#even though this was ages ago the realisation of this has shaken me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cheri-translates · 3 years

Text

[CN] Shaw’s S2 R&S - A Gentleman’s Promise

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers from an R&S (君子一诺) which has not been released in EN! 🍒

Features S2 Shaw

In terms of sequencing, this is Shaw’s fourth S2 R&S!

[ Chapter One ]

The first time Teacher Zeng met Shaw was three or four years ago.

Back then, he was just a little over thirty, and was still at an age of surging vigour. Based on the results of his online searches, Teacher Zeng carried a bag, bringing along some tools, and came to this mine shaft alone.

Lifting a torchlight with a weak light, he carefully observed the surroundings, trying to search for the stone tablet with the symbol “8″. Despite walking quite far in, he had not been able to glean anything. It was most likely another instance of “mistaken information”.

But he had to admit - this mine shaft was built too loosely. As a graduate in archaeological studies with practical experience, Teacher Zeng guessed that there was sandy soil underneath. For safety reasons, he decided to leave this place first.

That was when the accident suddenly happened.

Teacher Zeng happened to walk into an exceptionally narrow space. Perhaps the mine shaft was too dark and there wasn’t any space for his feet. Just as he planned to turn around, Teacher Zeng felt the ground beneath his feet soften. Knowing that he had unfortunately stepped onto soil which was too loose, Teacher Zeng reacted quickly, attempting to lunge forward. However, the sinking sandy soil was even faster than his thoughts. He was about to fall -

Before he faced imminent peril, he felt an external force grabbing him suddenly!

In the next second, the sandy soil filled the air, collapsing from above. How could a person’s strength withstand the speed of the collapsing soil? Almost immediately, Teacher Zeng attempted to free himself from the other party’s grip, not wanting to become another person’s liability.

As though sensing Teacher Zeng’s intentions, the other party shouted in a muffled voice, “Hey, grab tight!”

All of a sudden, lightning as bright as daytime appeared out of thin air. In the next second, a loud crackling sound of electrical currents seemed to gather into a ball. Along with a few "boom” sounds, the sandy soil and the wall of the mine were instantly exploded open by lightning.

Taking in light and air once again, Teacher Zeng was still badly shaken up. He subconsciously looked at his “saviour”, who appeared to be a young man of around eighteen or nineteen years of age. His head of bluish purple hair was very striking despite the sand and soil that had fallen on it. And in his palm, there seemed to be some electrical currents releasing buzzing sounds.

Even though he’s an ordinary person, Teacher Zeng had seen enough over the years to guess that this young person was likely an Evolver with an ability related to thunder and lightning.

While a sizeable number of ordinary people had issues against Evolvers, Mr Zeng naturally felt very grateful that his life was saved. He panted loudly, thanking him repeatedly. “Little Bro, I’m truly grateful to you.”

“That’s enough. It wasn’t as exaggerated as you said.”

“But you should consider yourself lucky. Leaving someone in danger isn't my style.” The young man arched his brows while speaking, his tone sounding very flamboyant. He looked Teacher Zeng up and down, his gaze sweeping past his weak handheld torchlight and shovel. While brushing his hair lightly, he casually asked, “You brought quite a number of tools. What are you doing here?”

At the same time, Teacher Zeng also noticed the other party’s protective equipment used in archaeology.

That mine shaft was definitely not a normal site for exploration. But according to Teacher Zeng’s knowledge, there were quite a number of people like him who were searching for the “historical ruins” represented by that special stone tablet. He might have the same goal.

Probably because the earlier rescue left a favourable impression on Teacher Zeng, he deliberated for a moment before testing the waters. “I heard there might be an unusual stone tablet in the vicinity. I came to have a look since I was curious. What about you?”

Hearing this, the man’s brows arched high. He patted the sandy soil off his body, standing up in an agile manner. Only then did Teacher Zeng notice that he was really tall.

Carrying a black bag, his lips hooked into a smile. “It’s good to be curious. Looks like we’re kindred spirits.”

Watching the man’s back as he left with large strides, Teacher Zeng couldn’t help but surmise where exactly he came from, and how he dared to take action alone at such a young age. However, when he thought about the other party’s skills, Teacher Zeng tossed aside the thoughts in his head: He should be concerned about himself first.

With this thought in mind, Teacher Zheng opened the notebook he brought along with him. Out of habit, he hastily made a brief record before preparing to leave.

It’s a pity that this was yet another futile exploration.

[ Chapter Two ]

The next time he met Shaw, several years had gone by.

A few years isn’t exactly long, but it was enough to gradually morph Teacher Zeng’s perseverance in the face of returning empty-handed again and again, into a state of giving up on exploration and finding historical ruins.

That morning, Teacher Zeng reached his work department: the Ancient Literature Society of Loveland City. After conducting the routine selection of a theme, he suddenly received a call from the front counter, telling him that someone was looking for him.

