and you don’t say anything else. If Touya notices your shift in mood, he doesn’t mention it. You idly wonder what Touya’s drug of choice is, but you’re too scared of the answer to ask.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s only a few nights later when you wake with a violent jolt, breathing laboured as you absentmindedly press your palm to your chest, trying in vain to calm your racing heart.

A nightmare.

You sit in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of your own harsh breaths echoing off the walls and debating what to do next. A minute later, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, wincing when your bare feet touch the cold hardwood, and pad down the hallway.

You try to trick yourself into believing that you aren’t using this purely as an excuse to spend the night with him. It really was so scary, you reason with yourself, it really has made you all shaken up…

Who are you kidding? You didn’t even attempt to go back to sleep.

You’ve been in his room plenty of times now—sitting daintily on his bed as he introduces you to new music, new movies, new books. Stuff that reminds him of you, he says, stuff that he thought you might be interested in. You’re grateful for it; there are so many things you’ve learned in the short time you’ve known him.

That isn’t all, though. There’s no denying the warmth that spreads through your body, that tiny excited flutter in your chest, when he calls your name and interlaces your fingers, leading you toward his room and telling you he’s got something to show you.

Yes, you’ve been in his room plenty of times now. But this is the first time you spend the night in his bed.

He’s still up, soft golden light leaking from under his closed bedroom door. Your hand quivers a little as you lift it to rap your knuckles against the wood. He appears in the doorway a moment later, leaning against the frame in a black t-shirt that looks like it’s a size or two too small for him, riding up to reveal a teasing sliver of milky skin, tips of his hipbones jutting out from the waistband of his plaid pajama pants.

“Princess? What is it?”

You didn’t realize you were staring, and you jump a little at his gravelly voice.

“Oh. I, um—Well, I just…had a nightmare a-and I can’t sleep,”

You can barely look him in the eyes as you say it, your cheeks burning. You both know it’s a lie.

But he plays along.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, drawing you into his arms, into his room, into his bed.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs as he turns on his side to face you, propping his head up with a hand. “Poor thing. Was it a bad one?”

Your mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton, rendering you incapable of speech, tongue dry and sluggish. You nod in response, heat seeping into your cheeks again at just how loudly your heart is thumping while you roll onto your side. There’s only a few inches of space between your bodies now, his hot breath fanning across your face as he speaks again.

“Do you want niichan to help you forget about it?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes searching his. Your thighs squeeze together at the way his voice has dropped an octave, low and husky, familiar heat pooling in the depths of your belly. He waits patiently, lifting a hand to caress your cheek, then runs his fingertips down your bare arm, goosebumps following.

Finally, you nod. You think you see the corners of his lips quirk up into the slightest hint of a smirk, but you blink, and it’s gone.

“Here,” he whispers, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. Hand cupping your jaw, he tilts your face up and slots his mouth against yours.

You’ve kissed before, of course—in his bed, in yours, on the living room couch, on the kitchen counter with his hips shoved between your thighs—but this…this feels different.

These are kisses with intent, with purpose, with a goal in mind. These are kisses that keep you distracted—slow, soft, messy with saliva—as his hand slips down your body and between your thighs.

Your gasp breaks the kiss, wide eyes blinking up at him then fluttering shut as he brushes a knuckle against your clit. He hushes you, nimble fingers spreading your folds before he drags them up your slit, huffing out a laugh at how wet you already are.

“Were you thinking about something naughty before?” he gasps mockingly, sliding the pads of his fingers back down as he speaks.

His hand withdraws from your shorts and he orders you to lift your hips, tugging the waistband down your thighs. You squirm a little, forcing them further down your legs until you free yourself of them completely, eyes gazing up at him again, awaiting your next command.

Legs part dutifully as his hand travels back down to the apex of your thighs, pushing a finger into your soaking pussy.

It’s slow at first, thrusting leisurely with his middle finger a few times and loosening you up a little before adding his ring finger. Sapphire eyes watch his motions, captivated by how your eager little cunt sucks his fingers in selfishly.

“Look at that, huh?” he breathes, looking down at you. “Such a pretty little pussy you’ve got,”

You open your bleary eyes to peer at yourself, mesmerized by the way his fingers are pumping in and out of you, glistening in the dim light of his bedroom. He curls his fingers and you inhale sharply, hips twitching toward his palm.

“Oh?” he chuckles darkly, knuckles nudging the spot again. “Did niichan find something, baby?”

You don’t know, you’re not sure, you try to tell him, but all you can seem to manage is pathetic little whines while you nod your head.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he’s asking as the pads of his fingers tap against that spot, your entire body jolting.

“Y-Yes,” you whimper out, a little breathlessly. “But it’s never felt like this,”

“Aw, baby,” he coos, and it’s so condescending. “Then you weren’t doing it right, sweetheart,”

He quickens his pace, chuckles at the way you try to desperately fuck yourself on his fingers at such an awkward angle.

“Poor little thing, can’t even get herself off properly,” he tsks. “You need your niichan to do it for you, don’t you?”

Soft whines spill from your throat as you nod eagerly, your stomach coiling tightly.

“One day,” he breathes, curling his fingers with a vengeance this time, your hips rolling up off the mattress. “When we have the time, I’ll teach you how to make yourself feel so good,”

He’s talking too much. You want to tell him this, tell him to shut the hell up, but every time you try to speak he presses the heel of his palm to your clit and grinds against it, effectively scattering all of your thoughts, soft mewls of niichan the only sound escaping your lips.

Can’t deny his voice is fucking hot though, a form of foreplay all on its own.

And he knows this, can read you like a goddamn book, especially when he’s got his fingers two knuckles deep inside of you. He can feel it, he tells you. You don’t even need to speak; he can feel your thoughts when his voice drops an octave and your cute little hole flutters, when he chuckles and your pussy clenches around his fingers—a slut for his voice, aren’t you?

“Pretty baby, you can’t do anything but nod dumbly, can you? Been fucked stupid by my fingers alone, huh?”

Your head barely moves, lost all control of your body by this point, only able to whimper in response.

“Gonna come all over my fingers, pretty girl?” the knuckle of his thumb begins grazing your clit in quick strokes. “C’mon, make a mess for niichan,”

And it’s pathetic, how quickly your body obeys. Your pussy squeezes once, twice, three times and you’re gushing all over his fingers, juices collecting in his palm, running down his wrist. You’re embarrassed—you’ve never cum that much before, have you?

Breathing still ragged, you nuzzle into his sheets, partially hiding your face from him. Nothing could hide the involuntary grin that forms on your lips, though. Arms snake under your boneless body, tugging a bit.

“Oh no, baby, we aren’t done yet,” Touya’s saying while he hoists you up, letting you lean heavily against him.

Head tilting in confusion, your glazed eyes find his. “Wh-What?”

He looks down at his lap and your gaze follows, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips at the bulge straining against his pants. “Doesn’t niichan deserve a nice reward for helping you forget that scary dream?”

Eyes darting back to his, you nod slowly, whispering out, “Yes. But—But…” But you’re hesitant; you’ve never done anything like this before. Shaking hands reach for the waistband of his pants, beginning to pull them down but freezing when the head of his cock peeks out.

Touya sighs. “Come on, you wanna be a good girl for niichan, don’t you?”

Of course. Of courses you do.

Then he wants you to touch him, he says. He’ll help you; he promises.

“But you gotta get it wet first,”

You ask how, and he laughs at you. “With your tongue, stupid,” he tells you.

He instructs you to kneel on the floor and you comply immediately, trembling legs folding beneath your body as you situate yourself between his knees. He inches forward on the bed a little, shuffling himself to the edge and caging you between his thighs. Bringing his cock close to your mouth, he taps the head against your closed lips.

They part instantly, obediently, his eyes flashing with something sinister as you take the head into your mouth and suck hesitantly, big eyes staring up at him waiting for approval.

He curses, his hips twitching ever so slightly, skin stretched taut over bony knuckles as a hand forms a fist in the sheets. Starting with kitten licks at first, the tip of your tongue barely touches him, tracing veins, then begins to gain more confidence as he groans a little, telling you what to you, that you’re doing good, so good for him.

Watching him through thick lashes, you have the audacity to look bashful as your tongue laves around the shaft, drenching it in saliva. A hand tangles in your hair and yanks, pulling you off his cock when he decides it’s sufficiently wet enough. Long fingers encircle your wrist, bringing your hand to form a fist around him.

“Like this,” he says, jerking your hand up and down.

You’re terrible at it, movements awkward and uncoordinated, but in that moment he doesn’t really care. He’s irritated a little, wondering out loud how anyone can be bad at handjobs while a large hand wraps around yours and forces you to speed up. Bad? Your heart sinks at the small three letter word, a hard lump forming in your throat, looking as though you may start crying.

But he cums quickly after that, ropes of searing hot white painting your cheeks and face. You watch him the entire time, panting a little, lips parted slightly and your tongue darts out to lick them, tasting him.

He laughs at your bitter reaction, and it’s such a patronizing sound.

“Don’t worry,” he says, collecting the cum off your face and forcing his fingers into your mouth. “Someday I’ll stuff your throat full of it.”

✰ ✰ ✰

You can no longer mention needing—no, wanting—anything around him anymore, because within the next few days it’s sitting pretty and perfect on your bed, propped up against your lace trimmed pillows.

He’s so good to you; you should be grateful you have such a generous niichan, one who eats you out and spoils you with gifts. You’re so spoiled.

And he tells you this, in the dead of night when you wake to find him shoving his cock into you, snarling a little at your soft whines of protest.

“Don’t be a brat,” he warns. Just be a good girl and take his cock. He does so much for you, can’t you be good for him?

Yes, yes, you want to be good for him, you want to be the best for him.

By this point you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve woken up in the middle of the night with his head between your thighs, prepping you to take him.

“Stay sleeping, baby,” he’ll tell you, words whispered into your hair as his cockhead nudges against your hole.

As if you could ever stay sleeping when only a few minutes later he’s pounding you into oblivion, large hand clasped over your mouth so tightly his blunt nails are digging into your cheek, so hard that it’s yanking your head back, neck beginning to ache.

He tells you to be quiet, “You don’t want anyone to hear, do you? Then we’d have to stop, and you don’t want that, right, sweetheart?”

You don’t, you whimper. Of course you don’t—you want whatever he wants, you want to be his perfect little baby, you want to be told how good you take his cock, the praise mumbled against your skin in a low, strained voice right before he fills you with cum.

✰ ✰ ✰

He disappears for a few days near the end of December. You have no idea where, Touya answering your curious texts with playful quips at first before he grows tired of it and tells you to stop fucking asking.

But eventually, he returns.

The front door slams shut and your body flinches with a jolt of excitement. Adrenaline spikes your blood when you hear his heavy boots colliding with the hardwood, getting louder, louder, louder…

He passes right by you, not glancing at you at all. Moments later, the sound of water hitting the tiled shower wall echoes down the hallway.

And you wait. Patiently, you wait, like the good little girl you are, not daring to move a muscle. Eventually he re-emerges, hair still damp, a few strands sticking to his neck.

With a groan, he collapses on the couch next to you, flopping his head into your lap and gazing up at you with glazed, blown sapphire eyes.

“You’re high,” you say softly, not accusatory, just an observation. He giggles a little.

“So what if I am?”

“What did you take?”

“Oh,” he gasps mockingly. “Oh no, baby, I can’t tell you that,”

Why? The question is burning on the tip of your tongue, and you can tell that he’s anticipating that to be your next response, but you bite down on your bottom lip, holding it in. You know his answer already, can practically hear his patronizing voice—Because good baby sisters aren’t supposed to know about stuff like this.

“Can I try some?” you ask instead.

All of the mirth fades from his eyes in an instant, and he moves in a flash despite his inebriated state, so quick you can barely tell what’s happening. His large hand wraps around your bicep in a bruising grasp, pulling you towards him as he sits up, his face an inch away from yours.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he spits, cobalt eyes blazing and voice rumbling against your chest. “And if I so much as catch wind that you’re using, have a mere feeling that you’ve tried it—even just once—I’ll slaughter you and the fucker you got it from. Do you understand me?”

Surprised tears spring into your eyes and you nod jerkily, body beginning to tremble as your breath gets caught in your throat. You want to tell him that you didn’t mean it, honest, you promise!; that you were just kidding around, you swear!, but you can’t, voice mangling itself with the hitched little breaths on the back of your tongue.

He growls at your silence, his grip around your arm tightening and you cry out, terrified that he might actually crush the bone with his bare hand.

“Say, yes Touya, I understand,”

“Y-Yes Touya, I understand,” you manage to stutter out, voice returning only at the command of a direct order, tears spilling over and rolling down your cheeks in pairs. His eyes search your face for a moment, his features contorted in fury, before he sneers at you, squeezing your arm once then roughly letting go, shoving you away from him.

You fall backward against the arm of the couch, heart thumping so vigorously you’re sure he can hear it. He groans, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, exasperated.

“Fuck,” he sighs, eyes opening to glare at the ceiling. “You’ve ruined my high,”

You stare at him, breath coming out in uneven huffs, clinging to the couch.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, terrified to move lest you upset him more.

He’s silent for a moment, still staring up, until he lolls his head to the side, glancing at you through the corner of his eye. A small smirk spreads across his face.

“C’mere,” he says, nodding his head a little in indication.

“Wh-What?”

“C’mere,” he repeats. “Come make it up to me,”

Your body’s moving before you’ve given it permission to, crawling into his lap obediently, thighs on either side of his hips. His smirk widens, and you love it—you love how much control he has over you without even trying, you love the way a quiet whimper slips through your lips as his large hands begin kneading your flesh, running up your legs and grabbing your ass.

Lips trail up the column of your neck, and you tilt your head back, a silent plea for more. You can feel the way his lips curl into a grin against your skin, nipping at it a second later.

“So, how you gonna make it up to me? Huh?” he shifts his hips under you, pressing his hard cock into your clothed core. You whine a little, grinding against him.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” you breathe out while sharp teeth mar your collarbone.

“The hell you waiting for? Show me,”

You begin sliding down his body and he pushes on your shoulders, forcing you to your knees between his spread thighs. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, gaping pupils outlined by a thin ring of blue.

Holding his gaze, you lean forward with your pretty little tongue hanging out and begin licking along the straining bulge, tracing it slowly, the denim rough against your sensitive muscle. You relent though, lapping at his clothed cock in slow, long strokes, and his jeans are just thin enough for you to feel him pulse in response.

A giggle bubbles up past your lips, muffled by the denim, already beginning to feel heady as you pull simple reactions from him. Your mouth forms a cute little ‘o’ and you suck on him the best you can through his jeans, drooling all over his lap and soaking through the material.

The hand in your hair tightens into a fist, yanking hard and pulling your mouth away. “Stop fucking teasing,” he warns, a hint of something ominous in his voice.

You obey, because you always obey, tiny fingers working to quickly unbuckle his belt, pop the button, yank down the zipper. He aids you, lifting his hips and allowing you to tug his jeans down his thighs enough for his cock to spring out.

His own hand wraps around the shaft, you pausing mid-action as you reach for it.

“Open,” he demands, your dutiful lips parting immediately, letting him push his cock into the warm, wet cavern.

He sets a brutal, punishing pace from the start, refusing to give you a single moment to adjust. His other hand fists in your hair, forcing you to stay still as he rams his cock down your throat.

Reflexive tears burn your eyes, blurring your vision. You blink quickly to clear them, desperate to watch him, to catalogue all of his micro-expressions and the sound of his voice as he grunts out your name, to burn it into your mind, etch it into your very soul.

Touya’s head falls back against the couch, Adams apple bobbling with his rough whimpers, long neck and sharp collarbone on full display. If your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, you’d love to lick up his smooth skin, to trace the dips of his collarbone with your tongue and sign your name in brilliant splotches of blue and purple.

You’re gagging around his cock now, starting to feel lightheaded and struggling to inhale enough oxygen. The ache in your jaw is beginning to spread, but you ignore it, stretching your mouth open wider, to take more, to be good for him, to make him proud. It’s worth it for the hoarse, throaty moans you’re pulling from him, to hear your name shuddered out, followed by a breathy, “Fuck,”

He forces hot cum down your throat a moment later, and you choke on it, sputtering around his cock, throat spasming as it tries to force the foreign object out. He won’t let it, though. He holds your head in place, nose pressed against his pubic bone, and you can do nothing but take it, like a good little girl, like he tells you to.

But it’s all worth it. It’s all worth it, to hear his broken whines like that, to have him look down at you and pull your hair and tell you you’re good, so good for him.

And you’re sobbing by the end of it, gasping for air the moment he lets go of you, wheezing violently as your head collapses against his thigh.

“Did I—” you cough, voice raspy from having your throat fucked raw, “—Did I make it up to you, niichan?” you gaze up at him, eyelashes spiky with residual water. You’re the perfect picture of obedience, strands of hair stuck to your face where your salty tears have dried and swollen lips gleaming with saliva as you watch him with glittering eyes, waiting desperately for his praise.

He looks down at you, eyes devious and diabolical, chest heaving a little. “Of course you did,” he tells you, corners of his lips tugging up into a sharp smirk as you melt into him. “You always do, don’t you?”

#todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya #dabi x reader #dabi smut #touya x reader #dabi may be a scumbag but he loves his momma #tomura baby i’m so sorry #promise u don’t horrify me at all oof #pls come horrify me more #christ if dabi isn’t touya we’re all gonna look like goddamn fools #a buncha clowns #anyway this is my first time posting something like this #n i haven’t written smut in an extremely long time #so pls be nice #actually u should always be nice #so pls be extra nice #no one beta’d this so there’s a good chance i’ll come back to it n revise it or whatever idk i’m just sick of looking at it rn #the ‘he talks too much’ is inspired by ch 271 w hawks where he’s all ‘he’ll keep talking’#dabi shut the fuck up challenge #prone to monologuing this boy is #also sorry abt the crazy sentences with a thousand commas #apparently now i’m oscar wilde w these run on sentences #idk i still kinda like em tho #i like oscar #tw pseudo-incest #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw emotional manipulation #tw somnophilia #tw drugs

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years ago

Text

marmalade taffy

Helmut Zemo smut & feels. Soft!Dom Zemo, non-superhero!AU, Zemo being the weird uncle of college!Maximoff twins. This was written on a whim so if someone signs up to beta-read, I will shower you with affection and reminders to drink water. The Reader is addressed as "you" and is not described - race/age/body type neutral. The language I used for Sokovian is actually Serbian. Word count 2,8k.

Fun fact: I have mild synesthesia. Emotions/feelings and some people have an assigned color (and sometimes smell) for me. That's how the name of the fic was born. This fic feels like the colors of marmalade and taffy, look them up. This fic is dedicated to my lovely @slothspaghettiwrites , the shining beacon in my misty, rocky beach. (You're a periwinkle for me, by the way. I thought you might ask.)

When you first see him all you do is raise an eyebrow. His sleek, well-maintained vintage car stands out almost grotesquely amongst the various sedans and mom vans on the campus and you can see the glint of his wristwatch even from afar. Wanda's and Pietro's sheepish smirk only makes the situation worse - the girl's attire obviously screams "liberal arts" and her twin brother doesn't seem to have anything better to wear than tracksuits.

The man behind the wheel is unfazed. He is calm and collected in that European way, not conceited, just waiting. For what? You don't know. His eyes trail over you but he doesn't smile, simply gives a tiny polite nod. If you hadn't had extensive conversations about cultural differences with Wanda, you'd say he was extremely rude.

Shy, quiet Wanda, who's eyes lit up seeing her favorite not-actually-uncle. In a surprising dash of energetic agility, she hopped right into the car, her numerous scarves a bright flash of saturation against the campus grayscale. You giggle and wave at the departing car, snorting when Wanda's hand reaches over to briefly honk the horn, causing the driver to swerve the tiniest bit, his eyes trained on you in the rearview mirror.