Right after stepping out of the elevator, he instantly noticed the especially striking head of bluish purple hair next to the pillar. Teacher Zeng subconsciously furrowed his brows, feeling as though he had seen such a conspicuous hair colour somewhere. Just then, the other party turned his face leisurely, meeting Teacher Zeng’s line of sight.

The young man narrowed his eyes slightly, giving him a contemplative glance from top to bottom, and an almost indiscernible interest appeared in his eyes. On the other hand, Teacher Zeng remained stunned in place, the memories from relatively far away stirring in his mind.

“You’re that...”

Before Teacher Zeng finished speaking, the young man arched his left slit eyebrow. “...it’s really you.” He swept a glance at the surroundings. “This place isn't convenient. Let’s chat somewhere else?”

The desolate flower nursery at a corner.

“The last time we met was an accident, and we didn't get to introduce ourselves.” The 10am sunlight filtered downwards through the clouds, providing a contrast to the glistening colours in the young man’s eyes. “I’m Shaw. The reason why I looked for you today...”

“The reason why you looked for me today couldn’t be because of what happened a few years ago, right?”

Not expecting Teacher Zeng to be so direct, the corners of Shaw’s lips curled upwards. “Since you’ve already asked, I’ll get straight to the point.” While speaking, he retrieved a slightly yellowed old photograph, holding it before Teacher Zeng.

Once he saw the photo, Teacher Zeng lifted his head in surprise. “Why do you have this photograph?”

There were two people in this old photograph. One of them was an obviously younger version of Teacher Zeng, and the other was, astonishingly, Shaw’s mentor.

[Note] Shaw’s mentor is introduced in his 2020 birthday R&S!

Shaw raised the old photograph. “That old man standing next to you left this to me, and said I could look for a helper based on this photo if I ever needed it. I found it a while ago, and realised the person the old man let me look for was actually a ‘familiar person’.”

Teacher Zeng was stunned. So he’s...

Even though Shaw didn’t make it clear, Teacher Zeng already had an answer in his heart.

Shaw rolled his shoulders casually, then continued. “The old man said that you’re really skilful when it comes to online searches and exploration.”

“I’m not that good, maybe just a little faster in searching than ordinary people.” Suddenly hearing Shaw bringing up his mentor, nostalgia flashed across Teacher Zeng’s eyes. “Come to think of it, I just graduated back then, and many things were based on trial and error. Being guided by your mentor for a while was truly a huge fortune.”

“That old man...” Shaw couldn’t help but laugh, but he quickly returned to the earlier topic. “You should also know that we aren’t the only ones searching for the ruins.”

“The speed of one person is limited, so I’m looking for a ‘helper’. How is it? Are you interested in working together?”

After Shaw finished saying this, Teacher Zeng unexpectedly hesitated, growing quiet.

Along with Teacher Zeng’s silence, Shaw slowly retracted the smile in his eyes.

“Actually, in recent years, I haven’t continued in this matter...” A wave of perplexity appeared in Teacher Zeng’s eyes. “I’ve been disappointed too many times over the years. So many times that I’ve gradually lost my motivation despite being unwilling to.”

Shaw’s tone was very calm. “Anticipating failure is something archaeologists should have gotten used to since a long time ago.”

“You might say that, but what exactly is this so-called “ruins”? Whether or not it truly exists - even this answer is a blank space-”

“It doesn’t count as a blank space.” Shaw interrupted him. “Whether they are those picture scrolls kept by the old man, or the notes he left behind, all the records and markings are traces of the real existence of the ruins. As long as they’re around, it’s worth exploring.”

“The instincts of an archaeologist tells me that the secret hidden within it is definitely related to a certain mysterious civilisation. And we might just be missing that final push.”

Teacher Zeng was left in a daze, and he didn’t speak.

Hearing Shaw bringing up his mentor’s picture scrolls and notes, Teacher Zeng’s own notebook, which already had hairy edges, suddenly flashed in his eyes. Actually, there were many times when he wanted to store the notebook in the bottom of his box. But until now, the notebook remained at the top of his drawer even though he couldn't fathom why.

"Although there are times when I dislike how the old man goes on a wild goose chase,” Despite how Shaw said “dislike”, a small smile appeared in his eyes, “But he said something which was correct. As long as you persevere, there will come a day when the secrets within will be revealed. So, as long as there’s a shred of hope, it doesn’t count as a disappointment.”

After saying this, Shaw kept the photograph, then shrugged when he saw how Teacher Zheng remained stunned in place. “But people who are as stubborn as the old man are truly a rarity of rarities. If it’s too difficult, forget it. I’ve never forced anyone into doing anything.”

“All right, that’s all. I’m off.”

“Wait!”

Teacher Zeng called out to Shaw without realising it. His mouth hung open. For a moment, he had no idea what he wanted to say.

A person’s subconsciousness is always the most honest. It turned out that he had never completely let go of searching for the historical ruins. And what he needed was perhaps a person to give him another push.

With this thought in mind, Teacher Zeng met Shaw’s bright eyes. “If you really need it... I could try helping you out once or twice.”

[ Chapter Three ]

After agreeing to Shaw, Teacher Zheng spent the following week using codes and calculations to search almost every corner of the panoramic maps on the internet. He meticulously searched for new locations of the historical ruins, not expecting the progress to go even more smoothly than expected.

“With such speed, you truly live up to your reputation.”

Teacher Zeng sent the location to Shaw. “I’ve found two likely positions. One of them is this abandoned factory building which seems more plausible.” Shaw stared at it fixedly for a few seconds, then curled a corner of his mouth and said, “Okay, got it.”

Next to the railing on the roof, sunlight seemed to be even brighter than usual. Magnificent solar flares leapt in between Shaw’s bluish purple hair. He straightened up, his confident expression even more dazzling to the eyes than the sunlight in between his hair. Shaw kept his phone away. “Since I don't have anything on tomorrow, I might as well take a look first.”

Hearing Shaw saying this so lightly, Teacher Zeng instinctively wanted to give him a cautionary warning. However, since it was only their third meeting, he didn’t really know how to phrase it.

Tidying the hair on his temples which were blown messy by the breeze, Teacher Zeng finally spoke. “I might be overthinking it, but I feel as though it’s been going too smoothly. In the past, I’ve always had to exert double the time to find hazy markings and traces. In short, be more careful tomorrow.”

Shaw arched his brows. “Got it.” Shaw lowered his head to check the time, then waved his hand. “I have class in the afternoon, so I’m heading off.”

That evening, Teacher Zeng slept without a peace of mind, and he woke up just as the sky started to brighten. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he subconsciously tapped open the address that he had discovered earlier, but realised that the markings he saw earlier had vanished!

Were the markings he saw earlier false information by someone on the internet?

Teacher Zeng was startled awake completely. After checking for the third time, he immediately contacted Shaw, but realised that he couldn’t get through no matter what. Feeling anxious, Teacher Zeng rushed to the abandoned building with his quickest speed.

The moment he entered, he saw countless rusty iron sheets and iron pipes. He keenly detected a strange atmosphere: this place was abnormally quiet.

Just as this thought flashed in his mind, a deafening sound drifted from the building in the next second. Thinking of how he had not contacted Shaw yet, Teacher Zeng trembled with fear, sticking himself against the wall of the staircase, and running up quickly.

[ Chapter Four ]

“BOOM-!”

While Teacher Zeng was rushing up, Shaw was facing an unknown attack.

The attacker was hiding in a dark place, and was probably an Evolver who could control metal. The iron pipes in the surroundings were pulled mid-air in an astonishing angle, sent smashing in Shaw’s direction. The air was very quickly mixed with the muffled echos of metal.

Shaw’s eyes keenly swept towards the dark area. As though accurately predicting the other party’s thoughts, he unfurled his palm in contempt, sending crackling lightning towards the iron pipes which are not too far away. With a muffled thud, the attacker was struck down.

Perhaps the consecutive failures had left the attacker in a complete frenzy. In the next second, a loud sound of metal exploded in the air.

But Shaw’s reaction was even faster.

His fingertips instantly crackled with electricity. With a flick of his wrist and a stretch of his arm, along with a frigidly cold “hmph”, the loud sound of electrical currents followed the expanse of metal pipes, striking the attacker like a sharp blade.

Most likely sustaining heavy damage, the attacker no longer cared about anything else, fleeing by jumping from the window in a flurry.

In a single breath, Teacher Zeng ran to the roof of the building, but only made it in time to see the moment a hazy figure leapt out of the window.

Shaw furrowed his brows, lifting his hand in distaste as he wiped the rust off his face. “Tch, I actually let him get away.” He turned his head and saw Teacher Zeng who had suddenly appeared, then pursed his lips. “What are you doing here?”

Teacher Zeng explained softly. “I just found out that this could be a trap, but I couldn’t contact you, so I rushed here without thinking too much... it’s a good thing you’re skilled.”

Shaw casually tidied his drooping fringe, revealing his eyebrows, which were arched high. After all, they were “co-workers”. Hearing these words blurted out by Teacher Zeng, the initially sharp expression in Shaw’s eyes turned indiscernibly gentler.

While heading down with Shaw, Teacher Zeng released a sigh, then laughed bitterly. “It’s been so many years. From what I know, due to the lack of progress, people who were searching for the historical ruins like me, you, and your mentor, gave up in succession. I just never thought that aside from there being no progress, it actually became even more dangerous...”

“That’s enough. This matter had nothing to do with you. Searching for the ruins isn’t dangerous.” Hearing Teacher Zeng’s self-abasement and guilt, Shaw interrupted him. “In the process of searching, I accidentally made a few enemies. The one from today was probably just targeting me.”

While speaking, they walked out of the abandoned building.