He comes and goes often. Almost always in a different perfectly restored vintage car, mostly with the same polite mask of bored contentment. You know he's royalty in his home country and can't help but wonder how frivolously the twins act around him - no, free. He gives all the appearance of a silent, strict man.

You're proven wrong rather quickly. Freshman year left behind you, you and Wanda decide to ditch the dorms for an apartment - she finds one rather quickly and it's just you two in it even though it is ridiculously huge and the rent amount she requests is equally ridiculously small. Not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you pretend nothing is out of the ordinary and buy yourself a new pair of shoes.

Helmut - Wanda finally formally had introduced you two - doesn't come by often, however the visits are always... Eventful. He's not at all what it seemed to be; in the quiet of your apartment, a witty, incredibly clever man resurfaces from under the stoic façade. The Slav in him easily lets him consume alarming quantities of alcohol together with Pietro, who opted to stay in the dorms with his idiotic football team, and - you couldn't believe your eyes at the time - dorkily dad-dance squat in the middle of your living room, unfazed by your and Wanda's cackling.

The way Helmut is absolutely unbothered by the audience and the laughter, pale face flushed from the wine and a little smirk stretching his thin lips into expression almost catlike. The maroon turtleneck stretches nicely across his chest, as thinly as your lip that you worry between your teeth.

Pietro raises an eyebrow. You shrug.

"Got something in your eye, no?" He teases playfully and you shrug again, taking another swig of your nice, European beer.

There are more gatherings, more parties and quite a few rides in his car, when the wind blows your hair in all directions possible and intermingles it with Wanda's as you giggle and squeal in the back seat. Helmut always indulges you two; the word 'no' simply does not exist in that man's vocabulary. He insists politely but firmly on a dinner with all three of them on your birthday and the gifts he brings make your eyes pop out and your face heat.

"A woman like you makes any sensible man want to shower you with the finest gifts," Helmut's voice is quiet and his accent is thick and somehow, it makes it all that harder to refuse. He smiles like usual - tiny and a little secretive, as he pecks your cheek, filling the air around you with the smell of his cologne. It makes your mouth water and your fingers clench helplessly around the half a dozen of silk paper-wrapped boxes.

The summer rolls in and it's hot and humid and finally you don't have to worry about waking up at the crack of dawn or classes or the annoying boys who can barely take a no for an answer. The invitation to Helmut's villa doesn't come as a surprise; Wanda had been riled up over it since early May and Pietro and his whole damn football team were equally as thrilled.

You pack flowy dresses, daisy dukes and swimsuits. The expensive jewelry and handbag Helmut had gifted you, too, since the villa is surrounded by a whole neighborhood meant solely for the rich and famous. Wanda is absolutely unbothered by her own bohemian chic and you quietly envy her; the longer you get to know her, the more you realise of how much actually she does not give a fuck about anything besides her paintings and sculptures.

It's admirable, really, because she is talented. And Helmut knows it, too, having had collected and kept every single work Wanda had made, showing it off in the various rooms of his two-story mansion. The abstract fits in well and is a great conversation topic for him and his equally important friends. There's an endless stream of them in the first days and Wanda isn't overtly happy, choosing to run away to laze around the pool with you more often than not.

Helmut's friends stop at the glass wall between the inner side of the house and the pool to stare at you two, too, causing something dark and tense flash across his features. There always had been a sort of tangy obscurity in him, you've noticed, but not nearly enough for you to grow concerned. It added the bittersweetness, the flavour and consistency to the modest man.

Although calling him modest might have been a mistake. The moment you can't shake off one of his friends after a polite chit-chat seems to never end, Wanda nowhere in sight, dread and unease digging their sharp, spindly fingers in the soft flesh behind your rib cage, Helmut is suddenly there, arm wrapped almost possessively around your waist.

"Draga mea, Wanda is looking for you. She says it's urgent," He stares the man down with the eyes of a vulture. "I believe we haven't been properly introduced," Helmut seems to not realize he's still clutching you in a grasp of steel as the man opposite you rumbles out his name, few syllables you'd forgotten seconds after he spoke them for the first time.

"Baron Helmut Zemo," the fingers brush and squeeze once, gently, over the valley of your waist before letting go. You miss the rest of their peacocking, walking away with a fight and fire inside of your hammering heart. Anxiety and longing and confusion mix and blend, combining into a cocktail that has you beelining for the bar like a woman parched.

The next day you're sleeping off the hangover, first in your bed and then by the pool - Wanda had run off into town for one thing or another, and knowing her, she'd be back home at the crack of dawn. It was blissful peace, the soothing balm for your troubled heart and your aching head.

"Hungover?" Helmut's voice was quiet and a little bit teasing. None of the Eastern Europeans had ever showed the signs of having any ill effects from the alcohol they drunk, unlike you.

You stretched, too blissed out to care about the skimpy strings and straps of your bikini, basking in the gentle morning sun. "Mmm, not anymore," a swim in the cold pool had done wonders.

Your soft pink float rocked as Helmut's footsteps quieted, giving way to a short splash and the sound of his breathing somewhere in your space. Just as you cracked open your eyes, he reached out a hand to steady himself next to you. "I wanted to apologize for the situation yesterday. That man was stepping out of line. He is not welcome in my home anymore."

You stare at him and then you snort. The blunt was he usually speaks is so easy, it flows oh so effortlessly. No mind games, just honesty. You want to pay him back in kind. "Don't worry, Helmut. I just had a bit too much to drink," that was the truth. Any other time and you wouldn't have hesitated to unapologetically steer clear of any creep. Heat and bubbly don't mix and that was your own mistake.

"No, printsesa," the man in front of you let loose some of the delicious darkness, eyes growing stormy, hand gently resting over yours. "Some men are fools, they are nothing but animals. You deserve to feel safe, especially in my home." His lips stretched into a smile, water dripping down his jaw and making tiny circles form in the azure of the pool.

"I can't argue with that," you replied, catching the stray liquid and following the trails it made with your eyes. His forehead, dripping down over his eyes, making Helmut blink the stray drops away until they landed on his lips, trickling down his chin.

You swallowed, opting to dip your toes into the cool pool water before you could make a fool of yourself. The water splashed towards him, making a mischievous grin grace his usually serious face, as me made a half-hearted attempt to splash back weakly, making the water sizzle on your sun-kissed skin. Never the one to back down from a challenge, you knitted your eyebrows in mock offense, eagerly letting the water wash over you as you abandoned the float in favour of creating waves with your whole body.

The temperature contrast was delicious and Helmut's laugh even more so as it echoed in between the high walls of the building surrounding the pool. The sun was nearly at its peak, shining over your head in a beacon of heat that almost matched the one inside of you, the one that had blossomed there months ago and finally grew into a steady smolder, shooting sparks whenever you were around the baron.

It was hot and wet, the same feeling chasing you two when you finally kissed. His hand firmly planted on the side of your neck, his nose softly brushing against the underside of your jaw, Helmut was in no rush to taste you, to savour every millimeter of your sun-kissed skin. The man left you with your fingertips trembling and heart scrambling for purchase somewhere in the deepest pits of your belly.

"What are you so hungry for, mmm?" Helmut's voice rumbled next to the shell of your ear; you could barely focus, skin singing underwater, where he held onto you like a lifeline. "You have hungry eyes, ljubavi, tell me what it is and I'll give it to you," your bodies pressed flush against each other, his eyelashes flittering against your cheek.

"You," the maximum capacity for your brain was one-syllable words and you used it sparingly, failing to suppress a gasp when Helmut's mouth latched around a particularly sensitive spot right under your jawline.

Teeth scraped over it before he soothed the sting with his tongue. "All the things in the world, I could give them to you. And yet..." He sounded almost disappointed. Perplexed, just as you were at the strange admission. "A woman like you would have men fighting for your attention yet you give it to me so freely," he murmured softly, capturing your lips in a slow, fluid kiss once more. "I will make sure you have everything you could ever want."

Helmut's touch grew bolder as he steered the two of you towards the shallow end of the pool. The taste of him was intoxicating, like the sweetest, most alluring poison you'd ever tasted: you knew that once you had one small bit, you'd be addicted, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. His words were clever and his mouth even more, making the short stumble upstairs last hours.

A wall, baroque tapestry, marked with the wetness of the pool water, where you allowed yourself to be pressed against as he leaned into you with the entirety of his broad frame, domineering the kiss effortlessly.

You panted as your back hit the soft, million-thread count, unmade sheets of the baron's bed, staring up into his eyes and finding your own reflection in his pupils, blown wide with lust. The tiny smirk was back but now his unexpressive face was marred by a gleem, accentuating his moist, puffy lips you'd licked into and bitten in a heated frenzy.

"Beautiful, printsesa," he stated with quiet firmness, leaning over into you to unclasp and toss away the upper part of the bikini. The bottoms followed suit, flung carelessly somewhere. His hands ran over your as it sang, every tiniest nerve hypersensitive, coming alive with a fervor borne of months of longing, complimented by the summer heat and cool waters.

"Helmut," your voice wavered, flowed on the syllables as his clever, clever mouth trailed hot down your chest, briefly submerging each nipple into the sear of it. Goosebumps rose over your exposed body, highlighting a trail for him, a trail he followed eagerly. Kisses were candy sweet and marshmallow soft.

Hot breath at the apex of your thighs had you mewling and arching into it, having abandoned all shame, and Helmut found it amusing. The petite chuckle made an appearance, his fingertips ghosting over the part of your lower lips; he was as amused by your impatience as he was enthralled by the youthfulness of the gesture. "Shh, ljubavi, I will make it feel better," his accent as thick as clover honey and just as saccharine.

The first movements were tentative, brief and so light, the demanding moan slipped out of your mouth along with a growl of frustration. You felt continuous chuckling, slight stubble rasping along the sides your thighs; you felt him pick up pace and steady his hot hands on your hips as you attempted to trash against the overwhelming stimulation your pussy was receiving.

His moans, loud and wet, drove you closer to the edge like a drunk drove a Ferrari; Helmut's skill was unparalleled but it lacked precision as he lost himself in the moment just as much as you.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm- I'm so close," you managed to grunt out before the crescendo hit, eyes rolling back into your skull as the influx of more, more, more hit every nerve ending in your body. You could do little more than rest your legs on his shoulders as the noble man, the quiet storm lapped up every drop of your release.

He made the inside of you weak.

In seconds, Helmut was back on top of you, grinding his arousal into you desperately, almost begging for it and all you could do was let your body respond, mimic your lover, clench around nothing just as you felt him twitch.

"Tell me you're mine," he demanded hooking one of your legs over his hip, eyes boring into yours with everything in them plain on display. It was a terrifying thing: as if your heart had suddenly grown legs, stood up and walked out into the bare, wide world, open for all to see. "Ti moa, skaži eto," his native tongue made his voice even more hoarse, you couldn't resist anymore.

"I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours," you chanted the words like a prayer, hoping he'd be merciful - and he is. No, there's only a hidden tenderness in his hands as he drives into your with increasing force that shakes you and makes your core quiver, igniting your flesh once again like the color red; it's messy and it's sloppy and you're barely aware of Helmut muttering something into the crook of your neck as you feel yourself clench down on him with a choked moan.

"Fuck," hearing him, the polite composed man, bite the end of his own orgasm into a curse made a wave of magenta hot rush travel through your body at lightning speed, his cock pulsating and coating you, claiming you from inside out so sweetly you couldn't resist a shallow gasp into his cheek, a gasp he mirrored as his own oversensitive flesh was once more assaulted by your combined lust.

The tide of his breathing was high; both of you spent yet still drunk on the newfound sense of togetherness. It was clear as a summer's day that in your arms laid a man who'd once lost something important and you - you were a someone who's never had anything of significance and perhaps, this time each other's arms would let you both keep whatever it was that you missed.

#helmut zemo x y/n #helmut zemo x you #helmut zemo x reader #helmut zemo smut #baron zemo x reader #baron zemo smut #baron zemo x you #baron zemo x y/n #zemo smut #zemo x reader #zemo x you #bun writes #baron zemo #zemo #i am KNEELING

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chiwhorei · 4 years ago

Text

pollock

paring: art major!k. tsukishima x fem!reader

genre: a dash of angst, hurt/comfort, smut, 18+ minors dni

wordcount: 3.2k

warnings: dom/sub dynamics, fingering, spitting, dacryphilia, praise, daddy kink, breeding kink, impregnating kink, soft and kinda hard dom!tsukki, sub!reader

a/n: ahhhhh!! this is my first longer fic to come out in a while and i am ~so~ excited to share this with everyone. i have been keening over the idea of art!major tsukki and i hope you all like him as much as i do! this is piece is brought to you by the hqhq monthly server collab, so please go check out everyone’s amazing writing, the masterlist can be found here!

hymn: validation by herrick & hooley, cherry hill by russ

“Your work is always technically very well executed, Tsukishima-san.” The round, bald-headed man shuffles through the photos on his desk, pieces of Tsukishima Kei’s senior project that he’s tried to fit together before his final exhibit only four months away.

“But,” the dreaded word has Tsukki restraining himself from a long eye roll, “It seems like you’re stuck. You still need one more piece for the show. What inspires you?”

You hear a resounding slam of the front door swinging open and meeting the frame again, followed by a shuffle of feet towards where you’re standing in the kitchen of your shared apartment. Tsukki’s mouth is set in a flat line, expression softening only slightly when he sees you leaning against the counter. You greet him with a warm, but cautious smile. It had been a horribly long day, grating on every thread of patience Tsukishima has. The bubbling of anxiety and frustration mixing into a sour look on his handsome face. You hate seeing your boyfriend so defeatus, much preferring the sardonic, confident air he usually holds. Both of your final years of college have been exceptionally taxing, Tsukki’s final art project being the most stressing of all. It seems like as days propel forward, closer to his due date, the less assured he is of his talents, his passions. It’s heartbreaking to see someone so brilliant struggle through a million half fleshed-out ideas and crumbled up leaves of paper.

You pull one of his hands to you, examining the stains of paint and ink across his long digits and kissing each finger softly. You wish you could get inside that big head of his and help in some way.

“Did you have a hard day at the studio, Kei?” You wrap your arms around his neck and search his eyes. He’s not always the best at talking to you, especially when he’s upset, so you don’t expect him to give you an answer. Instead, you rub his shoulders, trying to coax the tension out. He sighs deeply at the contact, hands moving to rest at the plush of your hips and gripping tightly when you work at a particularly sore spot.

“You’re too good to me, princess. Thank you” He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, and you nuzzle into him. You don’t have the answers to his current road block, you don’t pretend to. But maybe, you think, you can offer him a more carnal outlet.

“Of course, Daddy.” The name hangs in the air for a moment, any response hitching in his throat. The title is familiar after years of being together, always being both comforting and electrifying. Since the title slipped out years ago for the first time, your boyfriend feels his cool demeanor snapping like a glow stick, leaving hot lust in its wake upon it rolling past your lips.

He pulls you closed to him by your ass, inhaling sharply at the contact on his jeans. All you have on is one of Tsukki’s loose, paint stained sweaters and a thin pair of cotton panties. You brush one of your bare thighs against his crotch, and he feels the stresses of his day falling out of frame. Your body is always a buoy to pull him back from the drowning of self doubt. A perfect slice of heaven he became addicted to from the moment he spotted you across the dusty stacks.

“What inspires you?”

The question rings in his head again, but with a new perspective. Tsukki hears pieces clicking together with your lustrous body pressed against him.

“Babygirl, I think I have an idea. But I’m going to need your help.” His hands move to cup your cheeks, scanning over your features and finding a devious glint behind your soft, e/c eyes. Tsukki trails a thumb over your bottom lip lightly, admiring how you lean into the contact. Always so eager to please him, your temperament goes straight to his cock every time.

“Anything for you, daddy.” You press your forehead against his, waiting patiently for his next move. There’s astounding beauty in the glossy, temperate look in your eyes that he wants to, has to, to freeze in time.

“I have a few things to set up. Come to the office when I call you,” Tsukki pushes a stray hair from your face with a fond smile before walking away, he stops for a moment to look at you over his shoulder, “Naked.”

Your mind races as to what exactly he wants to do with you tonight as you busy yourself with peeling off your clothing. There is very little that you and your boyfriend haven’t tried at least once, but the tone in his voice has left you reeling at the possibilities.

Your eyes catch your reflection in the hallway mirror, naked body completely exposed to your own scrutinizing stare. Had it been the stress causing the image in front of you to be so unsavory? Every plane of skin promoting a different insecurity. A blasted thing a hallway mirror becomes when you’ve never truly loved what stares back. You fuss with your hair in a feeble attempt to make yourself more presentable. The question of how Tsukishima sees you always rattling around in the back of your head, especially standing completely naked and waiting in your own insecurities.

“Princess, come here.” You are pulled from your deprecating thoughts at the sound of Tsukki’s warm voice. You walk into his office, and notice he’s changed into just a pair of grey joggers. The sight of the low hanging garment making you salivate so much you almost miss your surroundings. He’s struck some kind of inspiration, you can see it in his eyes as he adjusts his easel and props up a large, blank canvas. You fiddle with your fingers as he looks up at you.

“Jackson Pollock.” You meet your boyfriend’s eyes, confused by his seemingly random statement as he parses out different colored paints into small bowls. Red, blue, green, yellow. “He poured paint on a flat surface so that he could view every angle color could create, every curve.” Tsukki muses, dipping two fingers into the bright yellow hue sitting next to him, bringing them towards his face with contemplation. “But I think this sweet little body of yours will prove a much better canvas.”

His eyes provide no sign of bluffing, but you stare back at him dumbly. Sure, he’s used you as a muse before. Studying your hands or the way your hair falls in the sketches you see hanging up by his desk behind you. You love when he wants to use your body for inspiration, but is he really going to cover you in paint?

“We both know you don’t mind getting a little messy,” He trails his wet pointer finger across your collarbone, following a line towards your chin. He tilts your head up to meet his eyes, “Open your mouth.”

Your bottom lip parts from the top, eyes following the line of spit that drops from his mouth to your tongue with a resounding put.

You swallow thickly, the feeling of his control already bending your will to meet him at every pass.

“I want you to look nice and fucked out for me, baby. I want to show my stuffy professors where my inspiration comes from. I’m going to capture how sweet and submissive my little princess is and then everyone will get to see what I get to enjoy every night.” His unmarred hand moves towards your already disastrously wet pussy. You’re drooling at even the most slight contact, bucking into his hand in a plea for more. His words, complimentative but unmistakingly domineering, have your head becoming fuzzy.

“Daddy, please. Please touch me.” Your whines are music to his ears.

“Oh princess, I plan on it. But I need you to be good for me. You don’t want to mess up all my hard work do you?” His voice is steady, authoritative but still soft around the edges in a way that makes you feel gooey.

Tsukki leads you to the stool sitting in the middle of the room, and you perch on it with his hands keeping you steady. You are his muse and medium, his subject and his canvas to use in any way desired.

Smudges of color brandish every inch of your skin, each stroke is a reminder of where your lovers hands have been. Blue and pink splatter against your stomach, a vibrant red outline on each curve of your breast and purple fingerprints against your pert nipples. Your legs wear a trail of hand prints towards your glistening cunt, wanton cunt. Each marring of paint sits beside paths of hot, opened mouth kisses.

All that is keeping you balanced on the squeaky wooden stool is Tsukishima’s strong arms holding you captive in place. Your legs had been thrown over his shoulders after painting across your upper thighs in a sea of greys and greens. As soon as Tsukki’s eyes met with your bare cunt, his mouth was quick to follow.

He’s a mess of paint now too, muscular chest and arms covered in pigment and face covered in you. He’s always insatiable, drinking you in like it’s the only source of sustenance left in the world. He knows how to work you, how to propel you towards orgasm in a way no one else has ever been able to do. Worshiping your body with langued strokes of his tongue. You let out a pitchy moan in response to his mouth, pushing you towards an end you can feel in the back of your throat.