Despite going through this shocking wrestle, it was only daybreak. The rosy dawn served as a foil to the rising sun, elegantly travelling thousands of miles in the sky, the rose red rays of light spilling across the overgrown land, spilling into Shaw’s serious eyes which refused to concede defeat.

“When it comes to things worth persisting in and challenging, I’ve long since mentally prepared myself for protracted warfare.”

Shaw’s lips hooked upwards, an earnest spirit leaping in his eyes. “They will definitely lose.”

Seeing the stubbornness and seriousness hidden in the depths of Shaw’s eyes, Teacher Zeng’s heart suddenly received a jolt.

At first glance, the young man in front of him looked youthful and flamboyant. But his tenacity and dedication far surpassed the imagination of most people, and made Teacher Zeng re-discover the surging emotions he once had in his earlier years.

He’s akin to a giant creature hiding in the deep sea. Once he bit onto a goal, he would never let go.

For some reason, Teacher Zeng found this emotion rather familiar. It’s as though time had flowed backwards to several years ago. Back then, under the guidance and assistance from Shaw’s mentor, he had once seen a similar expression and tone of voice in the other party.

When the faraway memories surged up, Teacher Zeng stopped breathing. What accompanied this was that smiling face reminiscent of a mischievous child, the web pages he found after days and nights of searching, and all the locations he had once explored without a regard for the results...

Emotions he had not felt for a long time suddenly surged in Teacher Zeng’s heart.

[ Chapter Five ]

The weather today is very humid, and there doesn’t seem to be a single gust of wind.

After lunch, Teacher Zeng heads to the grocery store to buy a box of cigarettes. Then, he makes his way to the small flower nursery at the corner. Just as he breathes a few mouthfuls of smoke, the sound of footsteps suddenly drifts from behind him.

Teacher Zeng bites on the cigarette bud and turns around: it’s Shaw.

“Good afternoon.” Shaw has a hand stuffed into his pocket, elongating his words teasingly. “Since you’re smoking to entertain yourself, looks like Teacher Zeng has been pretty bored lately.”

Teacher Zeng chuckles softly. “Why are you here today?”

Shaw purses his mouth. “This might sound baffling. This morning, someone dressed in black suddenly attacked my antique store, wanting to search for some leads...”

Teacher Zeng ponders on this.

Slightly irritated, Shaw kicks a pebble at his feet. “It isn’t that easy to defeat me. We have to find the starting point for the ruins first.”

He lifts his eyes and looks at Teacher Zeng, arching his brows. “If I remember correctly, you mentioned being able to help “once or twice” that day. I’m now asking for that second round of assistance.”

Ever since they parted ways the previous time, Teacher Zeng had been giving it much thought. Perhaps Shaw’s persistence moved him, or Shaw’s mentor made him feel sentimental for the past. Regardless, a certain thought in the depths of his heart is especially clear: Actually, he had never let go of searching for the historical ruins. Since that’s the case, he might as well be involved in it entirely, and it wouldn’t put the years of accumulated knowledge to waste.

Teacher Zeng has a small smile as he speaks leisurely. “Helping out is definitely not a problem. I’ve already been searching for new leads over the past duration. But I’d like to change the conditions.”

Shaw shoots him in glance with deep interest.

Extinguishing the cigarette bud beneath his foot, Teacher Zeng turns his head and says, “If you face more problems, it’d no longer be ‘once or twice’. We’ll work together formally. Can you accept this condition?

Finally, the clouds on the horizon seem to be dispersed by the wind slightly, revealing rays of light.

Shaw arches his brows. “Deal.”

🦈 More S2 content: here

🦈 Support the cafe by dropping by the tip jar!

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc shaw

56 notes · View notes

littlerockerao3 · 3 years

Note

I don’t know if you’re still taking requests but if you are, I’d like 94 💕

Hi. Do you remember you sent me this ages ago? I’m sorry.

94. “Did they hurt you?”