“I bet you want to cum don’t you, baby? I can feel it. Such an eager little thing.” Tsukishima ghosts his lips across your hot cunt, blowing at your clit to make you yelp. You’re so close, too close. Dangling above bliss but not tipping over, knowing you need permission. You’ve been so good for him, he has to give you your release.

“Please, daddy. Please let me cum.” Tears wet your cheeks as you beg, holding onto Tsukki’s blond locks like an anchor. All you need is his approval, but instead of persimmon you are met with a bawdy laugh.

You really should have known he wasn’t going to let you go that easy.

Tsukki stands up, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. You’re wrecked in every way. Hair loose and disheveled, body dipped in a thin layer of sweat and thick splotches of paint. The look on your face is equal parts pathetic and fervent.

“I need you to sit pretty for daddy, I want to capture how desperately beautiful you look right now.” His words make you preen, but it’s a compliment and a warning at the same time. He wants to capture the look of sweet pain of denied orgasm to display at an art exhibit of both peers and his seniors. Sadistic in Tsukishima’s own unique way.

You should have known better, Tsukki’s patience has always been astounding. You know all he wants to do is bury himself in you, but he wants even more to make you suffer under his stare. There’s plenty of times he unleashes his frustration out on you physically, ripening your ass cheeks in bright red handprints and ensuring you can’t walk in the morning. But it’s these moments that can be even harsher, when he regards you with steely eyes and a aloof threat, that make your nerves catch fire more than a spanking ever could.

He sits down to start sketching on the large canvas in front of him, pinning you to your position with a practiced glare and playing on your desire to please him.

You sit as still as you can, listening to the scratch of pencil on vinyl in an attempt to keep calm. Your cunt is still twitching, puffy and slick propped uncomfortably atop the wooden stool. Tsukki hums along to the rhythmic music coming from his phone speaker, a playlist you know to be the one that helps him concentrate on his work. His brow furrows in concentration, pushing his glasses back in place as he stares at you again. His eyes are calculating and coldly observant, but his mouth quirks up in a surprising smile.

“My perfect baby. So stunning in every way.” His thoughts start tumbling out without his usual sarcastic filter.

“I have never wanted something more in my life than you. All of you, all the time.” A genuine regard for you in the lilt of his voice clamps down on your chest. He’s called you pretty, told you he loved you a million times before, but there’s a calm resonance in his words as his hands move across the white caves in front of him that catches in your throat. With the pressure of graduation looming over the two of you these past few months, romantics have been pushed to the side to make room for laser focus on finishing your degrees.

Your eyes well at his confessional, struck by the vulnerability so unfamiliar to him. You missed this side of your boyfriend, unlocking it incrementally through the years and finding it virtually non-existent recently. He sees your shoulders trembling slightly and tears his eyes up to your form.

“I told you to stay still.” His voice comes out harsh, but melts away when he sees fat tears rolling down your puffy cheeks.

“Y/n, are you okay? Did I upset you?” He moves to console you, the action causing another round of sobs, your body on edge in every way after both the teasing and his impromptu affirmation. Your response surprises yourself just as much as Tsukki, not realising how starved of his affection you had become.

“I’m sorry daddy, I-I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just- do you mean all that?” You lower your head in embarrassment, and Tsukishima’s heart breaks at the realization. Had he unintentionally disregarded you? Had he been ignoring you?

“Fuck baby, of course I mean it. I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.” He pulls you up into his strong hold, he lets you cry into his shoulder until your wracking sobs simmer to sniffles. He holds you tightly in an attempt at atonement. He has to do something to show you how he feels now that he knows his words have failed him. His actions have to speak in his place.

Tsukishima pulls you away slightly to meet his gaze before colliding his lips against yours. He traces his tongue in sonnets across your mouth, tasting the lingering essence of your arousal and the salt of your tears. He writes prose in the breathy gasps as you part for air, chests heaving. He has to show you what his words won’t always allow him to.

It’s bodies tangled together, covered in the colors of a man trying his best to show you how much he loves you. You had fallen to the floor at the behest of passion, Tsukki’s body covering yours, lips kissing any extension of your skin, uncaring of the paint covering both of your writhing frames.

You paw at his sweatpants as if they are the most offensive thing you’ve ever scene, Tsukki’s cock springs out to slap against the hard muscle of his abdomen. You don’t waste any time lining him up to your dripping folds, you’ve waited long enough. Hips crashing together like a fever dream, you’re wrapped in each other as if there’s nothing else in this world outside of a set of paints and four walls of a dimly lit apartment. The sun could be hurling towards the sidewalk just outside and Tsukishima, usually observant to a fault, would have no idea. All he knows is your body beneath him, clawing desperately at his back with every deep thrust, and the love poem he has written on your body. Reds across your breasts and brandishing your thighs. Greens and yellows across your neck, up your arms. Messy, sticky, covering the thin sheet Tsukki laid out to spare the hardwood.

Your panting, crying out for your daddy and consumed in the salty taste of love and lust crashing together like waves. His cock is heavy inside you, filling you up so completely. Tsukki rowes on, not daring to stop now, not with the resounding drumming of two hearts beat so perfectly together and the feeling of your clenching, velveteen walls hugging him like he’s coming home.

“I am so desperately in love with you. I want you like this, with me, forever.” He’s delirious, drunk on your body. Primal, as he stares down at you, colorful and completely conquered. He sees everything in your eyes, every baser desire, every hope for the future.

“I want to fill you up with my cum, princess. You are mine in every way. God, I want to see you swollen with my baby. Right here.” He presses against your belly, feeling his cock moving inside you from the splotches of pick and blue.

His confessional spurs you on, the emotions overwhelming. Feeling so loved, so needy, wanting everything the blonde above you is willing to give.

“Ah, Daddy! Please, please fill me up. I wa-want you to put a baby in me, I need it.” Your clenching tightly, each pump of Tsukishima’s cock better than the last.

“You are such a good girl baby, always saying exactly what I need to hear. Cum for me, princess, let me see how good I make you feel.”

His warrant is all you’ve needed this whole time, snapping to hours of tension with a sharp cry. You’re thrown into the pooling, honey-sweet feeling of release. Sinking every inch of your aching body into a blissed haze. Your walls spasm violently, tightening around him like a vice. He meets your hips with his own, knocking hip bones together like pool balls and holding himself in your heat as you milk his throbbing cock, stealing every drop of hot, while cum he has to offer.

He crumbles to the floor beside you, pulling you to his chest. Lying in a mess of paint and sweat and staggered breathing. Through the fog still resounding in your head, you hear Tsukki laughing lightly, “How’s that for inspiration?”

-Four Months Later-

You shift on your toes in anticipation, waiting for Tsukishima to release the hold he has around your eyes. You hear the bustle of people around you, the laughter and tinkling of glasses clinking together filling your ears. He kisses your temple before letting go, and you are met with a new reflection of yourself hung proudly on display. All of the places you see blemishes are drawn with vibrant purposeful color. Every curve of your form mapped out with the care only a lover could administer. Your naked form exhibited for hundreds of critiquing eyes, but there’s not a bone in your body that could feel embarrassed in this moment. As reflection so beautiful it’s unbelievable is staring back at you.

“Is this really how you see me, Kei?” You turn around to meet his eyes, his stare holds the love of epics. He would write you novels if he could, but this picture is worth a thousand words.

“Of course it is, baby,” He brings a hand to thumb at your slightly swelling belly.

“Of course it is.”

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

#tsukishima smut #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei smut #tsukishima kei #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #hqhq server collab #haikyuu hq #hq tsukishima

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supernaturalgirl20 · 3 years ago

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Hidden Desire

Pairings: Din Djarin x reader

Warnings: Smut 18+, domestic violence, angst, family feuds, mutual pining, jealousy.

Summary: Forced into a marriage you did not want, your sentenced to a life of loneliness. What happens when you meet your husband’s handsome brother?

A/N: so this is another AU and is loosely based of the true story of Belvedere house(Ireland). I went for a walk along it’s grounds and got inspired. Also no helmets in this.

You’d been married to Paz for a year now and to say it was the worst year of your life was an understatement. You hadn’t wanted this marriage, but Paz was an Earl and your father had made an arrangement with his family. He was from an important mandalorian house and they we’re wealthy. Upon your marriage he’d brought you to his stately home. You were blown away by its beauty. It sat on acres of land, had I a huge forest and had its own lake. This was where the beauty stopped. Paz was cordially first and you had thought that perhaps if given time you both could learn to love one another, but that was not the case. Weeks into your marriage he became adamant that you produce an heir. Family he had told you,was sacred to the mandalorian culture. Weeks then months past and you were not with child. He became furious and began blaming you, and with each month passing when another period came he began to hit you and it only got worse. Your whole body was covered in bruises, you had prayed to whatever god was out there that you became pregnant to end his violence. But it never happened. A year on and Paz has now given up on you and has taken to visiting his other estates more frequently leaving you alone with just the maids. It was during on of these trips away that you had met HIM!

***

He has come to visit Paz, having been away bounty hunting. You were shocked he decided to stay when he was informed Paz was not there. Each night he would have dinner with you and after you would both walk along the forest path, discussing literature, politics, art, anything that came to mind. He told you his name was Din Djarin and that Paz’s parents had adopted him when he was very young. A debt he could never repay. It was on these night you had developed feelings for him. It began with stealing glance at one another to the soft brush of hands when you we’re near. Things had shifted dramatically one evening when you both stood at the edge of the lake, the moon shining bright. You stood staring up at the sky and you were illuminated but the light of the moon looking ethereal. He couldn’t take it anymore he had to have you. Walking up to you he put his hands around your waist turning you to face him. “What are doing Din?”. His eyes lingered on your lips and before you could say anything else he crashed his to yours. He kissed you like a man dying of thirst, and you his only source of water. He pulled back a little and rested his head against yours. “I can’t do it anymore, I can’t pretend I don’t love you when your all I can think about.” Your stunned by his admission but the joy it brings to your heart out ways all else. “I love you too Din. I wish it was you I had been married off to.” Upon hearing that Din walked you backwards towards the big oak tree. When your back hits it,he lifts up the skirt of your dress and runs his thin along your folds. “So wet for me already Mesh’la.” “Yes always wet for you Din”. He kisses you again unbuttoning his trousers in the process and lifts one of your legs around his waist. He lines himself at your wet core “are you sure you want this, want me Mesh’la?” “Yes yes…please Din I want you to fuck me.” With that he thrusts up into you and you let out a loud moan. He is huge, and the stretch of him hurts just a little, but you feel every ridge of his cock pumping into you and you love it. “I knew…thrust…that this…thrust…pussy…thrust..would be…tight. You take me so well. This…thrust…pussy..thrust…was made for me.” With that you feel the pleasure coursing through you and you can’t hold back anymore you scream his name into the night. “Oh god yes…Din…yes.” Your cunt clenches around him and it sends him over the edge. “Where, where do you want me?” “Inside, come inside.” With that his seed coats your womb. He rests his head on your shoulder. When he looks up he cups your face in his hands. “I do love you”. “And I you.”

***

From that night you spent most of your time in bed where he had you on every surface of the room. You both did not try to hide your growing relationship from the maids, who would they tell, Paz was never home. You began imagining a life with Din, away from this place, where you spend the rest of your days together. You had explained to him that you could probably not have children given Paz’s fruitless efforts, but this did not stop him from wanting to fill you up every time hoping it would take root. On this particular day you had been in the gardens playing with some of your nieces when he spotted you dancing with the youngest. He imagined you doing that with your child, his child, and he felt his cock grow hard at the thought. That night after dinner he was extra touchy and you had no sooner entered the bedroom when he pinned you to the bed. He wastes no time tonight, quickly stripping you both of your clothes. “On you knees Mesh’la.” You did what he asked and before you could think he was deep inside you. His thrusts were relentless as he pounded into you from behind. He grabbed your hair as to pull you towards him. He grabbed your breast roughly, kneading it. “You look so pretty like this, all cock dumb for me. Tell me who you belong too?” “You…only you.” “That’s right your mine. And I’m going to fuck my seed into you until it takes.” “Oh god yes…fuck Din, please give me a baby.” With one last thrust his seed spurts into your cunt. He pulls out slowly and you groan at the loss. You both collapse onto the bed and he pulls you into him. He runs his hand up and down your spine. You feel..happy. Your suddenly brought out of your daze when the door to the room bursts open. “What the fuck are you doing with my wife?”. Din gets out of bed, puts on his clothes and tries to calm his brother. “Paz please, brother, you do not love her, you fuck any whore you can, but I love her. You can both divorce and that’s the end of it.” “How dare you come into my home, fuck my wife and think I will let you get away with this, and you.” He turns toward you now, furious “you are nothing but a cheap whore, fucking the first man that comes into my home, you couldn’t even do your wifely duty and give me a child.” He is beyond angry now and he makes to pull you from the bed not caring that you are naked. He grabs you by the hair and pulls you along the halls. Din is trying to get you free but his brother is strong normally, but even more so when he is angry. “Paz stop, your hurting her, let her go.” “ oh no she’s going no where ever again.” Din is nervous now what did he mean by that. He tries to grab you again but to no avail. Paz brings you up to the attic. He throws you in and locks the door. “Now she can spend the rest of her days locked away. If I can’t have her no one can.” “ you can’t do this, I won’t let you.” “Oh and what are you going to do huh, last I checked I was the head of this household, what I say goes.” Din could feel the anger in his veins but he left, leaving you, the love of his life locked away like some criminal. He would not let this happen to you he needed help.

***

Weeks passed and you lost hope of ever seeing Din again. You had been given clothes and scrapes of food. Your were being held captive in your own home. You began to feel sick and after the sixth day you mentioned it to one of the maids. Paz allowed a doctor to visit you. It turns out you are 8 weeks pregnant. Your shocked, having believed your were barren. A maid comes in and tells you she can get word to Din and so agree. If Paz finds out about this he will kill you. Din is planning an attack on his brothers home to free you when the maid comes to find him. “Mr. Djarin, em excuse me sir, but I have news of Ms. Y/N.” “Y/N, is she ok has he hurt her?” “No he is not currently home sir, she has been ill of late and Paz allowed us to call for a doctor.” He walks up to her and puts his hands on her shoulders almost shaking her “what is it girl, spit it out.” “She is pregnant sir, 8 weeks I believe.” “Pregnant!” He is speechless sinking into a nearby chair. Cara stands and comes over to him.We have to move now Din, if Paz finds out his wife, who could not bare him a child,is now pregnant from his brother, she is dead.” With that Din stands “ok we go tonight.” You are asleep when you hear keys rattling at your door, suddenly Paz bursts in and storms towards you. “Your fucking pregnant?” He is fuming and grabs you by the hair. He grabs a knife and places it along your throat “ I should have done this in the beginning”. “Don’t you ducking touch a hair on her head.” Paz turns around quickly to see Din standing in the door way blaster pointed at him. “Come to rescue your little whore have you, sis you know she is carrying your child, of course you would get her pregnant, you were always better at everything.” “Put the knife down Paz, you don’t have to do this.” “Oh but I do, you see my reputation is at stake.” “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, now.” Paz turns to see who Din is talking to buts it’s too late Cara shoots him in the head with her blaster. You fall to the floor trembling and Din moves towards you. “Your ok now Mesh’la, I’ve got you, I’ve got you both.”

Tagging:

@asta-lily, @lunaserenade, @librariantothejedi , @maievdenoir , @seasonschange-butpeopledont , @elinedjarin , @day-off-inkyoto, @danniburgh @absurdthirst

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #mandalorion x reader

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amysteriousmessenger · 4 years ago

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‘Love Bites’ Vampire!Saeran Choi Drabbles

Hello! This is one of my slightly belated pieces for @mysme-rbb, which I worked on with the very, very talented and sweet @amagicalduckling <3 Their art is so beautiful and I’m honoured to have been paired with them for some Saeran pieces! Please check out @amagicalduckling for more of their beautiful artwork, they are criminally underrated!! Tw: mentions of blood, biting, vampirism, rough kissing Will be under the cut after Ray!

Vampire! Ray Drabble

Ray was melancholic by nature, you knew that, but you’d never had been able to guess why it if hadn’t been for that fateful night in the garden. He always did such a good job of hiding his fangs from you and brushing his hair over his ears so you couldn’t see their slightly pointed tips. He always kept his distance as best as he could, never coming too close into your personal space. You’d assumed it was out of respect and the nervousness of overstepping the boundaries, this idea was always aided by the fact that he usually looked a little bit strained whenever he was in your company.

The way you came to find out about Ray was because you had foolishly pricked your finger on a rose that he had been trying to show you outside. With the beautiful arrangements only being illuminated by moonlight, it had been difficult to see what you were doing, and you’d placed your finger directly onto the little spike and yelped in pain. As soon as you had pulled your hand back, to indicate what had caused you to cry out, Ray had immediately brought his own hand up to his mouth and feverishly covered it. You were confused and thought that perhaps Ray was sensitive to the sight of blood, but it was when he turned to run from you that you saw the white, iridescent fangs peering from behind his lips. You saw them, and he knew that you had. Ray ran at top speed away from you, leaving you with the drop of the blood slowly dripping down the side of your finger.

You felt a little lightheaded from the sight and had to stumble your way over to the bench, a… vampire? Surely, such things like that didn’t exist. They weren’t real. They were myths. Folklore. Children’s horror stories to tell before bed. And yet, as you considered Ray, really thought about him, you realised how quickly it all added up. He was so pale, sickly looking even at the best of times. You’d thought that the prominent blue veins on his neck and wrists was a result of his pasty complexion, but that was clearly not the truth of the matter. It also occurred to you that you never really saw him during the day, but he had always excused this fact as he must work arduously long hours and the only time he could find to get away and visit you was into the early hours of the night. While you supposed that there was at least some truth in that statement, it didn’t help the fact that it aligned with what you thought could be coming into fruition. Was he really a vampire? Had he been trying to hide it from you for all this time?

And those fangs. Those could not be denied. They were the teeth of a predator, a hidden threat that he had tried so hard to keep a secret from you. So many questions raced through your head, and yet all you could worry about was where Ray was. He had left so quickly, clearly a bit distressed. You felt somewhat guilty for your own carelessness, but how were you to know? There was no way you would have guessed what was really happening here at Mint Eye. You had only been here to test a game, for crying out loud.

Suddenly, you felt anxious to be alone in the gardens at night, especially without Ray. Even if he was hiding something this serious from you, he was still the only person that you had gotten to make yourself friendly with. Well, in his case, more than a little bit friendly, but that was besides the point in that moment. You stood, trying to find your way through the maze of flowers and get back to your room but with little success. As you turned the corner, you spotted a figure at the other end of the path and it caused you to cry out in surprise, maybe slightly even in fear. It was Ray.

You’d never thought that the sight of Ray would ever frighten you, but as he stood there, pale and gaunt surrounded by the red flushes of rose petals, you had to wonder how you hadn’t realised it sooner. He looked guilty, and scared. So, so scared. You put your hands up to him slowly, asking if he was okay, but instead of receiving any sort of reply about his own wellbeing, Ray flurried out several apologies at you. He averted his gaze downwards, as though he felt as though he was no longer allowed to look at you directly for what he was. You stared at him as he spoke, focused on the slight protrusion of his sharp teeth over his lips. It was obvious that he had practiced speaking without making them visible, so you could only really see them if you were already looking for them.

‘Ray… It’s okay.’ You whispered, coming a little bit closer to him. He took a step back, moving his back up against the roses further so that he was surrounded by them. If it had been at any other moment, you would have taken the time to think about the fact he looked like a delicate portrait right then, the passion of the red surrounding his pale frame. But alas, you did not have that luxury.

‘It’s not! I scared you, oh how could I ever forgive myself! How could you ever forgive me for this! I should have been able to show more restraint… My savior was right, she’s always right…’ He replied almost frantically, to the point where you weren’t quite sure if he was talking to you or telling you his own inner monologue.

‘M-My Savior said that I’m not strong enough yet, which is why I find… you difficult to be around. I want to be around you always but- she says you’re too tempting for someone like me.’

‘Too tempting…?’ You asked, a slightly unsure as to what he meant. That was, until he gestured to your bleeding fingertip, and it suddenly made more sense to you. ‘I don’t mind if you… want to be around me. I want to be around you too.’ You added, attempting to phrase it in the same way that he did, since he was clearly skirting around using certain vocabulary. It made you realised that there was a good chance that Ray was unhappy about the fact he wanted you in such a way. If he allowed himself to get too close, he would inevitably bring you pain.

As you stepped closer to him, you watched as he reached his own leathered hand towards his mouth, anxiously biting onto the tips of the fabric. He wasn’t just chewing it, he was really biting it, to the point you were worried he might hurt himself.

You were suddenly moving quickly down the path towards him, ‘Ray! Please, stop that. It’s okay! I’m not scared of you.’

‘I’m scared that I might hurt you!’ He almost wailed. You knew that there was an obsessive nature to Ray, which walked hand in hand with his melancholy, but you knew that he wouldn’t hurt you like this. For the most part, he was tender-hearted and sensitive. Of course, he had room in that heart for hate, but yet, so much more room for sensitivity.

‘You’re not going to hurt me. I trust you.’

‘Please, be more careful with who you award your trust to. I don’t deserve it.’ He replied, but pulled his own glove away stiffly, since he didn’t want to worry you any further. At such a distance, he had nothing to distract himself from the pull he felt towards your blood.

‘If you want it, take it. I don’t want to see you be so strained over this. I don’t know what’s happening here at Magenta, but I know that you’re good. And kind.’ You were at his side, offering your hand to him. Initially, he tried to move his body away from your hand and cover his teeth again with his hand, but it was evident that he was growing more and more needy by the passing second. You tried to assure him that it was okay and reached out a slightly shaky hand to his cold cheek. ‘And I want to help you.’

After a few moments of tentative consideration, he took your offer. Ray watched your eyes as he held your finger in both of his hands, as though it was something fragile, delicate even. He hesitated before bringing it to his own lips, the thin line of dark red suddenly giving a burst of colour to his otherwise exceedingly white pallor. He gently took the blood that was already at the surface of your skin, closing his eyes as he did so, but you couldn’t decide whether it was out of shame or whether it was to savour the moment between the two of you. You gasped as you felt the sharpness of his teeth graze against your skin before he let the tip of them bite into your soft flesh, producing more of the red he was so desperately craving. It wasn’t as painful as you thought it would be, but your heart was still racing, nonetheless. When he was done, he pressed a single, sorry kiss into the palm of your hand and apologised for hurting you, adding that he was undeserving of your pain as he wiped the rest of the blood away with a handkerchief out of his pocket.

‘I’d rather be hurt a thousand times over than for you to have to suffer even once…’ He whispered into the darkness of the garden. Not that he would feel bold enough to tell you, but Ray undeniably saw the poetry in tasting your blood. He’s ashamed of what he is, but he relished in the fact that you were willing to share such a vital piece of yourself with him like this. He entirely made a mental plan to carry the handkerchief with him at all times, as a token and reminder of this newfound connection with you.

Vampire! Suit Saeran Drabble

Meeting Saeran was an experience unto itself, let alone processing the surprise you received in how differently he treated you and himself. Saeran doesn’t hide what he is in the same way that Ray did, he acts proud of it. A shining example of what Mint Eye could offer to people with the Elixir, but only if they were strong enough to deserve it. He’s the strongest Believer and the strongest Vampire produced from the Elixir, The Savior said it herself. She called him her ‘One True Offspring’. When you had asked what that meant, since Ray had never mentioned anything like that to you, Saeran had angrily snapped that firstly, he shouldn’t have to answer your questions and secondly, it meant that he had been turned using The Savior’s own blood in the Elixir given to him. That meant that he was special, and better than anyone else there. He repeated that a lot, but you were never quite who if he was saying that to you or to himself but he clearly made an attempt to believe it, at least for his own sake.

Saeran carried himself around Magenta so differently to Ray, you heard his footsteps from down the corridor when he wanted you to know to anticipate him and yet you never heard him when he suddenly appeared behind you. He was most definitely choosing when to make his presence known and when he wanted to startle you from standing silently around a corner. Saeran certainly disproved to you the lore that Vampires needed to be invited into rooms in order to gain entrance, as he came in whenever he pleased. He never hid his fangs either or tried to cover his ears either with his unkempt hair, if anything, he seemed to enjoy the attention that could be brought to them by smirking at you or asking if ‘you like what you see, Princess?’ You could feel the anger in his voice, he was practically dripping with a rage that he did not know how to release properly. It weighed on his shoulders, and somehow seemed to push him in on himself to the point where he was constantly forcing himself to stand taller, to be louder so that he would not be entirely consumed by it. The atmosphere he carried was tense, to say the least. It seemed to make him paler. Saeran’s dark undereyes were no longer something a simple goodnight sleep could fix; they were almost bruises of their own. Purple, sunken.

While he was not lacking for blood in the same way that Ray had suffered without, it appeared that Saeran was overworking himself to the point that the added sustenance did little to actually aid him, so he kept on coming back for more and more each time. He appeared at any hour of the day or night, which suggested that he was no longer really sleeping, or if he was he was only sleeping for very short amounts of time, and it was really showing him his face. You were sure his appearance must have sat somewhere between Dorian Gray and his portrait, beautiful yet rotting. The way he felt on the inside was slowly, yet surely, manifesting itself. He was so capable of kindness, and yet he never allowed himself to admit to it. If Saeran didn’t have his cruelty, he didn’t have anything. He needed to hold onto it to hold himself together as the Persecutor.

His kisses were rougher too, leaving your lips feeling puffy, tender, and always breathless. He seemed to thrive on the fact he could make you feel so weak, as though it was precisely your weakness that gave him the strength he needed to carry on this strained life he led. He’d sneak up behind you frequently, with the confidence that Ray never quite found, and bury his face into the side of your neck, running rough kisses along it until you sigh against him from the touch, not even bothering to move your hair out of the way as he did so. Even as he kissed you like this, he’d taunt you for enjoying his touch so much in comparison to Ray, who barely ‘had the guts’ to touch you freely. Saeran would lift up your finger to show him the tiny bite impressions that Ray had originally left, only to have Saeran go over them more harshly with his own bite, before moving back up to your throat.

He dragged his fangs along the thin skin of your neck, so you knew it was coming, before promptly biting you. He doesn’t try to be delicate like Ray, and he’s more likely to take too much blood and leave you feeling woozy. He’ll take as much blood as he wants, really. Once you inevitably faint in his arms, he’d usually carry you back and placed you on the bed, but only so he can reprimand you for being such a burden to him. He’d never admit to anything else, especially not to feeling bad about pushing you to your limit.

‘Heh… Don’t look so happy with yourself, your blood tastes like shit anyway. I should go and find someone better, someone sweeter.’ He smirked before laughing, his eyes alive with a frantic excitement. He still had a small steak of blood running down his lips and onto his chin, which he promptly wiped away onto his black suit sleeve without releasing you from his unwavering gaze.

There were times when he’d suddenly stop laughing and looked at his blood-covered hand in disgust, before dragging that same gaze over towards you. He’d look at the redness on his hands and try to wipe it away, even after it dried and would not budge without soap and water. Saeran would still furiously rub his skin against the fabric of his clothes in a vain attempt to wipe his slate clean. You were never able to decipher what Saeran felt in the moment that he decided that ‘play time’ was over, but he never seemed happy about the outcome of the collision the two of you had found yourselves in, even when he was the one that instigated it. He’d half-assedly throw a bag of food from the kitchen at you, telling you that you ought to be grateful for having such a kind master for feeding you, before promptly turning on his heels to leave and slamming the door shut.

He was complicated, that was for sure.

Vampire! GE Saeran Drabble

Saeran had been through so much, and yet he was coming out stronger and stronger from it each day. He had a lot to process, about himself, the things that had happened to him and the things that he has done to other people, especially to you. Saeran had a difficult time accepting the he hurt you. He understands that he did it and he has accepted the fact that he did it, but somehow his heart never wanted to believe it. No matter how many times you told him he needed to forgive himself for it, Saeran knew that he never could.

He tried to make it up to you in every way that he could think of. He was so loving, so caring. He always served your food first, gave you extra helpings and always made dessert for afterwards. His food was always so well made, filled with all the vitamins and minerals that your body could have possibly needed and always tasted like he had been cooking his whole life. He’d even try to feed you the last few bites if you’d let him, just to make sure that you’d gotten enough food. It’s sweet, and he does it out of care, but there’s a part of Saeran that does it because he feels as though he needs to make amends to your body for the way he treated it.

He’s not keen on drinking your blood, he feels as though he’s taking advantage of you and doesn’t enjoy the fact that he has to hurt you to be able to do it. He’d looked into alternatives that he could try, such as blood banks or from animals, just any means of supply that didn’t involve hurting you. It didn’t work out very well and in the end it started to do him more harm than good, so he usually just tried to wait for as long as he can in between biting you. And even then, he waits for you to offer because he doesn’t want to pressure you into giving up so sacred for him, Saeran would much rather have himself suffer than to make you feel any sort of uneasy around him.

He was a lot more considerate and knowledgeable about the outside world nowadays, and would look into various ways of making it less painful for you: the most effective one to date being numbing creams. He’s not a fan of the chemical taste of the cream in his mouth, but he would happily deal with it if it was for your sake. While he did still have a preference for your neck, because it felt a little bit more romantic to him, Saeran would always give you the choice on where you wanted him to bite. He knows it’s not his body to dictate, and if anything, he actually wants you to put some more of your own rules in place about it. He’d be more than happy if you wanted him to do it somewhere less visible so that you could hide it from people. As long as you weren’t hiding your actual relationship with him, he wouldn’t mind. He’s very understanding of the fact that sometimes it is a little awkward to have marks like that in public and that you didn’t want to answer questions from strangers all of the time.

He was very gentle with it, making sure to apply the numbing cream beforehand and to avoid any particularly sensitive spots while never biting too deep. Saeran never took more than what was absolutely necessary either, even if you told him that it was okay to do it. You figured that he always remembered the time that Saeran would make you faint after taking too much blood, and that it must weigh on his consciousness heavily. Telling him to take more than the bottom-line wasn’t something you frequently told him to do though, since you already knew he was restraining himself and trying to put some boundaries in place for your own protection, so you didn’t want to push him. He cleaned the area after drinking from it and pressed a little patterned band-aid onto it and sealed it with a kiss, just for good measure. It really didn’t sit right with him that he had to hurt you like this so he tried to make amends for it wherever he could.

He always wiped his mouth before he kissed you, since he thought it would be rather cruel to make you taste the blood that you had just willingly offered up to him. You’d find the taste unpleasant anyway, even if Saeran enjoyed it. Saeran was rather poetic at the best of times, but it was especially true when he was feeling a little bit drunk off of your love (and blood). If you ever asked him what your blood tasted like, he’d write you a verbal essay on how sweet it is. It’s intoxicating to him and it always had been, even when he was both Ray and Saeran. The two of them were so confused by their sudden feelings and this undeniable pull towards you that neither could escape from. If you let him, he’ll probably even get a little bit cliché with how he feels like he’s reached some form of enlightenment by your blood being the thing that can kept him alive, along with how he can feel your love beating through his veins and giving him strength. Sometimes you can’t help but cringe at some of the things that Saeran says, but he means it in such a sweet way that you find it even more affectionate.

In times like this, Saeran was so adorable and kind-hearted. He generally felt a bit bad about himself, since he knows that he can’t ever become a human again as a result of his time in Mint Eye, so you have to make the extra effort to love him in this moment. You cupped his face with both of your hands and told him how precious he was to you and that he is, and always will be, the most important thing in your life.

Vampire! Unknown Drabble

There were no words that allowed you to accurately describe Unknown. He was exactly that. You never quite knew what he was thinking and for the most part he definitely relished in that fact. His actions were unpredictable, and he barely seemed to keep a routine for too long, lest someone figured it out and learned to predict his moves. Everyone walked on eggshells around him out of fear and uncertainty, and he seemed to enjoy it. He found it humorous, even. He enjoyed taking you by surprise in particular, it was his main form of entertainment. You were a toy for him to play with when he got bored.

He was sort of what you expected a modern-day vampire to be, look-wise and attitude-wise. His attire was certainly a change. It felt as though he was trying to actively reflect the anguish he felt within, but at the same time, it was an external threat. A threat that if you got too close to him, you’d be in danger of getting hurt yourself. The spikes were enough to ensure that, even if Unknown wasn’t. He reminded you of Saeran, but you could tell that there was a stark difference between the two of them. Unknown rarely displayed anger in the same way that Saeran did, it was certainly there, but it wasn’t as explosive. Sometimes it was cold, warped, and vindictive underneath layers of you weren’t sure what. Like Saeran, he made little attempt to hide his fangs or ears, but he didn’t necessarily show them off unless he was actively trying to taunt someone. It was more as though he didn’t care about them until they were of use to him. At which point, he’d smirk and release the sharpened canines: a spark of excitement in his eyes inviting you closer, to dare test him.

When he wanted to feed from you, he’d summon you to wherever he is rather than coming to see you himself. After all, you were a failed experiment who couldn’t even do your job of talking to the RFA correctly; being an assistant was the best job you’d be able to manage, so he told you that you ought to be grateful for it especially since Magenta wasn’t in the habit of keeping ‘useless’ things around for very long.

He was usually desperate when he called for you because of the long hours he forced his body to endure, even throughout the daytime when he’d naturally be sleeping. He entirely believed that because he’s strong, he wasn’t allowed to feel anything except for that strength, so he had to keep himself at the same standard of work every single day in order to maintain it. He’d burn the candle at both ends and then continue trying to light the wick. When you thought of him, there was always one particular instance that came to mind when he had no choice but to display an element of weakness to you, and it enraged him. He had been out on a recon mission for The Savior and had over-exerted himself in the process, sustaining an injury. He had crashed into your room afterwards, panting and holding onto his bleeding wound, drinking enough blood in one go that he’d made you back onto your bed with light-headedness. He hadn’t done that since, and rarely pushed you past that point, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to dance with the limit of it. He’d say it was because he preferred to tease you with it, to savour what belonged to him, even though you knew it wasn’t his only reason for taking it slow.

How he bit you depended on what mood he was in, but his typical go-to is to have you sitting on his lap while he’s at his desk and facing him so that he can pull you towards him by your hips, making sure that your collarbones are already level with his mouth. He shouldn’t have to do any of the work, he wanted you already in position for him.

Unknown’s hands were roughly on your shoulders, both pulling you towards him and holding you steady. He bites first, kissed later. There’s little warning to feeling his teeth, except for the second or so beforehand where you feel his hot breath fan over you, just before you feel the sharp break of that skin underneath. Sometimes he’d hover for a few seconds longer than usual because he sought the thrill of you not knowing when the pain was coming. He has a preference for the neck and collarbones, not that he’d never explain why to you but, simply, he doesn’t think he should have to anyway. You’d have laughed at the cliché nature of it, but you’d rather he kept it to the same area instead of spreading it all over your body. That being said, he had bitten your thighs a couple of times when your neck had been a little too sore for him to drink from there, when the skin needed time to heal.

Unknown swapped between biting and kissing at your neck, making his way up towards your mouth to continue the blood-tinted kiss there. Each time you tasted the metallic tinge on your tongue, it left your breathless, but not as much as the bite he’d leave on your lower lip did. You wouldn’t admit it to Unknown, but those kisses were some of your favourites that you had shared with him.

Not only did he leave your skin with actual bites, but he made point of littering your throat with lovebites each time too. As though the real bites weren’t enough for him, Unknown always had to go one step further with his act of possession over you. It was a cocky game, in his own mind, he needed to show that you were his and that no other Believer was permitted to look at you in the same that that he did.

When he was done and needed the wipe the blood away from his face, he’d wipe it straight onto the back of his hand. He’d make no effort to properly clean it until he went to wash his hands, it didn’t seem to bother him.

Vampire! Savior Saeran Drabble

It’s ironic, to Saeran, that crosses and biblical imagery did nothing to inhibit a Vampire, especially considering how linked the two aesthetics were. They truly went hand in damned hand. Mint Eye had always been steeped in Catholicism, as it was the core religion of the previous Savior, but as Saeran was forced to take the throne, he had not made any changes to those principles. He had been taught to instil and swallow those same beliefs in himself as they had been handed to him, even if they were not truly his own. He had been prepared in such a way that he would be able to take over Mint Eye when he had truly reached the peak of his strength and was intended to forge a new way for the organisation.

You had been bathed, dressed, and summoned to the throne room, where many Believers and the Savior in question were already gathered. You’d heard whispers that you were going to be cleansed, but the atmosphere you found yourself in did not seem to fit the one you associated with a cleansing. However, The Savior had yet to conduct a ceremony of his own since taking the throne and you started to fear that, perhaps, you were to be the leading spectacle. You walked between the Believers, as you were told to kneel before Saeran.

He was so lifeless in comparison to the Saerans you had once encountered before him. He was so sad, empty. At the very least, Ray’s melancholy had an element of hope to it, but as The New Savior stood before you, there was little more than a shell of the man that you had come to know. Your interaction with him was limited, but it was so plainly obvious to you that he was just being used as a pawn, a pawn in disguise of the King. It seemed distinctly sacrilegious to have a vampire dressed in religious garments, but you supposed that Saeran had probably not received a choice in either of those matters.

Another Believer came up from behind you and asked for your wrist, which he then wiped over with disinfectant fluid before presenting it to The Savior. Saeran reached out his hand to grab your arm, pulling it towards him. He was silent as his teeth suddenly found their way into your wrist, but he barely took more than a small mouthful of blood. Even with your arm in his grasp, Saeran said nothing and continued to just plainly stare ahead into the masses, occasionally throwing glances in your direction.

‘Are you ready for the next initiation step?’ He asked. You could still see your blood in his mouth, the thin line of red providing a stark colour contrast to the rest of his chilly pallor.

‘Yes.’ You replied.

Once done, he turned and pushed the red Elixir bottle towards you, tilting it into your open mouth. It was lukewarm and overwhelmed all of your senses with the metallic taste of blood and chemicals. It burned. Tasting blood like this felt so wrong. You felt it fill your mouth and you forced it down your throat swallow, gasping for air as soon as it passed. Was that… his blood? In the same way that he had been given his Savior’s blood?

You were asked to stand as Saeran took another step towards you. You tried to watch his eyes, looking for any hint of the life that Ray and Saeran had once brought to them, but The Savior in front of you had clearly managed to subdue that hope. Or rather, he had been forced and conditioned to abandon it.

Almost sombrely, he pressed a small kiss against your lips; causing you to once again receive a fresh taste of blood. Except this time, it was the remnants of your own that had been left on his own tongue. There was little free affection in his kiss, and it appeared to be more about the process of the initiation rather than anything to do with kindness or tenderness. It only lasted for a second or so and was nothing intimate, ending almost as soon as it had begun. He pulled away first, placing the bottle that he had been previously holding back onto the throne room altar.

You were hugely aware of the fact that you were still being watched by an entire room of people and felt so exposed, so seen. It was uncomfortable to have to wait there for it to be over when you would have much rather have had this be a private affair: not that you had been warned in advance anyway.

He pressed his bloody lips against your forehead, leaving a red stain against your skin. Saeran then reached a cold hand towards your face, dragging his thumb across the bloody kissmark and smearing it into the shape of an eye. A baptism.