Trigger warnings: mentions of abuse (doesn’t happen but they wonder what if it did), mentions of spiked drinks and Robb is such a gift in this it hurts so I think this count as a trigger warning as well.

~~~

Robb really doesn’t know how he managed to keep still all night. Sure, he didn’t get any sleep at all, but it’s a pretty impressive result that he didn’t jump out of bed in the middle of the night to do what he’s doing right now. He admits that this is all he was waiting for: if he couldn’t let it out yesterday immediately the moment it happened then he might as well do it now.

He realises, as he hits the punching bag one more time, that his anger is still boiling in his veins just as fast as yesterday. He throws another punch. He just can’t keep the scene out his mid. He hits the bag again. Theon who can’t even stand up on his own, drinks spilled all over the dirty living room, Skinner keeping Theon’s arms behind his back to prevent him from moving (like he was strong enough to defend himself), Ramsay’s hand clasped around Theon’s throat and jaw. Theon shaking his head and mumbling something. Robb seeing all this through the window and literally smashing it with the first thing he found to break in.

He throws another punch. Then another. Then another. And then another one.

He can barely hear the so familiar voice calling his name.

“Robb.”

The other night, Theon called his name as well. Though he sounded much more relieved than he is now: now he’s concerned, worried. But Robb just can’t seem to stop his hands from hitting the bag.

“Robb!” Theon yells again. “Hey!”

Robb is one hundred per cent sure the next punch he’s going to throw will break the chain the punching bag is hanging onto. Thought the way Theon reaches over to rest his hand between his shoulder and neck causes his arm to stop midway.

“Calm down.” Theon whispers. Robb’s breath is uneven as he tries to clench his fist even more inside his boxing gloves. “You need to calm down”.

Robb turns his attention away from the red punching bag, slowly, and intensely stares at Theon, “Did they hurt you?”

Cause the thing is, Robb doesn’t exactly know what happened yesterday, cause Theon just won’t tell him. He just knows they were at Renly’s party fighting over something stupid (they’ve been fighting a lot lately) and Theon just left with Ramsay. Robb can’t find a reason to explain why Ramsay was there, it’s not like Renly despises him less than everybody else in the world does. He doesn’t despise him as much as Robb does, of course, but that’s because no one can, not even Theon, who has more reasons to.

“When will you stop asking me?” Theon sighs, hands on his hips. Robb stares deeply into his eyes and replies, firmly, “The moment you’ll answer sincerely”.

That’s all he knows and remembers: them fighting at Renly’s party, Theon moving away from him and spending the rest of the party with anybody but him, Robb seeing Theon talking to Ramsay, Robb reminding himself how Ramsay has always tried to get to Theon and how Ramsay has a history for spiking drinks at parties. Theon leaving with him. Robb calling for him, Theon ignoring him. Theon and Ramsay and Skinner getting into some car and Robb rushing to his own, cursing himself for parking it so far away. He’s just grateful Ramsay was stupid enough to take Theon to his own place and that Robb guessed where they would have been right. Who knows what would have happened if Robb didn’t get there. He doesn’t want to think about it, but the moment they came home, Robb with blood stained hands and Theon all trembling, Robb just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He’s been to nice to Ramsay and Skinner by only punching them a couple times before Theon stopped him. They deserved worse. And that’s all he can think of now that he’s looking at Theon’s face, cause he still looks so scared and shaken and who knows how many days are going to go by before he stops looking like that.

“It’s complicated” he mumbles.

“It’s not.” Robb shakes his head and proceeds to grab the strap of his glove between his teeth and pull it open, “It’s a simple answer, yes or no”.

He removes the other gloves with his free hand and throws both of them on the table nearby. He wants to go back punching that bag so bad. He needs to pretend he’s actually punching Ramsay.

“They didn’t.” Theon whispers at some point, “They couldn’t. You came before they could do anything”.

But they could have, they would have and that’s just something Robb can’t let slip away.

“You should have let me beat the shit out of them” he says, stepping forward to let his nose brush against Theon’s: he must be gentle with him, so that can calm both of them down.

Theon reaches over to brush Robb’s sweaty curls away from his forehead, and smiles lightly, “I’ve already paid your bail once.”

Robb wants to smile in return, cause he knows that would make Theon happier, but he just cannot remove those images from his head. Theon notices that, cause he’s not stupid and also, cause he doesn’t want to focus on what’s going on with himself, therefore he’s focusing on what’s going on with Robb. He grabs Robb’s hand and pulls him gently towards him, “Come on, let’s just… go out on a walk with Grey Wind, that also relaxes you.”

It does, but it works only if he’s stressed. It works if he’s scared of failing some test, it works if he’s scared of the results of some random medical stuff turn out to be bad, it works if he’s sad. It doesn’t work if he’s mad angry. He needs to hit something. He would hit something, if Theon didn’t grab his hand, “Robb. Please”.

“They need to get what they deserve” he mutters between his teeth. He can’t even manage to speak properly, he’s just craving to destroy everything until he’s calmed down.

Theon’s hands rest on his jaws, fingertips gently brushing against his beard. “Don’t think about it”.

“How can I not think about it?!” Robb snaps, “Ramsay spiked your drink, who knows what else he could have done to you!”