Vampire! SE Saeran Drabble

He was trying. Saeran was really trying. Being around people was difficult, well, everything was a little difficult for him. It was taking all of his energy to adjust and process things, so you rarely saw him during the day. He was always pretty low energy and spent the majority of his time asleep or alone, with you only ever really catching glimpses of him at night. You guessed that it was at least a good thing that he was catching up on the sleep that he had deprived himself of for so many years, even if it meant you rarely got to see him.

Saeran didn’t really talk to anyone anyway, only you and his brother. That is, whenever he can be bothered to talk to Saeyoung as he often complained that he’s too tired for conversation. He usually didn’t have the energy to talk to his brother that much because of how hyperactive the other was. Saeyoung understands that Saeran needs time, even if it hurt him to not be able to pull his brother close after all of those years apart. Irreparable damage had been done where they would need years to repair it. There were even a few tense moments where Saeran had thought that Saeyoung was taunting him, or not trusting him, by wearing his crucifix necklace. Of course, his brother tried to explain that that was not the case and that Saeran wasn’t affected by religious symbols anyway, but it still seemed to annoy him. Eventually, Saeyoung stopped wearing his necklace and kept it in a drawer next to his bed, feeling as though the faith he believed in was probably redundant now that he knew how it had been tainted by the people he trusted.

Saeyoung had offered to let Saeran drink his blood before, as a way of making reparations to his twin, but Saeran flat out denied it: saying it would be disgusting to drink from him. He also threw in the comment that Saeyoung’s blood would taste ‘like shit’ because of his diet anyway, which was entirely understandable. Neither of you could fault Saeran for that.

Saeran felt rather conflicted and tentative about drinking your blood, often feeling pangs of guilt for how he previously treated you as Unknown. He often waited right up until he was pretty desperate before letting on that he was in need, and you’d have to realise on your own that his tiredness was not just coming from social exhaustion. He probably wouldn’t ask, so you’d have to offer.

When it happened, it usually happened in the same way with Saeran turning you around so that your back was facing him and you couldn’t look at him. He already felt some sort of way about biting you in the first place so the last thing he wanted was to have to look into your eyes as he did it. He felt more comfortable like this, and he felt as though he could take his time rationalising it a bit more when he wasn’t being watched. ‘Don’t turn around.’ He said tiredly. He sighed, clearly feeling a little awkward but not wanting to rush into it. It would be in this moment where he thought about how roughly he used to do it to you and wonder where he had gotten that confidence from. Truly, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Saeran placed his hands onto your shoulders, pausing right above where he was going to bite for a few seconds, letting his hot breath fan over you until he finally broke the skin. He wasn’t as rough as he used to be, and it was quite obvious how much he had been restraining himself by how quickly he drank. ‘Sorry.’ He whispered under the wight of the guilt. He always sounded like he was crying when he did this, even if you didn’t see any tears fall. You placed your hand on top of his own just to let him know that it was okay. Saeran wasn’t one for words, so he appreciated the support even if he didn’t tell you that directly.

He sat behind you for a few moments while he calmed down, his thumbs ever so slightly rubbing circles into your shoulders; a rare sign of intimacy from him. He doesn’t kiss you in that moment for a number of reasons. He felt parasitic, and he didn’t want to tie that emotion to affection. And yet, undeniably because he doesn’t want you to see him for what he is. Saeran carries a lot of shame, especially when he’s feeling so vulnerable as he does when he’s in that state. He wiped the blood from his lips onto the back of his sleeve, but would change his jumper shortly afterwards because it made him feel dirty to even look at. Saeran didn’t want to sit with your blood on him, that was cruel to the both of you.

You’d often find that he’d leave you a little gift the next day but would claim to not have any knowledge of it. It was always a little thing that only he would think to bring you, such a small flower from the garden or one of his snacks out of the kitchen.

#mystic messenger #mysme #mysme-rbb #saeran choi #saeran choi x reader #mystic messenger fanfic #mystic messenger x reader #mystic messenger reader insert #mystic messenger self insert #mystic messenger headcanons #mystic messenger hcs #mystic messenger drabbles

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primalsouls · 4 years ago

Text

checkup

albedo x m! reader

⚠️ : none but let me know!

theme: general

note: albedo albedo albedo albedo. i just love albedo and want to write something more general because usually the fics i read tend to be too fluff or too angst and sometimes other fics tend to feel like a super slow. like, im not trying to read an eassy. 💀 jkjk lol anyway, enjoy, hope you like it! and thank you for reading! let me know what you think. :)

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Dragonspine was never in their bucket list of places to visit. It was deadly cold. Monsters roamed around. Even the Fatui were presented. [Y/N] was surprised how he managed to reached the campus set out by the Chief Alchemist further up the mountain. One would think he would camp out with the group based at the bottom of the mountain. He was a skilled swordman and his vision kept him warm throughout the difficult journey as best as it could. He did broke a sweat when fighting a few monsters but all that was important was his destination. Thus meeting Albedo, the genius Kreideprinz. [Y/N] was new to the Knight of Favonius, started back a few weeks ago. Today he was ordered by the Acting Grand Master to assist the Captain of the Investigation Team in one of his experiments. Or alternatively, Jean worried about the alchemist not taking care of himself and potentially risking failed experiments turn to unwanted results in Dragonspine and Mondstadt.

It was his order to check on the man. But, by the Archons, does he had to camp this far up. [Y/N] groaned when he reached a broken bridge. How was he going to get to the other side? Ah, right. Gliding. With a good running start, he could jump just high enough and glide his way to the other half of the fallen bridge with no added injuries. A flawless plan.

Not.

A scream left his lips when he jumped as best as he could after his run. No wonder he did terrible at mathematics. His calculations were off. And now, he was going to pump down to his end. Just to check on some big-time, smart guy. [Y/N] should had decline. But he wanted to prove himself. For what now? Prove he can see the light firsthand? What a joke. He reached out, his hand inches away from the other broken part of the bridge. He was so focus on reaching something to grab on he didn't hear his own scream leave his mouth nor the abrupted tug on his hand held by another. He came to his senses when he smacked against the wall under the brigde harshly, letting out a groan. [Y/N] looked up. [E/C] eyes met bright teal eyes. Such beautiful eyes. It felt like he was staring into emerald instead. They outshined the blues around Dragonspine. Like sun if the clouds ever go away.

"Are you only going to keep staring or help me pull you up?" He heard, the soothe voice snapping [Y/N] out of their thoughts. A blush bloomed on his face as he cleared his throat, using his other hand to keep himself firm in their hold.

"S-Sorry..." [Y/N] mumbled as he was pulled up. Solid, cold ground was what he felt right away. He looked over his shoulder, grimacing at the sight of the long fall he could had experienced first and last. Cursing the fall away, the knight turned back to his savior, about to thank them until he stopped himself. Upon closer look, his savior was... handsome. Their ashy light blonde hair reached below their shoulders, pulled back in a braided ponytail. It lookes adorable. Soft, even. It makes him want to run his fingers through it. Realizing he was staring again, [Y/N] cleared his throat as he shook his head, his blush increasing in color. Eyes darted to stare at the ground instead. "Uh, thank yo-you... Thank you for saving me back there." The knight said with a small smile, looking back his savior only to see them walk away already. "What?" [Y/N] sat there forzen, not believing what happened. He chuckled weakly, now pissed for the rude manner. "Hey, wait up!" He stood up from the ground, dusting himself off from any snow as he ran up to catch up to the mystery person. "You know, it's really rude to jusf walk away like that!" [Y/N] complained, slowing down as he came up to a campsite. His eyes widen a bit. There were bookshelves lined up again the walls of the cavern. Tables filled with written pages and materials. A small set of art supplies in one area and an crafting table by his side. Did his savior lived here? Wait, was this...?

"Are you the Captain of the Investigation Team, Albedo?" The knight said, walking up to the alchemist who simply nodded with no reply. He was focused on his work, [Y/N] could see that. "Oh okay..." He muttered underneath his breath, raising a brow. Well, here he was. The alchemist looked alright. There was no sight of any failed experiments. Mondstadt was good to stay for another day. But [Y/N] wasn't leaving yet. "My name is [F/N]. I was ordered by the Acting Grand Master to check on you... Which is why I'm here..." Albedo only gave a faint hum. What a conversationalist. "Okaaay..." The young man looked around. He couldn't just leave after what he just experienced. He was still shaky.

"Where are you from?" [Y/N] asked, attempting to make a conversation.

"Here and there." Albedo replied bluntly.

"What do you do?"

"This and that."

"You ever-"

"Now and then."

"Gosh, you're just full of information." [Y/N] grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And you're just full of interruptions." Albedo fired back, finally looking away from his work and turned to the knight. His expression was stoic but his beautiful emerald eyes held a hint of annoyance. His comment made the other man pouted and rolled his eyes. "You done your quest. Now, you may leave."

"What the-? Huh?" He couldn't believe it. He was being kicked out? Reasonable, actually. But still. What a rude alchemist. "Okay, look, I have to actually make sure you're okay and Jean said to stay for a few days before I return, anyway." [Y/N] explained. Albedo sighed softly, disinterested from the interaction. The knight clicked his tongue. "So, no, I'm not leaving." The knight huffed, head held high. Albedo hummed again, already looking back at his work. "Oh my- really?" [Y/N] shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He kept studying the area they were in, trying to locate any sort of self-care going on. There was a cook pot but the burned woods look as if it had went out hours ago. "How long had you been working?"

Albedo shrugged, papers being moved around in his area. [Y/N] sighed. He went to stand beside the table, inches away from him to not disturb his work. With the closeup, [Y/N] saw fainted dark circles under his eyes. He looked a little pale, too.

"Have you eaten at all? Rest?" He asked softly, a frown on his face. His gloved hands rest on his waist. [Y/N] looked like a parent scolding their child. Albedo shrugged again. The knight groaned, head tilted back. The lack of responses were starting to pissed him off. "I'll make you something." He grumbled, looking into his traveling bag as he walked over to the pot. Using his Pryo vision, he watched the flames come to alive once more. He pulled out pre-packaged ingredients he made himself before he set off.

Albedo's concentration was fully on his project but the smell of a delicious meal wandered around his nose. It pulled him out of his priority. The scent made his stomach growled. The Geo user stopped what he was doing and turned around. His eyes spotted the knight crouched down beside the pot, stirring around the contents it cooked. The flames illuminated the small cave, the knight's face glowed from it. Hair swayed back, half-lidded eyes stared boredly at the pot. Soft lips pressed into a thin line. It was a pretty sight. A perfect picture. A gorgeous paint on a canvas. His canvas. The scenery needed to be painted in his canvas.

[Y/N] heard movements behind him but he didn't bother to look up. He figured the alchemist was still all over his experiments. Behind his back, Albedo set up his easel, an 18x24 canvas rest nicely on it. His paints, brushes, and palette laid beside him on a stool with a cup of water on it as well. He began to sketch out the sight, a concentrated frown on his face.

"Hmm... I think it's done." [Y/N] muttered to himself, smiling a bit at the cooked stew he made. He was about to get up but a shout stopped him.

"Don't move! I'm not done yet." He heard the alchemist. The Pyro user blinked, confusion written over his face. "Not done..." Albedo continued, his hand moving a brush around. [Y/N] swallowed, wondering what he was doing.

"Why can't I move?" He asked, still in the position.

"Because I'm not finish."

"Finish with what?"

"The painting... It's not finished..." Albedo trailed off, focusing more on the canvas. [Y/N] was dumbfounded. Ah, right. The alchemist had a set of art supplies. But why could he be painting? Was he painting him? He was just sitting around the cook pot, nothing else. What did he capture in his mind to had the urge to paint? So much questions ran through his head and his face rest back to how it was when the knight stared at the pot. Just what Albedo needed to complete his new piece.

Half an hour passed and the flames were small. the pot was sat beside it. No need to have burnt food. [Y/N]'s legs were starting to cramp.

"Are you do-"

"Done." Albedo finished for him, stepping back from his canvas. [Y/N] sighed in relief as he stood up and stretched his limps out, hearing a few joints popped. Surely didn't sounded good but felt good. He walked over to Albedo.

"Can I see, please?" He asked, tilting his head. Albedo stared at the canvas before shifting his eyes over to the knight. He suddenly felt flustered. What a foreign feeling. It was he was embarrassed. He was not embarrassed. His face felt warmed. Was he blushing? What was going on? [Y/N] waited for an answer, raising a brow as he sent a charming smile his way. Why did such a gesture made his chest tightened but in a good way? Like something fluttered inside him. Was his heart beat increasing? Impossible. Feelings were unfamiliar to him. So, why was he experiencing them right now? "Albedo..." His name rolled out of his mouth. It sounded perfect. Did he just noticed it?

"It's not finished..." Albedo replied quickly, throwing [Y/N] off guard.

"But you said-"

"It's not finished." Albedo repeated, clearing his throat. The knight nodded slowly.

"Okaay..." [Y/N] mumbled, looking back at the pot. "Ah, well, dinner is ready. C'mon, let's eat." He said, walking back at the pot to begin serving the meal for both. Albedo watched him, lips parted slightly. His teal eyes moved back to the canvas. Finished. It was finished. He just... didn't want to show the knight but why? It was beautifully painted. A pretty piece. The look he captured from the knight painted there. Admirable.

"Are you coming or what?" [Y/N] called out, already setting the other table for them to eat at. Albedo blinked and nodded a second later. He placed his brush and palette down, taking his gloves off as he made his way over. There they sat. In complete silence. It wasn't awkward, fortunately. It was comfortable atmosphere. No need to exchange words. Albedo seem to like that. Perhaps Jean did a good thing to sent someone out. It felt nice to have company over for once.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x male reader #x reader #x male reader #genshin impact albedo #albedo x reader #albedo x male reader #primal writes

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iam93percentstardust · 4 years ago

Note

First of all, Happy Birthday Month!!! Many happy returns!! I have been reading fanfiction for e very long time, but this is the 1st time I have ever submitted a prompt. I kinda think Stuckony would be great but I am down with Winteriron or Stony, wherever the prompt takes you. You're amazing so I know it's gonna be fantastic! Thanks in advance!💜💜💜 “Is that your robot?” “That’s a rude way to talk about my husband.”

This was such a fun prompt to write, thanks for sending it in! And thank you for the birthday wishes!

As always, everything I write is also on ao3

Something taps against Bucky’s foot. At first, he ignores it, figuring someone just bumped into him, but then it happens again and then for a third time. He looks down, fully expecting to see a small child, only to see a small gold and blue robot run into his shoe, back up, and then run right into it again. It looks a little like an atom with a central core and three rings spinning around it in multiple directions. He smiles at the oddly charming behavior and bends down to pick the robot up, wondering if it came from one of the many glittering exhibits he and Steve have walked past today or if it belongs to someone.

“Hey, Stevie,” he begins, thinking to share it with his husband, but when he looks around, Steve isn’t anywhere near him. Bucky sighs and turns in a circle, hoping to spot him somewhere in the packed crowd. Who knew the Stark Expo would draw so many people on a Tuesday in the middle of March? “Stevie, you’re too small to wander off like this.”

He feels a tug on the hem of his coat and then a small voice primly says, “Excuse me, Mister Sir, that’s mine.”

“Huh?” He looks down again, this time to see a young girl of about six or seven years holding onto his jacket. “Oh! Is this your robot?” he asks, crouching down to her level.

“That’s a rude way to talk about my husband,” she informs him, holding her hand out for the robot.

Bucky blinks at her. He’s heard about kids playing pretend with their toys but that’s usually things like Legos or dolls, right? Not a whirring, circular robot that doesn’t even have a face.

“Can I please have Jarvis back?” the girl asks, insistently tugging on his coat again.

“Oh, sure, sorry about that.” He passes it back to her and then looks around, hoping to spot the girl’s parents before she realizes she’s left them. He’s dealt with plenty of upset kids at the school he and Steve work at, so he’s more than capable of handling any meltdown she might have, but he’d like to stave it off if he can. Unfortunately, he doesn’t spot anyone frantically looking for a lost kid, so he’s just getting ready to resign himself to dealing with a crying kid when Steve appears from out of nowhere.

“Hey, Buck, sorry about that, got sidetracked by one of the exhibits. The person works with sand and sound to make art, it was really—” He stops short at the sight of the girl hugging her robot. “Bucky. You didn’t pick up another stray, did you?”

“Excuse me?” Bucky asks, affronted. “I never—”

“No? So what’s Alpine then? Or Dodger? Or, for that matter, me?” Steve crouches down next to the girl and holds out his boney hand for her to shake. “Hey, kid, my name’s Steve. This is Bucky. What’s your name?”

She gives him a suspicious look, but must decide that he’s safe because she says after a moment, “Morgan.”

“Well, Miss Morgan, why don’t we see about finding your parents?” Steve offers. “It looks like they’ve gotten lost.”

Morgan turns one way and then the other, noticing for the first time that she’s alone. Her lower lip trembles, eyes welling up with big, fat tears. “I—”

Bucky, sensing an impending meltdown, quickly says, “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll find them. We grown-ups are pretty good at getting lost. It’s up to brave kids like you to help us get found again.”

Morgan sniffs, but nods. “I’m here with Uncle Happy,” she says, sliding her small hand into Bucky’s.

“Then let’s find Uncle Happy,” Steve says decisively. “Would you like me to hold your robot?”

She shakes her head, clutching the robot tighter to her. “You can’t take JARVIS,” she says. “He’s mine.”

“Okay,” Bucky says soothingly. “We won’t take him away.” He shares a quick glance with Steve. “Should we start at Lost and Found?”

“If I may, Sirs,” the robot suddenly says in a cool British voice. Steve yelps, jumping away from it. Bucky startles, dropping Morgan’s hand.

Morgan giggles. “Don’t worry, that’s just Jarvis. He’s an artificial intelligence.” She pronounces the words carefully, like it’s something she’s been taught to say. She holds the robot up, who lights up with every word he says.

“The tracker in this device has been activated. There will be no need to move from this location. Sir will be here momentarily,” Jarvis tells them.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Steve mutters, taking a closer look at the robot. “It talks.”

“I am Just A Rather Very Intelligent System or—”

“JARVIS,” Bucky realizes. “It’s an acronym, not a name.”

“Quite so, though I was named for Edwin Jarvis, an old friend of Sir’s.”

“And Sir is…?”

JARVIS lights up like it’s going to talk again but before it says anything, they hear someone say loudly, “Morgan H. Stark!”

Morgan’s face brightens and she turns, running right into the arms of a slender man in a suit, closely followed by another larger man. “Daddy!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around the man, who catches her up in a tight hug.

“What have we said about running off?” the man asks, sounding worried. He has a familiar voice, Bucky thinks. He wonders where he’s heard it before.

“I didn’t run off,” Morgan protests. “JARVIS did and I had to get him.”

“You didn’t think to tell Happy where you were going?” The man gently brushes her hair out of her eyes before straightening up, setting Morgan on his hip.

“I didn’t have time! JARVIS was moving too fast.”

The man makes a dissenting noise. “Flaw in your logic.”

She shakes her head. ��No flaw.”

“Yes flaw. JARVIS has a tracker. You, O’ Great and Powerful Maguna, do not.”

It’s adorable watching the two of them together, seeing the way the man softens the longer he holds Morgan and the way Morgan leans into him. And it doesn’t hurt that the man is wildly attractive too: all big brown eyes and curly hair that Bucky wants to feel between his fingers (he bets they’re as soft as they look). Bucky feels something stir in his heart that he hasn’t felt since the day he met Steve. He quickly glances at Steve, wondering if Steve feels the same way. Steve’s eyes could practically be cartoon hearts, he’s melting so obviously, and Bucky smiles to himself. Maybe, if they play their cards right…

“But I didn’t get lost,” Morgan protests and points at Bucky and Steve. “I had Mister Bucky and Mister Steve.”

Abruptly, all the warmth drains out of the man’s expression. He looks at Bucky and Steve coldly, mouth a thin, tight line. “Oh you did, did you?” He turns to the second man behind him. “Happy, could you take Morgan for a moment?”

“Daddy—” But Happy—who looks more like an Angry than a Happy—has already nodded and taken her from the man’s arms.

“You got it, boss.”

The man now stalks closer to Bucky and Steve. “Alright,” he says abruptly. “How much do I owe you?”

Steve’s expression goes blank. “I’m sorry?” he repeats, voice tense with hidden anger.

“What do you want for this?” the man says. “Finder’s fee, something to keep you quiet, what do you want?”

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are—” Steve begins heatedly, right as Bucky realizes where he’s seen this man before.

“Stevie, stop,” he mutters, catching Steve’s arm before he can get too angry and take a swing at the guy. “That’s Tony Stark.”

“Huh?” Steve looks again and then his face clears. “Oh. This must happen a lot, huh?”

Stark glances between the two of them, looking confused now, rather than angry. That’s good; that’s something Bucky can work with.

“Look, we’re sorry about all this,” Bucky says apologetically. “But we’re really not trying to cause trouble. Morgan’s robot ran into my foot, that’s how we met. We didn’t even know who she was until you got here. You don’t need to pay us off or anything.”

“Really,” Stark states suspiciously. “So I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and all the headlines are saying that I can’t take care of my kid?”

“We’re both teachers,” Steve says, gesturing at him and Bucky. “We know kids wander off all the time. They’re more slippery than a bar of soap in the shower. You’re not going to hear anything from us.”

Stark slumps and runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired all of a sudden, not that Bucky can blame him now that he knows this entire Expo is being run by him. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “You just can’t be too careful in this line of business.”

“I can imagine,” Bucky says soothingly. “If it would help, we’d be happy to sign an NDA.”

“Pepper would probably kill me if I didn’t ask you to,” Stark admits. He sighs. “Great, first time I contact her since the divorce and it’s about my fuckup.”

“You’re not a fuckup,” Steve insists. “Seriously, this happens all the time. Just last week, I had a kid decide he wanted to keep looking at the snails in the Botanical Gardens we took the kids to while the rest of us went to lunch. Took me an hour to find him.”

Tony gives him a hopeful look. “Really?”

“Really. It’s okay. You’re not a bad parent.”

“I’ve just—I’m supposed to be presenting in—” He checks his watch.

Happy shouts, “Five minutes ago, boss.”

“It’s my presentation, I think they can wait for me if I’m running late. Morgan didn’t want to wait while I was prepping so I asked Happy to take her to see some of the exhibits. I didn’t think she’d wander away.”

“Well, hey, we’d hate to make you any later,” Bucky says. “So we’ll let you—”

Morgan pipes up, “Daddy, can’t Mister Bucky and Mister Steve come too?”

“Well—”

“They were so nice,” she says, making her eyes big and wide. “And I think we should be nice and let them watch.”

Stark smiles helplessly at her. “You know what that is? That’s extortion.” He turns to Bucky and Steve again and shrugs. “Do you want to come? It’ll be backstage, so you won’t get to see as much as you would if you were watching from the front. But it’ll be fun, I’m presenting the new arc reactor. Oh—and please, call me Tony. We’re all friends here, no need to stand on formalities.”

Steve and Bucky have one of their silent conversations that always bothers their friends. “Are you sure?” Steve asks. “We wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

Tony gives Bucky a very obvious onceover, followed by a look at Steve, just as obvious and just as hungry. “Oh yes,” he murmurs. “I’m sure.”

“Then we’d love to,” Bucky says, giving Tony a onceover of his own. He and Steve don’t often invite a third partner to their bed, but there’s just something about Tony.

“Great!” Tony chirps. His eyes go dark and heated as he adds, “And maybe afterwards, we can talk about a way to pay you back for helping Morgan out.”

“Tony, really, we don’t need anything,” Steve begins.

“Please,” Tony purrs. “I insist.”

#alle writes #alle answers #stuckony #if you like please consider reblogging #chellibean86

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missfangirll · 3 years ago

Note

If im not too late, I'd request anything for Beiyuan/Wu Xi. There are so few works out there for them :c

So, I wanted to write some XiYuan fluff and somehow ended up writing Dad!Beiyuan bonding with Chengling, Beiyuan thirsting after his husband and a sort-of-fix-it for WoH episode 36?? 😅

The plot follows the show, after episode 36, but their shared past in the novel (Qi Ye) did happen, if that makes sense? 😅 Sorry for the confusion.. The title is a Chinese poem called 蝶恋花 by Liu Yong.

Anyway, here's some XiYuan fluff/dad!Beiyuan/WoH fix-it? 😂😂

- - - - -

Fandom: Qi Ye, Word of Honor Rating: General Relationship: Wu Xi/Jing Beiyuan, Jing Beiyuan & Zhang Chengling Tags: Fluff, Bonding, Beiyuan thirsting after his husband, Fix-it of sorts Words: 2565 Summary: In an inn, Jing Beiyuan and Wu Xi, together with Zhang Chengling, await the return of Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing, who have run off to die on a mountain. Beiyuan has to care for Zishu's disciple, while being distracted by his husband.

Read on AO3

- - - - -

Butterflies in Love with Flowers

Jing Beiyuan has plenty of practice waiting.

He has waited for sixty years at the Three-Life Stone, has waited for Helian Yi for six lifetimes. Has waited in the Imperial City for his schemes and machinations to bear fruit, has waited for Wu Xi. He has plenty of practice.

Which doesn’t mean, however, that he is a patient man.

Jing Beiyuan paces the inn room he shares with his husband, deliberately walking closely past Wu Xi who is sitting cross-legged at the low table reading, looking entirely unperturbed. Much to Jing Beiyuan’s dismay, that is to say, so he brushes Wu Xi’s back with the seam of his sleeve every time he walks by.

Wu Xi doesn’t react for a while, but after the sixth turn, without saying a word, he casually grabs Jing Beiyuan’s sleeve and, turning slightly, pulls him down in his lap, effectively trapping him there with both arms tightly around him.

Jing Beiyuan is a lot of things, but he's not an idiot, and he would never let an opportunity pass to cuddle his husband. With a deep sigh, he settles into the other’s embrace, leaning his head on Wu Xi’s broad chest.

“I am worried,” he admits eventually.

Stroking his hair soothingly, Wu Xi just hums in quiet understanding.

"I'm worried about the two idiots on the mountain," he adds, as if that wasn't obvious, and Wu Xi, as expected, doesn't reply. Jing Beiyuan continues, unbothered by his husband's lack of reaction. "I keep telling the little idiot," here he pauses to marvel at the fact that he distinguishes his companions merely by the grade of their idiocy, then sighs inwardly, "that his shifu and shishu are fine, that he should focus on his training in order to have something to show his shifu upon his return, but sometimes I…." He trails off, snuggling closer into the other's neck.

Zhang Chengling isn't coping well with the fact that both his mentors left with the intention to die on that mountain, albeit with different purposes in mind, and Jing Beiyuan has had to forcefully stop him from climbing that mountain himself, twice by now. For now he seems to have begrudgingly accepted his fate, although Jing Beiyuan can see his outbursts of anger for the fear they are.

He inhales deeply, willing his thoughts to calm down. All they have to do now is wait, wait for Zishu and his little maniac to return safely, and return they will, he has no doubts about it. He can’t, for Chengling’s sake.

A knock on the door interrupts the silent moment and with a groan, Jing Beiyuan clambers out of his husband’s lap to open the door, while said husband reaches for his abandoned book. The elderly innkeeper in front of him doesn’t spare a glance at Jing Beiyuan’s slightly ruffled hair, fiddling with the cap in his hands. At the other’s raised eyebrow, he bows so deep his forehead seems to touch his knees, and Jing Beiyuan has to bite back a grin.

“Yes?”, he asks magnanimously. The man shifts uncomfortably. “Your highness,” he begins, but Jing Beiyuan interrupts him with a hand on his shoulder. “I am certainly not worthy of such a noble title, my good man, just call me Lord Seventh, and speak freely. What bothers you?”

The other man bows again, not as low as before, but it still looks uncomfortable. “Your lordship,” he begins, and Jing Beiyuan sighs, hearing a slight huff of laughter from behind. Wu Xi knows of his resentment against his past life and the decorum it entailed. “Your lordship,” the man repeats, sounding increasingly desperate. “Your, umm.. The young master… He… The courtyard…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Jing Beiyuan has a vague idea of what he is trying to say, so he just nods and breezes past the innkeeper, who hastily shuts the door and scrambles to follow him.

From the inn’s inner courtyard he can already hear a dull thudding noise that grows louder as he approaches. In the yard, next to a small wooden shack, he finds the source of the noise: Zhang Chengling, gracelessly hitting the timber wall with a training sword, his face and back sweaty, his hair in disarray, his mouth a thin line. Jing Beiyuan nods to the innkeeper, who retreats to another building, then slowly approaches the boy, keeping his distance from the sword. Leaning on the wooden wall, he stays silent, observing Zishu’s disciple. The boy has grown a finger’s breadth over the last weeks, his body starting to stretch, his face about to lose the softness of childhood. He has seen a lot these past months, Jing Beiyuan muses, and feels infinite fondness for the little idiot.

Zhang Chengling has seen him, of course, but doesn’t make any move to stop his grim assault on the shack, so Jing Beiyuan says after a while, “You might want to use a real sword when you intend to put a hole in that thing.” His teasing doesn’t gain a reaction, however, the boy still hacking away at the wood. “Chengling,” he says after a while, softly, gently, “they will return.”

“I know,” comes the strained reply, but the beating doesn’t stop. The hits seem to grow less forceful, though, and Jing Beiyuan inches closer. “If Tian Chuang had succeeded,” he adds quietly, “we would know.” He looks directly at Chengling who stubbornly avoids his gaze, but his movements slow further, until he swings the sword like a flag bearer his banner in a parade. Jing Beiyuan carefully closes the distance, intercepting the last swing with his hand, gripping the wooden sword. He notices its shaking, and it’s only a heartbeat before Chengling collapses into his arms, letting go of the sword and wrapping both arms around him in a desperate embrace. Jing Beiyuan lowers the sword, then enfolds the boy in his arms, a hand on the back of his head, and lets him sob quietly into his shoulder.

“I miss them,” the boy snuffles into his robes, his face hidden. “Sometimes I dream about them, dead and cold, buried under all that snow and I…” He hiccups, then starts sobbing again. Jing Beiyuan breathes slowly. A few days after Zishu, and then the Ghost Valley Master, ascended the mountain, there had been news of an immense avalanche that had buried a large group of people, presumably the joined forces of the Window of Heaven and the Scorpion King. But nothing had reached them since, and all of them had grown restless, even Wu Xi, even though he would never admit to it.

A hand on the boy’s back, Jing Beiyuan rubs soothing circles. “Come with me,” he says at last, “Let’s go inside and have some tea, hm?” A nod, then Chengling takes a step back, sheepishly rubbing his red eyes. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles, but Jing Beiyuan just huffs. “Never be sorry for how you feel,” he admonishes gently, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulder, subtly scooping the wooden sword up with the other hand. “Let’s have some tea and sweets, what do you say?” Chengling sniffs again, then says with the hint of a smile, “Didn’t the Great Shaman explicitly forbid us to eat sweets before dinner?” Jing Beiyuan makes a carefree gesture, then, lowering his voice, adds in a conspiratorial tone, “We have to hide it, then,” which finally makes Chengling laugh. A lighter air around them, they stroll back to the room. (Wu Xi gives them a stern look as Jing Beiyuan retrieves a bag of sweets from his sleeve, but says nothing when they share some over tea, which Jing Beiyuan secretly finds endlessly endearing.)

⚘⚘

The next morning finds Jing Beiyuan on a bench in that same courtyard, at the other side this time, half hidden under a canopy hung with ivy. In the middle of the courtyard, illuminated by the rising sun, Wu Xi is practicing his martial arts.

Jing Beiyuan admires everything about his little venom. His honesty, his loyalty, his unrestrained emotions, but watching the other train always leaves him breathless and with a dry mouth. Wu Xi, in his usual black robes, is a sight to behold: Even under layers of cloth his broad shoulders are visible, his long black braids with the silver hairpiece, the moon mirrored in a clear lake at night. Wu Xi in his robes is a force to be reckoned with. Wu Xi without his robes, in just some black pants, is… Well. Enticing enough to make Jing Beiyuan leave the bed before sunrise and watch him train, even after being together for years and having seen his husband naked plenty of times. Still, watching him move through the forms is different. His skin glistens with sweat, making the light catch on his collarbones, his abs. His movements show a raw power, a graceful intensity that always reminds Jing Beiyuan of a large tiger. He moves silently, with deadly precision, as if he wanted to sneak up on a hidden assassin. He doesn’t use a weapon, but Jing Beiyuan knows how strong he is, how fast, and is pretty sure that a sword would only slow him down.

Distractedly petting the sable that is curled contentedly in his lap, Jing Beiyuan marvels at his husband, until Wu Xi ends his performance with a graceful vault, landing on his hands and feet like a large cat. His hair, tied back only with a simple black leather cord, falls over his face with the movement, his eyes like glimmering coals behind the black curtain. It reminds Jing Beiyuan of their early days, of the time Wu Xi wore a veil, and he himself a mask of another kind. Trying to hide the slight shiver, he smiles at his sweaty husband who now approaches him. Before he can say anything, Wu Xi steps between his knees, carefully scooping up the sable, then reaching down to cup the nape of Jing Beiyuan’s neck. With a hint of restrained power, he pulls him up and into a searing kiss. Smiling against his lips, Wu Xi whispers, “Room,” and Jing Beiyuan lets himself be pulled.

It’s still early enough in the morning that they don’t have to be overly cautious, so when they shed their respective robes - and pets, Wu Xi’s tiny green snake gets set in its cage, while the sable leaps nimbly away from the commotion - Jing Beiyuan can’t suppress a giggle at his husband’s eagerness.

“What brought this on?”, he asks, a little breathless, as the other’s teeth close over his pulse point. Wu Xi stills for a heartbeat, then bites down harder, licking over the spot, which elicits a shiver.

“You,” is the answer, and Jing Beiyuan pulls away a fraction to look at his husband with a raised eyebrow. “I can’t remember doing anything out of the ordinary,” he smirks, “whereas you were--”

“You watched,” Wu Xi breathes into his neck, leaning back in. With another giggle, Jing Beiyuan lets himself be pulled to the bed.

Later, when they lay under scrunched up covers, sated and sweaty and content, Jing Beiyuan nuzzles into Wu Xi’s chest, inhaling his sharp scent.

“Would you do that,” he asks eventually, his voice quiet. “Sacrifice your life, I mean. For me.”

“Yes,” is all Wu Xi answers, firm and without hesitation. “I would. I will. Everything.” His arms tighten around Jing Beiyuan. After a long silence, the latter says softly, “But what if I didn’t want that?” He turns slightly to look up. “What if I didn’t want a life that’s bought with yours?”

Wu Xi doesn’t meet his gaze as he replies, “I still would. I couldn’t bear the thought of being without you, Beiyuan. I’m a coward, but I couldn’t. I thought I’d lost you once, and I..” His voice breaks, and Jing Beiyuan reaches up to cup his face. “You’re not. I would like to say that I would react differently, but…” He shrugs with a wry smile. “I wouldn’t. If I could save your life by giving up mine, I would. I would, and then wait for you again at the Three-Life Stone, until you came to meet me. And maybe this time, you would be the one with white hair.” Snuggling closer, he trails a finger over the other’s chest, then places his hand on his sternum, feeling the unrestrained energy underneath. Wu Xi turns his head, then cups Jing Beiyuan’s cheek, meeting him in a slow, languid kiss.

“I love you,” he breathes against the other’s lips, “I have loved you for all your lifetimes and I will continue to love you in all that follow. Where you go, I’m going, Beiyuan.”

⚘⚘

It takes almost another month until Zishu and his little-, no, his giant idiot return. On a sunny afternoon, as if they had just been out for a stroll, they saunter casually into the inn’s dining room, and Jing Beiyuan almost drops his teacup, staring in disbelief. Before he can say anything, Zishu grins - he grins! - at him and plops down into the bench opposite him, Wen Kexing at his side. Jing Beiyuan notices in utter shock that the latter’s hair has gone completely white.

“Wha--,” he starts, but now the waiter has spotted them, hurrying over. Giving their, admittedly quite ragged, appearance a cautious once-over, he clears his throat, but Jing Beiyuan hurries to assuage him. “Whatever these gentlemen desire to eat,” he declares, probably with more grandeur than necessary, “they will receive.” The waiter hurries to nod his head like a turtle, but Zishu just shakes his head. “Just cold water,” he says, much to Jing Beiyuan’s and the waiter’s astonishment, but the latter immediately scrambles off to bring them their order.

Jing Beiyuan looks scrutinizingly at both of them, then says slowly, “Welcome back.” Zishu nods solemnly, taking Wen Kexing’s hand under the table. “Sorry it took so long,” he says quietly. Jing Beiyuan snorts. “You don’t have to apologise to me,” he gestures into the general direction of the inner courtyard, “but to your silly little disciple.” Zishu at least has the decency to flinch, looking uncomfortable. But it is Wen Kexing who speaks first. “How is he?”, he asks, and Jing Beiyuan notices the cautious fondness in his voice. Shrugging, he admits, “There are good days and bad.” After a pause, he adds, more quietly, “And good nights and bad.” Zishu nods, as if in agreement, and Jing Beiyuan’s curiosity wins over. “What happened?”, he asks animatedly, gesturing to the state of their robes, then Wen Kexing’s hair. “You were gone almost two months, and--”

Zishu interrupts him, sounding incredulous. “Two months?” He casts an uncertain glance at his companion who looks equally stunned. “Oh.” Inhaling slowly, he adds, “Well, I’d prefer to tell the story only once, so where is that useless disciple of mine?” Grinning, Jing Beiyuan gestures again to the inner courtyard. “Training.” Zishu gives him a skeptical look, then gets to his feet. Ignoring the waiter who just arrived with their order, he heads for the inner courtyard. Jing Beiyuan tilts his head a fraction, looking at Wen Kexing, both smiling slightly. Then, from outside, “SHIFU!”, and a dull thud, followed by another muffled “Shishu!”.

Smiling into his teacup, Jing Beiyuan closes his eyes. Some stories seem to have a happy ending after all.

#qi ye #lord seventh #七爷 #wu xi #jing beiyuan #xiyuan #otp: soulmates are stupid i love you on purpose #word of honor #a tale of the wanderers #faraway wanderers #wen kexing #zhou zishu #wenzhou #my writing #fanfic #fluff

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quirkisms · 4 years ago

Text

OFF YOUR CHEST - M. TOGATA (i)

pairing: mirio togata x fem!reader

summary: Mirio tears himself apart, and you're there to heal the pieces.

word count: 2k

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, strangers(ish) to lovers, AU where UA is college, not highschool (i dont want 2 write about minors), mirio is quirkless and is Dealing With It, slow burn, trauma and anxiety coping

ao3

He splits another knuckle open.

It’s no different than any other exercise or training, but he’s different. He’s stronger now, and smarter but he’s still less. He punches the wall again, willing it to go through. For a second, he thinks he can feel the soft tendrils of the void past the surface beckoning him, urging him forth. It’s asking him where he’s been, that it missed him and that he’s back. For that second, it’s real. His hand is sinking through and he’s back.

But the rough texture of the wall sinks into the cuts he’s ripped into his skin and he’s pulling back, sucking in air through his teeth and withholding curses.

He cradles his right hand with his left, blood trailing down the grooves of the taught tendons on both battered hands.

Mirio’s chest is heaving, his breaths varying from deep to shallow, his heart rate erratic. The buzz in his pocket disrupts his stare at the red stains his punches had left.