He’s said that out loud and that just makes things worse. It makes it even more real, more real than seeing it with his own eyes. And more real than experiencing it, cause that’s exactly what Theon’s face is suggesting. But the way he’s shrugging makes it look like he’s trying not to make it look like such a big deal, “I’m okay, cause you were there”.

But what if he wasn’t?

“But what if I wasn’t?! What if I didn’t make it there on time?! How can you be fine with doing nothing after what happened?!” If it was up to Robb, they would have gone to the police yesterday night. But Theon wanted to go home and Robb thought he looked too shaken to do anything else, no matter how much he tried to deny that. Though today it looks like all that trying to pretend to be alright yesterday night has exhausted Theon to the point that he can’t keep pretending, today. “Cause I’m scared.” He whispers, eyes looking at the tip of his shoes. “I’m scared no one would believe me and Ramsay will get mad at me for trying to do something”.

Robb’s stare softens. Deep inside, he hates to admit that, but he knows Theon’s fear is not random. It’s actually pretty normal: Ramsay has been spiking people’s drinks since Robb can remember and he’s still doing that. It can only mean that nobody has ever done something to stop him.

“Come here.” Robb tells his boyfriend, before wrapping his arms around him. This is one of those times where he wishes he was taller than Theon, so that he could kiss his forehead without him having to bend down his neck. Instead, he just kisses his neck and rubs wide circles on his back. He can feel Theon’s tired breath against his skin, he can feel how stressed out and scared he is. And he doesn’t want this.

“You’re not the only one who had to go through that and you’re not the only one who was too scared to do something.” He begins, then he cups his face in between his hands, “Maybe we could convince some of these people who’ve been there to sue Ramsay and the others too. Maybe someone is going to do something if they see how many people went through that shit”.

Sansa knows a girl, Robb is sure of that. Renly knows someone too. So does Loras. This could work.

Theon doesn’t answer for a bit, and when he does, it’s not exactly the answer Robb was looking forward to hear, “Can I think about it?”

But it’s a start.

“Of course” he kisses his lips, softly, cause softness is what Theon needs more than ever right now. Robb is sure he will never forget the way Theon didn’t dare get away from Robb’s chest not even in his sleep, last night. Robb is relieved by the way Theon kisses him back just as softly, his hands still caressing his beard. His eyes look a little less sad when they part.

“I could really fancy a walk outside with Grey Wind though” Theon says, shrugging.

Robb nods, “Sure. Sure, we can go right now.”

At first he doesn’t get why Theon is chuckling, but god does he love that sound?

“Take a shower first, you stink” Theon smirks, then proceeds to ruffle his hair. Robb smiles in return and almost opens his mouth to ask him to join him, but realises that might not be the right thing to say right now just in time. So he grabs Theon’s hand before walking past him, and squeezes it reassuringly. It’s going to be okay, I’m here and I’ll help, I’ll do everything I can and more, that squeeze says. And it’s only when he can read in Theon’s eyes and small shy smiles that he gets it, that he knows that, that Robb allows himself to let go of him.

Robb can’t help but smile at Theon petting Grey Wind behind his ears, the big wolf happily wagging his tail.

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? It’s you, yes it’s you!”

Grey Winds barks once, then jumps on Theon and licks his face, causing him to rest on the grass on his back. Robb leans against the tree they’re sitting under, and whistles once to get the big dog’s attention, “Grey, come here boy.”

Grey Wind jumps on Robb’s lap. He’s no longer a puppy and doesn’t fit in there anymore but he doesn’t care. Neither does Robb.

He takes the small package of dog biscuits from his jacket and lends one over Grey Wind’s mouth, “Here, have a treat for being such a good boy. The best of all”.

He’s noticed how Theon looks happier if he has Grey Wind to play with, and something tells him he’s going to sleep in the bed with them too, tonight.

“See?” Theon sits down next to Robb and hugs his side, “Going on a walk with your dog and your unbelievably sexy boyfriend is way better than hitting a punching bag”

He pecks his cheek and Robb turns around to do the same, “How are you doing, Thee?”

Theon sighs lightly. He grabs Robb’s hand, and tries to put on the best reassuring smile he can give him, “I try not to think about it. Grey Wind helps”.

“Oh, I can see that” Robb snorts a laugh, and Grey Wind proceeds to lick his cheek too, before abandoning his lap to go and rest on Theon’s.

His boyfriend smiles, this time it looks more real. “Not my fault you picked the best puppy”.

Robb knows he shouldn’t keep pressuring him about what happened, but he needs to tell him one more thing. One more, then he’ll stop and will try and find other ways to help Theon, if talking about now that he’s still so shaken about it is not the right thing to do. He just needs to tell him one more thing. He brushes his nose against Theon’s, before he says, softly, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but whenever you think you need something, don’t hesitate and come to me and tell me. Don’t be ashamed. I’m here for you”.

He expects Theon to tense up, but he doesn’t. He just smiles some more and pecks his lips gently. “I know. You picked the best puppy, but I picked the best boyfriend.”

Robb chuckles. He’s glad Theon is feeling at ease at least around him: if he does, then it means it’s going to be easier for him to let Robb help him.

“So did I. I have good taste” Robb kisses his boyfriend’s lips, just a small kiss, no tongue. He suddenly can’t wait to go back home so they can snuggle on the couch.