TAMAKI

where r u

It hurts to curl his hand around the device, but he does anyway. He wipes the other hand on his pants before responding.

Training! What’s up?

TAMAKI

patrolling tn. just wanted to lyk

Okay - Stay safe! 😀

Mirio pockets his phone. He wants to manually rub the grime out of the cuts or even just leave them the way they are. The sting is a juxtaposition from how his life was before. No longer can he float in the nothingness, phase through infinity until he needs to come up for air.

He feels everything now.

He makes his way towards UA’s medical clinic. It’s late, past dinner at least, which means it’ll be empty save for one person. Recovery Girl doesn’t work the hours like she used to, not since you came in. The clinic after hours feels safe, secretive and his. You’re always there late, as far as Mirio knows. Since the first time he injured himself by pushing himself past his newfound limits (which were significantly less than what they used to be) you’d always been there when he’d sneak in.

Tonight, you were hunched over textbooks, highlighter dangling out of your mouth. If he could’ve, he would’ve lingered in the doorway to watch you. Instead, the few droplets of blood spilling from his hands alerted you of his presence. You peek over your shoulder at him before capping the marker and nodding for him to sit on one of the empty exam beds. It was routine.

“You outdid yourself this time,” You said as you cleaned the open wounds. He’d beaten the flesh raw, almost exposing bone and you wanted to scold him but you knew it was useless. He’d just brush you off with a shrug, a smile and tell you it’s not that big of a deal. Pain is part of getting stronger.

Mirio doesn’t respond. Instead, he chooses to let his eyes flick around the room. Recovery Girl’s absence is notable - no more jar of candy, and you’ve taken over her desk and littered it with your own knicknacks. Your textbooks, an All Might water bottle, a Kamui Woods pez dispenser. It’s cute, he thinks.

“Did you have a punching match with one of those hardening quirks?” You’re frowning as you pop a piece of jerky in your mouth. “Maybe Cementoss?”

“Cementoss,” he confirms, only because that would be the only way he’d have so much...particulate within the splits. Cementoss was made of rock, and Mirio would rather die than admit to you he was relentlessly punching a wall.

You snort, shaking your head as you chew. You both know he’s full of it, but you drop it. You always do.

A soft, blue glow escapes from underneath your hand. His hand feels fuzzy, like it's fallen asleep before it dissipates and you remove your hand, motioning for him to lift his other so you can begin the same process.

As you clean the other hand, Mirio watches you work. You ignore the weight of his gaze the best you can, focusing on repairing the skin and not how strong and smooth his fingers are. His hand is heavy in yours, and the glow of your quirk flickers as you lose focus imaging what his grip would feel like on you.

“Done,” you said, flicking your used gloves into the wastebasket by your feet. Mirio flexes his fingers. Healed. “Y’know, after all these visits,” You raise an eyebrow, “I think you owe me.”

Mirio looks up from his hands to tilt his head at you.

“Tell me how you really get these injuries,” you grab one of his hands loosely and run your thumb over the freshly regenerated skin.

He wasn’t expecting that.

Mirio gapes at you like a fish out of water, like you’re Thirteen and you’ve sucked all of the air out of the room. He pulls himself from your grip to rest his hands in his lap. He’s uncomfortable, uneasy now. He’s liked this place, liked you because questions weren’t asked that he had to give real answers to. It’s not betrayal that Mirio feels, it’s more like loss. It’s the loss that comes with the realization that you can’t outrun everything you want forever. With all the training, all the work Mirio had put in, he thought he could.

“They’re self-inflicted. The bruising, the wound placements. It’s like you’re training yourself to death.”

“It’s not like that - I’m fine, I promise!” Mirio throws his hands up in a defensive motion. He’s summoning the sunlight, the optimism and charm that swooned UA and motivated him to keep working, keep training, to save a million people. He can feel it churning in his chest, but it’s been pressed so deep he’s grasping at the edges and they don’t want to meet his fingertips.

Mirio knew you never believed his excuses - you knew he knew that and you’d been pulled thin between wanting to show concern and ask what was up and respecting his privacy. But at the previous state of his knuckles, you couldn’t drag your feet any longer.

You watch him, face soft and stoic. You’re not coddling, but you’re not cold either. He realizes that you’re just simply waiting.

“I just train too hard,” he gives in, just a little. You raise your eyebrows a fraction and he continues. “I have a lot to make up for, so I tend to overdo it!” He laughs it off - the injuries are a joke, truly. They’re funny to him.

“You get more banged up than Midoriya,” you look at him over the clear frame of the glasses you seem to only wear at the clinic. “How does your training get you more banged up than the other heroes?”

“I’m not a hero,” he’s quick to say, and it stings more than it should. He was, should’ve been, should be.

Your face is soft again, and it’s an art you’ve mastered over time. You’re good at composing your features to appear passive and static. In your many hero encounters, pity is the quickest way to lose trust. So you watch Mirio, with his soft smile and now long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He’s analyzing you just as you are him, and you keep your eyes from flicking to his knuckles when you respond with, “Okay.”

His stomach is churning, still sour with his words but he rubs his hands on his thighs. Why are they so sweaty?

In his distracted state, Mirio doesn’t notice you scribbling down something on a notecard shaped like an anatomical heart. You hand it to him, knocking him out of his trance.

Seven digits, followed by the letters 3G, and four more digits.

“What’s this?” he asks. Obviously the first line is your number, but you lost him with the rest.

“My number,” you aren’t looking at him. Instead you choose to refold the sleeves of your white coat as you continue, “and the passcode to get into my dorm building.”

Mirio does white. The passcode? Why would he need that?”

“I can’t be staying here late every night in case you show up.” You hated trudging back to your dorm on the nights he didn’t show, both eyelids and textbooks weighing you down. “Just stop by my dorm if it’s late like this.”

Mirio opens his mouth but you cut him off.

“Floor 5F, my name is on the door.”

He closes his mouth and smiles, nodding and bowing in thanks. He doesn’t trust his voice, not right now. You’re packing up your textbooks as he exits the clinic.

It doesn’t hit him until he gets back to the 3A dorms that he doesn’t know your name.

He beats himself up about it the whole night. He wishes he could go into Tamaki’s room to distract himself, to ask him about the person who’s basically taken over Recovery Girl’s mantle. Tamaki frequented the clinic as well - used it as an excuse to get out of the heroics lessons and sleep. He’d definitely know your name, unlike his golden counterpart who visited her frequently and never thought to ask.

Mirio tried to comfort himself by thinking that maybe you didn’t know his name either. You’d never asked. But then again, Mirio is (was?) part of UA’s Big Three. The aftermath of the Shie Hassaikai was all anyone talked about for weeks. You’d definitely have to know who he was. Mirio Togata, the kid who lost his quirk. Le Million, the hero who gave and lost everything. You went to UA yourself - there was no way.

He didn’t want to be that sob story to you. But he was constantly coming to you with injuries - split knuckles, a dislocated shoulder, a torn achilles. Maybe he wasn’t exactly that sob story, but he knew you pitied him regardless. Maybe that’s why you always stayed so late - you felt bad for him.

The thoughts makes Mirio uncomfortable.

And so much so that to make himself feel better, he adds your number to his phone. Typing in the numbers, he thinks about how he likes that your handwriting was shitty. Another little thing you let him see, let him learn about you. In lieu of a name, he makes your contact name the stethoscope emoji. He laughs to himself when he saves the contact and types out a message:

How late is too late?

He hesitates, but hits send. It delivers, and after fifteen minutes, Mirio is worried he confused one of your twos for a seven or vice versa. Or, maybe he should’ve introduced himself instead of just sending you a basic question that revealed his identity in no way whatsoever. In the eighteenth minute, you buzz back a response.

🩺

Why?

Might break a bone tomorrow.

It only takes eleven minutes for you to respond this time, and Mirio hates that he’s counting.

🩺

I’ll be sure to eat breakfast then.

No later than midnight, tho.

Okay!

Seven minutes this time. He wasn’t expecting a response.

🩺

You don’t need an injury to stop by, you know.

Mirio grins. A real one.

If you insist. Still might have a scratch or two, though. 😀

Two minutes. Mirio is oblivious to the fact that you are cringing hard at his emoji usage.

🩺

don’t be taking advantage of my quirk :(

You’re right… promise you will be compensated for your time. 👍

It’s immediate.

If it’s not edible, I don’t want it.

Mirio decides he might take it a little easy when he trains tomorrow.

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millllenniawrites · 4 years ago

Text

ruin the friendship (Kane x Reader)

summary: Kane told Lena he had to leave a day early for the Shimmer. Without so much as a kiss goodbye, he left behind a home he wasn’t likely to come back to. And drove to you.

words: 1.3k

warnings: this is smut!! 18+ folks; cheating; toxic relationship & toxic friendship; rough sex; afab reader/uses she&her pronouns; pet names (baby, honey); quickie;

a/n: I blame @tinygaydemonbby and @wasicskosgirl‘s comments about Kane entirely for this. I really like taking underdeveloped characters and seeing what I can pull out of them and there’s something so sweet but also a little dark about him and here you go internet

(also @vampirewithbedsidemanners helped me with the smut on this one so kudos to her)

Kane wasn’t sure where he was going. He barely saw the road as he drove, the steering wheel gripped so tight that the leather creaked under his grasp. All he saw was red.

Someone else’s hands on Lena’s body. In their bed. The faceless form in his mind’s eye was worse than anything he could imagine to be inside the Shimmer.

Not that anyone really knew what he was going to see the next day.

When he jerked the wheel to pull into your driveway, he paused before he turned off the car. Your silhouette was only just visible in the upstairs window, backlit. The morning was still dark, the sun only half risen.

He wasn’t necessarily surprised that his body took him to you. Even as he sat shaking in his seat, just seeing you calmed him. Steadied him. You’d always had that effect on him, something he had no control over. Again and again, he was grateful for it.

Your side profile was suddenly obscured as you pulled your shirt over your head and Kane quickly looked down at his hands in his lap. The engine was still running but it was white noise compared to the rush of protectiveness that flowed through him.

Anyone could see you in your window. He wondered if you knew. If you did it on purpose. Maybe you’d seen him and you were taunting him like you did in high school. Never directly, of course. You wouldn’t get in the way of him and his girlfriend, at the time. Or Lena, now.

Lena.

He gripped the steering wheel again.

Little did he know, you had seen him. No one else would have come screeching into your driveway at the ass crack of dawn. You pulled a cardigan on over your thin t-shirt before peaking out through your window that faced the street.

Kane was out of his car and marching up to your front door. He had a key, so it’s not like you needed to rush down to open the door for him, but it had been a while since you’d seen each other. He’d been prepping for his next mission, and you weren’t going to ask for more of his time than he could give you. Lena deserved that. The woman he married.

You had reached the top of the stairs when he slammed the door shut.

“She’s cheating.” Kane spat. He leaned back against the door, his white-knuckle grip on his hair threatening to yank out his perfect curls. No hello. No ‘how’ve you been’. Just rage, seeping off him and into your foyer.

“She—what?” Intertwining your fingers behind your back to keep from reaching for him, you slowly made your way down the stairs to him. “With who?”

Probably not the best question given the circumstances, but it got him to look at you. His wild eyes didn’t hold the sadness you were expecting. “I don’t know.” He finally said. “I don’t know how long… I don’t—” He shuddered, curling in on himself.

“Kane…” Stepping in front of him, you gently took his wrists in your hands. As you guided his hands out of his hair, you said slowly, “How do you know?”

The hope made you sick. The fact that you could find something good in all this while your best friend was in a kind of pain that wracked his body…

He leaned his forehead against your shoulder. Though he didn’t cry, something like a sob shook his body as you held him. “There was a shirt in our bathroom that wasn’t mine.”

“Maybe it was hers. Or a gift for you. Kane…”

“She looked guilty.”

“You asked her?”

“I told her I was leaving a day early.”

“Kane, go talk to your wife.”

“No.” The darkness in his tone made you freeze, not even daring to breathe. “This one— This mission… It’s bad. If I’m going to die, I’m not wasting—”

“You’re not dying on me, Kane.” You hugged him tighter, fingertips digging into the tops of his shoulders.

He turned his face into your neck. “I might. You know I might.”

“You won’t.” A hint of desperation clung to your words, though you tried to keep it locked away.

His stubble burned deliciously against your soft skin. Gasping breaths across your throat sent you stumbling out of his grip like you’d been burned, your shoulders colliding with the wall hard enough to shake the cheap art that hung down the hallway.

“Kane?” You whimpered, not sure what you were asking for. Fear of ruining the delicate balance of your friendship mixed with need in your gut.

“Please,” He stepped forward, his hand extended like a lifeline for you both. “I leave tomorrow.”

“Lena—“

“Doesn’t matter.” Kane finished for you. “She doesn’t matter. Please.”

Trembling, you took his hand.

He pulled you from the wall, lips crashing into yours. You tugged on his curls, pressing your body to his. Nothing was close enough. Not with your clothes in the way.

“I need you.” He whispered, his hands hovering at your waist.

The moment you said “yes,” he was moving. Stumbling backward together into the dark living room, he looped an arm around your waist, leaning forward to capture your lips in a needy kiss as he undid his pants with his free hand.

Pushing your shorts to the side and lining up, he pushed in deep. He’d take his time with you later, if you let him. There would be time enough to see what other pretty moans he could pull from your lips before he left for the Shimmer.

Kissing along your jaw, tasting your neck, he let the way your body formed to his and your hands tugging at his hair push him close to the edge.

His hungry lips found yours again, silencing your needy whimpers. Your nails digging into his back kept him going even as you shuddered beneath him. The ridges in the couch burned your back as you squirmed, but you barely noticed over the rush of having him inside you.

None of your dreams since you met him could have ever prepared you for this.

His fingers dug harder into your ass, pulling your hips up at an angle that had you gasping. He hissed as your nails dug into his back but didn’t slow.

“Be a good girl, honey. Cum.” He rasped in your ear, snaking his hand down between your bodies. His fingertips brushed over your clit and you arched up, coming undone beneath him.

“Kane…” you whimpered.

His eyes bore down into yours. He rocked his hips shallowly into you, every movement seeming to draw low groans from him. Tucking his face into your neck, he gave you both a moment to catch your breath.

You squirmed beneath him, like you were trying to distance yourself, and he pulled back. “You okay?”

“What about Lena--”

He kissed you, like he could make your words disappear with the simple gesture. “I’m leaving tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. Just kiss me. Please.”

You tangled your hand in his curls, bringing his lips back to yours.

The next morning, he was gone before you’d woken.

#kane #kane x reader #kane smut #annihilation #oscar isaac fic

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aphrodite-would-be-proud · 4 years ago

Note

hello! how are you? i hope you're doing fine, um i'm here because i wanted to ask if you can write about armin falling in love with someone who's related to art, like a painter and suddenly discovering a whole new world. i will be so happy if you can do it.

thank you and please, stay healthy! 💗

Hi💛 of course! I really love that idea! Plus as a painter myself the struggle is real man, just yesterday i was having an overwhelming meltdown over what type of brushes to buy.

You seem really lovely so here's a mini fic! 🌸

Armin falling in love with a Painter!reader

{ Armin x reader | tw: none | fluff, pinning | modern }

{ "The Cathedral of Saint Jacques le Mineur, Liege" 1846 by Jenaro Pérez Villaamil 1807 - 1854 }

Reading is Armin's best friend, it always has been. It kept him company on countless sleepless nights as a child, and now it offered the escape his soul needed when overwhelmed with troubles of being a living human in this current world.

"It's just captivating," he explained to you one day while walking together, happily clutching the bags of books he just baught. You like how they smell. For someone who reads a lot, he surely seems to be out of words when it comes to describing things he's passionate about.

The winds picks up, your steps slow down. Armin is staring at your face, but it's not your eyes he's looking at. You smile and it brings him back to reality, he looks away, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

You offer to hold some of the heavy bags for him, he gives a warm smile. You think the faint color on his cheek is a really nice shade of pink, it looks lovely under the sun.

The more he took you with him on trips to the far away bookshop near the Riverside, the more you started to understand how a rearranging of words can pull him inside an entirely different world.

It was like he could be his true self when there, carefully reading the description at the back of the books. Frowning whenever he finds a review instead of a summary. you didn't mind tho, because it ment he'd have to read a few pages into the book and the shop had a nice corner couch you two would sit in.

He'd apologise for troubling you, you'd say he's never a bother for you that and reassure him that you enjoyed every last second.

Ah, there it is, that nice shade of pink again.

In some way he managed to share his love for books with you, as you spend entire afternoons just sitting near each other. Your sketchbook in hand, the sound of your pencil lightly scratching the paper. Him next to you, his book in hand and reading just loud enough for you to hear.

You think he has a nice voice, so you say it out loud. For the rest of the evening, he stuttered through half the book.

You laugh at the funny moments together, be it a clever joke the author weaved in a serious moment or an incredibly redundant cliche trope that while predictable, was still as enticing.

He would always look at you whenever you let a chuckle escape, staring just for a couple seconds longer than necessary.

That sketch ended up getting turned into a painting when Armin walked you home that day.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to!"

Blue glass shards are scattered on the table and floor, what remained of Armin's favourite mug. The puddle of coffee already sweeping into the canvas you left to dry there this morning.

It took you three days just for the layering.

It was a big canvas, cotton paper and natural wood. It cost a lot.

You know this feeling when you're so so broken about something that your brain just skips the denial and anger and jumps straight into depression? To say you were mad was an underestimated, and rightfully so.

Armin is trying to remove the coffee stains with the nearest towel he could find, it only smudges the paint more.

He looks terrfied.

"It was an accident I swear, I'd never..." his voice takes a higher pitch, hands shaking. "I'd never, ever mean to do this...I..." he hiccups, Voice quivering..

And just like that, all you anger fades away.

"Armin, hey" you take a step closer, carefully avoiding the broken glass.

He doesn't look at you, he's still desperate wiping the canvas. "I'll fix it, please I'll figure out a way."

The clutch he has on the towel only intensifies when you put your hand on his shoulder. "It's okay," you say "it's fine really, look at me."

And he does, with shame filled eyes. "No no no, it's not. I ruined it, your worked so hard on this and I just..." He looks down "it's NOT okay."

"Yes it is." You try to guide him away from the glass. "That's just a material object Armin, what's important is that you're okay."

He reluctantly follows, you both sit on the couch. His hands are clutching his knees. "I'm really sorry, it's okay if you want to yell at me you have the right to."

You cup his face in your hands, "don't say that, that's not true. It was an accident, I'd never ever yell at you."

Shock is clear in his eyes, his arms leave his knees to wrap around you, pulling you closer. His face buried in your shoulder. You stroke his back. Both of you stay like this for a long while, neither of you seems to want to let go.

At night, when he's getting ready to leave and go back home. You walk him to the door and he kisses your cheek as a goodbye.

the shade of pink you grew to love really goes along with his smile.

"Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

With the sparkle in his blue eyes and his hands hiding something behind his back, how could you say no.

So you do, and you feel his hand brushing against yours before a light weight is dropped on your palms. He gives you the okay so you open your eyes, an envelope.

It's cream white with a straw ribbon around it, it looks too good to open but you do anyway.

"Is that..." his smile grows as you pull out the card and paper inside, "a membership card."

"For the art course you've been saving up for! You seemed really excited when talking about it." He takes a step closer, tilting his head to the side as his blond hair brush against his neck. "Do you like it?"

"Armin I love it!" You're so happy that you don't dwell on it before pulling him into a hug, he eagrly hugs back and his hand lingers on you when you pull away. "But...isn't it too expensive ? How did you.."

His lips press into a thin line as he looks to the side, "don't worry about it, I've been also saving for a different reason."

Oh...yeah you know the reason, Eren’s been telling it to everyone after all. The three of them agreed to go on a trip overseas, even Mikasa seemed genuinely excited.