Theon brushes their noses against each other again when they part, it’s something he likes to do. Sometimes he kisses Robb’s nose too, other times he even bites it lightly, and that often leads to sexy times.

God, if Robb will ever see Ramsay again he’s sure as hell he’ll go to prison for what he’ll do to him. It’s not fair that Theon looks this way and the only consequence Ramsay has faced is just a simple broken nose.

“Do you feel like… do you feel like renting a movie tonight?”

Theon’s voice brings Robb back to Earth. If Grey Wind is Theon’s solution to calm down, then Theon is Robb’s.

“I know we technically are subscribed to every streaming service but we used to do that a lot when we were younger” the dark haired young man goes on, a light shade of red painting his sharp cheekbones.

Robb nods, and extends a hand to brush Theon’s hair behind his ear, “Yeah, of course. That sounds amazing.”

Theon blushes even harder and Robb just wants to wrap his arms around him, hide under a blanket and stay like that til the end of times.

“Tell you what, let’s go to the grocery store and let’s get all kind of sweets. Then we’ll go pick the movie” he suggests, standing up.

Theon stand up as well and grabs his hand. He winks, “Sounds like a plan.”

They’re halfway through Hocus Pocus, cuddling on the couch. The coffee table in front of them is filled with popcorn bowls and chocolate snacks. Grey Wind is snorting beside them and they’re wrapped in the big warm woollen blanket crocheted and gave them as a gift when they first moved to their own place. And Theon suddenly squeezes Robb’s arm.

“Hey.” He whispers shyly.

“Yeah?” Robb turns away from the tv and worries the moment he sees the frown on his face, “Love, are you okay?”

Theon takes a deep breath, but still manages to look at him straight in the eyes, as he says, “You feel like going with me to the police tomorrow?”

Now it’s like the knot on Robb’s throat has been untied. Yes. Yes yes yes.

“Of course.” He breaths out in relief. “Of course”.

He takes Theon’s face in his hands but lets him kiss him first. He drags him on his lap, keeps wrapping the blanket around them till it fully envelopes them. Theon wraps his arms around Robb’s neck. He’s going to be fine, he will be. Robb will do all he can to make sure of that.

That’s all he can think of, even right before falling asleep, Theon’s head resting on his chest, Grey Wind right next to them on the bed.

#throbb #theon x Robb #throbb one shot #anon #the ending kinda sucks I can’t write endings sorry :(

21 notes · View notes

jean-does-not-have-a-horseface · 4 years

Note

our newborn child has been really ill for a couple weeks and you’ve been really worried. luckily, we took them to the doctors and everything’s fine. yet despite it being nearly a week since we went to the doctors, you’ve slept beside the crib every night.- with kuchel shes the youngest and imagine levi and the rest of the ackerbabies sleeping with her cause they're worried

LOOK. THIS SHOULD HAVE BEEN A DRABBLE ALRIGHT? BUT I GOT REALLY CARRIED AWAY AND UHM.... Imma break loads of hearts with this....don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Pairing: Levi/ Reader

Warnings: mentions of death

Tags: a n g s t, pure angst, everyone's suffering, Wanna get in the mood I was while writing? Listen to this

A matress for five

For the first time in a long while, Levi's eyes stung feverously with exhaustion and insomnia. It was a silent beg, the first sign of his body giving in to the fatigue of taking care of four children but for all he knew, given the situation things would have to be worse before they got better.

His feet couldn't hold himself up in that late hour; not that even dared to move to check on the clock on the nightstand, his perception of time was more of an assumption. He had spend endless nights wide awake, clinging onto Kuchel's crib for dear life, interwinning her little hand with his, as his sorrows would bathe him in cold sweat.

The small hand that faintly clung onto his intex finger and wouldn't let loose of the steady grip sent earth shattering rashes of pain inside his heart as his eyes batted to its owner. His very own, crucially small and excessively faint daughter, that desperately needed him to simply survive. His eyes batted as he took in her small form for the upteenth time this evening. He loathed to be in that place again, to watch another beloved Kuchel in his life suffer with illness.

He had brought it to himself, he figured. By agreeing that she looked like him enough to be honored to share a name with his mother. Yet, after the recent events of having watched her suffer with whatever was that had gotten her down, he kept on wondering if luck was playing games with him for chosing his ill-fated mother's name. Was it really that much of a coincidence that he had to be stripped off another Kuchel, in a much similar situation?

And how on earth was he supposed to deal with another death brought onto his own little family.

The image of you leaving your last breath while you begged for him to protect your children was a fresh addition of the annihilating pain of grief that clung into his chest as if it was it's safe place. His eyes couldn't help batting erratically to prevent new waves of tears from running cold on his temples as he mentally clung onto the fondest memories of yours. He knew, with the way things were now, he shouldn't allow himself to be weak. There were four children that were completely depended on him, in despairate need to be helped, fed and be stood by for.

He had figured that by allowing himself to be egoistic with his grief he would only manage to repeat Kenny's behavior towards him. Naturally, no decent parent figure would ever chose to treat their children in such way and he didn't wish upon his own babies to feel most of the overwhelming emotions of abandonment he had felt before.

Had you still been here though, no one would have to be forced to deal with your loss in the first place. And as for Kuchel, she wouldn't have to fall sick and fight for her survival since day one.