You look at him, you look at the envelope containing the art course of your dreams, you put the card back inside.

"I can't, " you hold it out for him, "you can still return this, they're very lean with their policies."

He doesn't take it. "Yes, yes you can. This isn't just because I feel bad for what i did, it's because..." he holds your hand in his, "because I want you to have it, you deserve the world and if i can I'd give it to you."

"But what about Mikasa and Eren, you know they've been looking forward for this."

"They'll understand that i can't come, and if they don't it's okay, they'll still enjoy it by themselves." He cups your face, looking at you like you're the only person in the world, "It's just a material thing after all, you aren't."

Armin likes to get out of his comfort zone evey once in a while, he likes to try new things no matter how intimidating they look.

Which is why, seeing him hesitantly entering the art classroom was not a surprise. His wide eyes switching their focuses between all the different objects in the room, from the canvas with a glaze shine on them, ready to get painted. Or the different shapes and sizes or brushes, the ones near the water jars looking softer than the rest.

You should've seen this coming, with Eren and Mikasa away on their trip, Armin has been hanging around you all the time. Not that you're complaining.

Looking at your still drying canvas, you quickly cleaned off your brush before using a towel to wipe your hands and elbows from paint stains.

"Armin," you said, amusement in your voice at seeing the blond out of his usual element. His curious eyes focus on you and he says a small hi with a wave.

You walk him through the basics, he nods while you explain the pros and cons of each paint type, what type of paintings it goes with and which techniques are the most common.

After a couple minutes of him asking you to show him to use certain things and hold some brushes, he settles down for watercolors. You think it's adorably fitting.

While picking his brushes, you explain how in order to not damage the cotton papers, they have the softest hairs. To make your point, you take his arm in your hand and run a soft brush against his palm. He laughs softly saying it tickles, it's contagious and you're laughing too soon.

He picks the seat next to you, looking lost with the short brush in his hand and the already wet canvase. But it's a nice kind of lost, like the way a child would look at a new toy.

While he expriments at the corner of the canvas with different brushes and swipes the colors, other people start filling the room and soon enough everyone has taken their seats.

The instructer begans setting up today's study object, a couple of pink Camellias in a tinted turquoise vase, creating a nise color contrast.

You stare at them for a while, wondering where did you see that fimilar faint of pink. The question answers itself when Armin taps your shoulder and ask how to start layering the paint

It's around sunset when the two of you are walking together, he's talking about all the new things he never knew about art that he just discovered today. You're listening to him while nodding occasionally, it's when he stops mid-rant that you look at him.

"I just realised something" he says, before facing you.

"Oh? And what is it"

He looks at you, really looks at you. The sun is shining behind you as it says its last goodbyes for the day, making you look heavenly. "I realised that...I'm deeply in love with you"

#Armin #armin arlet x reader #armin x reader #armin x y/n #armin arlert #armin reader #armin🕯#mini fic #fluff #painter!reader #i like this :)#pinning #friends to lovers?#aot #snk #aot x reader #snk x reader

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novelconcepts · 4 years ago

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Greetings Novel. I was wondering, would you ever consider writing a vampire and/or werewolf Damie version? There’s already such a strong emotional connection whenever those stories are told, and I think you would just enhance that because you have such a knack for relaying Dani and Jamie’s thoughts and feelings. Anyway, just an idea because I love those tales and you’re absolutely one of my favorite authors. 😊

It’s the quiet she likes best, she thinks. The quiet, the dark, the simplicity. No one asks anything of her anymore. No one makes demands. She belongs to no one at all these days, for the first time since she can remember.

Except the Lady. She’ll always belong to her.

But there’s a give to these things as well as a take, and Dani Clayton sometimes thinks it’s worth it. Worth it, not to have to sit at dinner parties and elegant balls. Worth it, not to have to titter and engage in small talk. Worth it, not to have to wear the ring.

Worth it, to leave him behind.

And if it’s all shadow, all lonely, all deep-rooted ache she can never seem to soothe, that’s fine enough. She belongs to no one. No one except the Lady, and the Lady asks so little of her. Only to carry the curse--the disease--the hunger. Only to feed the shade coiled around the remnants of her old self. Only to wake. To walk. To drink.

It’s dramatic, she thinks, but a little theater never hurt anyone. She makes sure of that much. It’s sustainable, so long as she keeps walking, walking, walking in the quiet. The dark. The simplicity.

It’s sustainable, until she reaches the village.

***

The pub is nearly empty. Too late, or too cold, or too poor an economic situation for carousing to be the game--Dani doesn’t much care which is the real reason. She likes the emptiness of the tables, chairs pushed patiently into place, every surface as clean as it is old. She likes the warm lighting, the oak bar, the smooth wooden floorboards under her boots.

The mirror, she does not care for, turning her head swiftly away so as not to see the void where a young woman ought to stand. This part, she has never grown used to. This part, even after carrying the Lady--the Lady’s curse, more like, to hunger and need and wallow in lonely anger--for decades. She barely remembers, now, what that woman looks like. Blonde hair. Pale skin. Paler now than it had been in life, but only by so much--her mother had held such strong opinions as to what women should do with their time, and lounging in the sun had never been part of the pageant. Polite society, Danielle, has no use for a lady like that.

Like what? she’d always wondered, never quite daring to ask. Adventurous? Athletic? Interesting?

No matter. The past is long, long dead--deader even than she could imagine back then, dreaming of being someone else. Someone free. All of them are gone now: her mother, with her antiquated ideas; her mother’s friends, who peered down their noses at Dani and smiled without heart; even Edmund. Even him.

Long dead, now. Old age, or unrepentant illness, or freak accident--she doesn’t know. She wasn't there.

The woman she was is dead, too, Danielle Clayton buried in a grave she’d only hauled herself back out of the next night. The Lady had whispered in her ear, granted unexpected strength, unexpected fury. Danielle went in. Dani came back out again. No one ever needs to remember.

And no one ever has. She’s been walking for--fifty years, now? More, maybe. The date on the newspaper crumpled on one table reads June 24, 1987. More than fifty years gone in a blink, and Dani is still here. Washed clean, maybe, of all the bits that had once made up a patient, kind, hopeful young teacher. But here all the same.

She settles at the table, drawing a book from her bag. The night is still young, the hunger not yet pricking at her patience. It’s good to start smooth, start simple, to remind the Lady that the curse might have its needs, but it is Dani who is still in control. Dani, who, despite making a decision unwary of its consequences so long ago, has managed to hang on this long.

Still here. Still walking. Still--

“Get you something?”

Her head snaps up, her body primed to run. An old instinct. As if anyone could touch her without consent now.

The woman watching her looks curious, but only faintly so, as if by old habit. Her hair is tied off her face with a bandana, her sleeves cuffed at the elbows. There is a loveliness about her Dani has always fostered a weakness for--a loveliness that matches, in a less primal way, that of the Lady who had come to her in that dream so long ago. Walk with me. Walk with me, and you’ll never be alone again.

She shakes her head, smiles. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Right,” says the woman slowly. “Only, this isn’t a library. Don’t order something, Tom’ll have me throw you out.”

She speaks like she doesn’t much care one way or another, but Dani has been around long enough to read between the lines of a person. The words are callous, but the inflection is specific--the emphasis placed not on throw you out as a threat, but Tom’ll have me. An apology before an offense. The woman glances toward the window, aware of the wind battering the glass, her expression calmly letting Dani know I’d rather not have to.

“I’ll have whatever’s your favorite,” Dani says. Eyebrows raise, the woman’s head tilting.

“Mine?”

“Sure.” Dani smiles, reaches across, touches the woman’s hand lightly where it rests on the table. It’s easier, influencing human minds through touch. She doesn’t like doing it at all, if she can help it--there’s a film over the idea, a nasty oily sense of wrong--but sometimes it can’t be helped. People who look at her the way this woman is looking tend to become a problem.

People who smile at her the way this woman is beginning to smile, lips quirking up at the corners like she doesn’t quite mean to, tend to become a danger to themselves and others.

Mostly themselves.

The woman disappears briefly behind the bar; Dani, aware of the mirror, doesn’t watch her go. Her eyes remain on her book, her fingers tracing mindless sigils into the table until a glass is set gently down before her. A thin amber ale of some kind--Dani feels no curiosity, no interest at all. She smiles.

“Thank you.”

“Sure,” the woman says. Hesitates, as though wanting to say more. Shakes her head. The fog--the sense of forget Dani brings in her wake--is already sinking its claws into this woman, already wiping Dani away. Good. It’s best when they don’t see her, don’t take an interest, don’t remember when she’s gone.

Especially women who smile like this one.

She leaves the drink untouched, putting away two chapters in easy silence. Money, she drops on the table. No one looks up as she strides back out into the dark.

Tonight’s meal will be found elsewhere.

***

The story should end here, she knows--a person like Dani is only still here because she’s long-since learned the art of keep moving. The Lady commands it. The Lady is impatient to walk.

The hunger, pushing in along her ribs, pulsing under her wrists, is impatient for more.

She ought to leave the little village be. There’s not much here to begin with, and it’s dangerous to feed in places where one single thread can be followed to each house in turn. Dani’s careful not to hurt where she doesn’t have to, not to kill ever--a little time, a little tender care, is all it takes to prevent it. She hasn’t left a body behind in almost thirty years. There’s really no excuse for making a kill where one could simply leave a vacant few minutes of memory, she thinks.

Not that humans recognize the kindness for what it is. Not that she can blame them for their fear. She was afraid once, too--waiting, always, for the Lady to become Beast, for her to rise up over Dani’s good sense and turn her into something hateful. Dying, for Dani, hadn’t been the hard part. The idea of becoming something she isn’t...

But it’s been years and years, and she is still here. Still Dani. Lonely, and quiet, and living the simplest life she can manage, given the circumstances.

And back at this same pub again.

Shouldn’t, she thinks--knows, though she’s pushing the door open and striding back to that same table again. Out comes the book. Her eyes remain resolutely clear of the bar, of the mirror, of any patrons who might give her trouble.

“Back again?”

The woman, this time in a t-shirt, her curls loose around her face. Same woman. Same smile. Same problem.

Dani really knows better.

“Noticed you didn’t touch the ale,” the woman points out, leaning her hip against the table. There’s a quiet confidence to the way she holds herself, a constrained line of motion that says she’s in no hurry. Dani watches her, smiling a little, and thinks, Shouldn’t be here.

“No, I,” she begins to reply. Her smile fades to a frown. “Wait. Noticed.”

“Yeah,” the woman says. “And you overpaid. Drinks much pricier in America, then?”

Dani wouldn’t know. Dani hasn’t set foot in America since the sixties.

“I guess,” she says, still puzzled. This woman shouldn’t be speaking of last night as though it was--well. Only last night. This woman shouldn’t remember Dani at all. The Lady’s influence generally makes certain of that.

All these years, it’s never failed her.

That is the idea.

“Something darker tonight, maybe?” the woman goes on, watching Dani with shrewd eyes. “A stout?”

“Okay,” Dani agrees, knowing full well she won’t touch it when the drink comes, and finding herself quite unable to say no. Quite unable to do what she should, which is to slip out before the woman can return to this table and smile at her again.

Try harder, she tells herself, when the glass is standing proudly beside her book, laid face-down on the table. Try harder to do it. Because, the thing is, if this woman remembers her--if this woman keeps remembering her--she’s bound to find herself on the other side of a beheading. A torch. A particularly sharp slat of wood.

Her hand brushes the woman’s again, her fingers tingling. The skin is soft, the nails short; when she turns the woman’s hand over in her own, she finds callouses on the pads of her fingers.

“Bold,” the woman says, amused--but there’s a flare of something more in her eyes, matching her smile too well. Dani swallows. Presses forward with her own mind, gently caressing the woman’s intentions. Forget me, she wills. I was never here.

“Enjoy,” the woman says, the clear focus in her eyes drifting to hazy confusion.

Dani watches her go, her chest tight with an unfamiliar sensation--something like hunger, and yet...

No one, she thinks, has ever remembered her when she’d wanted them to forget. No one since the Lady’s curse. Even Edmund, who had dreamed of a big wedding, a big house, a big family since they were children, had forgotten her, in the end. Easily. She’d willed it, and walked away, and he had forgotten she’d ever climbed out of that grave.

This woman, whose name is not Dani’s to know, whose life is not Dani’s to touch, remembered.

Even as she’s leaving, even as she’s slipping out into the dark to find someone to dull the Lady’s hunger, Dani knows she’ll be back again. A terrible idea. A terrible test of the universe’s machinations. And yet.

She can’t erase the curiosity, bent behind a shop with a young woman’s wrist pulsing warm against her lips. She can’t erase the way the woman had smiled at her with knowing amusement, as her teeth sharpen and the Lady takes what she needs. She can’t forget, as copper runs sweet across her tongue, and the girl sitting on the pavement heaves a languid sigh beneath her.

It’s an awful idea. Truly, the worst.

She has to know.

***

“Starting to think you don’t actually drink.”

The woman actually sits this time, sprawling into the chair across from Dani as though belonging there all along. Dani bites down on a smile.

“Why else would I come to a place like this?”

“The company?” the woman suggests, and though her tone is idle, her smile scorches. Dani shakes her head, laughing.

She can’t remember the last time she laughed.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she confides. The woman raises her eyebrows.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

Alone, Dani thinks. Forgotten, Dani thinks. That was the deal, Dani thinks, the price of a young woman’s freedom. Wake. Walk. Feed. There has never needed to be anything else.

“Not here,” she settles on saying--a truth without teeth. The woman nods slowly, leaning across the table, her hand sliding over pocked wood to brush Dani’s wrist.

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you. Twice is an accident. Three is a habit.”

She isn’t wrong. Two people in this village bear Dani’s mark now, the inner slope of their wrists stained with new scars they won’t be able to explain. She’ll have to drink from a third tonight, and the odds of getting out unscathed--even with the fog clearing her from their minds the minute she walks away--shrink yet again. This isn’t a good idea.

But this woman, impossibly, illogically, remembers her. Forgot, maybe, briefly--in the time it took Dani to pay and leave--and then the memory just...sprang back into place. Dani has made mistakes with women before, has let their smiles grace her heart in ways she was never meant to allow, but it’s never resulted in this.

“I’m Jamie,” the woman says, and Dani almost recoils--almost says, Don’t tell me that, don’t put that on me, you’re not supposed to remember--but I won’t be able to forget.

“Dani,” she says instead, and feels the Lady pulse deep in the place she’s always imagined her soul to rest. The Lady, a curse--a gift--a structure around which she’s built her second chance at life. The Lady, who looks upon Jamie now and sends a powerful swell of hunger up through Dani’s bones.

Take her. Take her. She wants it, look at her.

Jamie does, Dani senses, want something. Something that has no need for Dani’s influence, no requirement for Dani pulling the strings. Jamie wants something from her--something honest, something human--and the very idea of it spikes fresh terror like she hasn’t felt in decades.

“This is a bad idea,” she says in a low voice. “It’s dangerous.”

Jamie, fingers tracing Dani’s palm, searching out her lifeline, shrugs. “Always is. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it.”

***

There’s a place upstairs, a little flat. Jamie leads the way as though she’s done this a hundred times, taking Dani’s hand with an almost nonchalant gesture.

“If you let me in,” Dani says, “this gets so much more complicated.”

“I’ll take the chance,” Jamie says. She should be laughing as she says it, a flirtatious bit of banter designed to delight, but she isn’t. She’s looking at Dani, her free hand turning the key, like she already understands.

“I’m not,” Dani says. Stops. Sighs. “I’m not what you’re--what you think I--”

“Start here,” Jamie says, and pushes open the door. An invitation without words, one Dani can’t resist leaning into. She hasn’t let herself accept an invitation like this in so long.

Take her, the Lady breathes. Take her, bring her to me. Dani squeezes her hands into fists, the familiar rage of hunger grinding against this new, too-human variant. Jamie is closing the door, kicking off her shoes, smiling.

The smile is what really breaks her. The smile, which is a little teasing, a little tempting, but mostly just real.

She’s kissing Jamie before she can stop herself, and even as she’s doing it, there is something too warm about it. Something too good about the way Jamie catches her, hands digging into Dani’s hair, lips parting when Dani brushes against her with the tip of her tongue. For all the skin she’s tasted, all the times she’s kissed and licked and bitten, this is different. This is--

This has no path. No road to follow to the end. No lie baked into the heart of it. Every woman she’s ever led into the dark, every time she’s ever drank deep and pulled back before the Lady can win back control, seems to fall away in comparison to how desperately she’s kissing Jamie. This person she barely knows. This woman who slips a hand around her hip like an anchor. This woman whose kiss is confident, who is smiling into her, who leans back breathlessly and says, “You’re sure about this?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Dani breathes, kissing her again. Jamie makes a soft groaning sound, tilting her head away.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dani says, unable to stop herself from kissing around every word, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t, or don’t want to be?” Jamie is backing her against the wall, and Dani can hear her heartbeat, can’t seem to erase the dizzy scent of life pouring off of her in waves. Blood, yes, thrumming beneath her skin, but also breath, and desire, and something giddy and nameless that can only be joy.

Such a human thing, joy. Why, then, does Dani feel it pressing in on her, too?

“Hey.” Jamie has stopped kissing her, is simply holding her face gently between her hands. Her thumbs have found Dani’s cheekbones, are pressing so lightly, Dani closes her eyes to keep from crumbling.

“Hey.”

“If you really don’t feel good about this, we don’t have to. We can, I dunno. Talk. Or not. Whatever you want.”

Dani breathes slowly, all the little measures of human in a body that is not. She likes breathing, she’s found. Likes willing her heart to beat. Likes feeling warm, likes feeling as though any sunrise might be welcome, someday. Someday, when all of this fades.

Like it ever can. Like the Lady would ever allow it. That wasn’t the deal.

“There are things,” she says hollowly, “you don’t know.”

“All the things,” Jamie agrees comfortably. “Everything except your name and what you don’t like to drink.”

Despite herself, Dani laughs again. She leans forward until her forehead presses Jamie’s, until Jamie’s breath coasting lightly across her lips is the only thing she can feel.

The only thing outside of the beating, raging, desperate hunger.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she says. “I--sometimes even I think I’m crazy.” And, really, might she be? Might this all be some delusion, some shattering of sense that has led her to believe there will be no woman waiting for her in the mirror? Or, worse, a delusion leading her to believe she is here--that she is still Dani, despite it all?

“Tell me anyway,” Jamie says, and Dani kisses her again. Kisses the edges of her lips, the curve of her jaw, the length of her neck. Kisses the place where the pulse beats like fists against a casket lid, her lips parting, her tongue flat against the salt of Jamie’s skin. She hears Jamie draw a sharp breath, one hand tight in her hair, hears Jamie say, “Yes” in a tone Dani has to fight to deny.

She doesn’t mean it. She can’t mean it. She doesn’t know.

And Dani, though the Lady roars with that unrelenting need, can’t take. Not like this. Not here. This woman remembers her. This woman will remember tomorrow, even if Dani slips out of her bed, even if Dani never shows her face again. She’ll remember. It will, somehow, unfairly, haunt the rest of her life.

“It’s a long story,” she says, face still buried in Jamie’s neck. Her hips are twitching against Jamie’s thigh, her hands sliding under Jamie’s shirt. “A long, crazy story.”

“I have time,” Jamie says. Dani lifts her head. Smiles.

It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s meant to be quiet. Dark. Simple.

Lonely.

That was the deal.

“The teacher,” she says quietly, closing her eyes as she scrounges for the beginning for the first time in over fifty years, “was, by choice, a solitary young woman...”

Jamie listens.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #dani x jamie #damie #been curious to see what a vampire take would look like for a while #vampires being so rooted in possession and lack of consent. this was an interesting experiment #thank you for the prompt!

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