He still could recall days where you would have fun with your sons, still very pregnant, resting assured that you'd always protect everyone in your own way.

In his memories, you held him tight, arm lingering on his as he cooked a healthy meal for your sons, rubbing one hand over your belly and begging him not to get you pregnant for a long time. Your boys, curious as ever would ask a trillion questions concerning your baby bum to which Kurt would jump to answer before you, taking the role of the experienced older brother, making you giggle at his quick wits and smart mouth.

You would simply bat your eyes in awe and pride as you'd look at him go and take responsibility for his brother at such a young age and in turn, Kurt would promise you he'd always take care of Kuchel as well. Then you would look at Levi, orbs glistering with with plastered happiness only to mouth a silent i love you to him.

The sudden forced halt to your everyday affections was probably what hurt him the most.

In his head, he imagined, you laid beside him as he placed Kuchel to sleep on his chest, smiling at the tenderly profound affection. You hand would graze the surface of his stomach, sliding across the baby's tiny body, only for your fingers to rest on his chin, so tenderly and faintly that he could barely feel them. Your expression would be serene, hues glimmering golden as they'd mirror the warm tingerine flicker of the candlelight.

He would spare you a smile, the most effortessly sincere one he could put on and he'd watch as your eyes would widen. When you'd realise the nature of his expression you would crash your lips against his, noses bumping feverishly into eachother as you'd try to freeze the smile on his face, afraid that it would disappear never to be seen again.

And to that, you would have probably been right. He wasn't going to smile again, not without you at least. Your departure from his life had ripped his heart like an old rotten rag and there was no way for him to manage to pick the pieces of his heart and stitch them back together. He had done it one too many times, just to push forward with being a soldier.

With a heart that was broken one too many times, he should have felt numb when he was ripped off another beloved person.

But he couldn't say the same would ever apply to his children.

As he laid there, staring at Kuchel's chest falling and rising with each little breath she took, he felt like the world threatened to rip him way from his younglings as well. His heart ached at the thought that they would ever have to share a fate with him.

The looks on their confused faces on the day of Kuchel's birth still crushed him. Little by little, day by day, he'd watch as everyone would fall into melancholy from your sudden departure. Kuchel was the first one to suffer from your loss, perhaps, even more fundamentally in comparison to the others.

It had been weeks since Kuchel had fallen ill.

Levi had strained himself physically and mentally trying to figure out what was going on, how could he help or how could he ever even feed her. All the previous experience he had with his sons was nothing compared to not being able to feed his daughter property; what he had suspected of being a mild case of colics, as often as it was on infants, had turned out to be a painful experience for every member in the house just as much as it had been for the newborn girl.

The doctor he had consulted with a little more than a week ago had assured him what Kuchel was going through was normal for children that were forced to receive substitute for their mother's milk. Perhaps, he had suggested, if Levi could find a wet nurse for her she wouldn't have to go through such horrific colics and suffer.

He was only shaken from his thoughts at the creaking sound of the heavy door to your once shared bedroom opening slightly. His eyes immediately fell on the source of sound, only to be welcomed by a small flashing of the dark corridor. With all willpower to move strained from his body though, he couldn't yet manage to utter a single word.

"Kurt, will Kuchel die?"

"Can we go see her?"

The tiny, barely audible voices grazed Levi's eardrums softly, always tenderly allowing him to process the spoken words that left his children's mouths. His nose twitched as anxiety rushed through him, causing him to slightly raise a hand to scratch it in an attempt to shake it's newfound numbness away. The thought of having to force himself to get up from Kuchel's bedside even for a mere moment drowned him in worry and despair.

"No, stupid, she won't die dad's taking care of her. And no, see they're asleep." Kurt whispered as a response, looking at his two brothers after his hand shot on the door to prevent them from opening it further.

Despite the door creaking ever more in response to them pressing their weight on it, the three boys ignored the sound as if it fell deaf to their ears. John and Tony batted their eyes in Kurt's hand, struggling to fit their heads in the slight opening to peek inside the room.

"Mommy wee come and hep her." John tried to whisper, mustering out his best composed words. Kurt threw the younger boy a dangerous glare as the words fell of his mouth, ready to scold him for speaking his nonsense so loud.

"Mom's not coming back," Tony managed to speak, confused as ever, before Kurt ever had a chance to open his mouth. "I think."

Kurt sighed, a loud, angered scoff of air escaping his small nostrils. "Mom's dead, we're never seeing her again. Get it brats?" His grip on the door tightened as he spoke, his feet that had been pushing forward to stop himself from bursting, finally giving in to the pain on the fresh wound in his little chest.

"Kuwt is mean!"John mumbled with a tied tongue "Towy, awe we going to see Kuchel again?"

"In the morning, John!"

"I wan to sweep next to dad!"

"Shut your shitty mouths! Dad is sleeping and we'll wake him and Kuchel up!"

On the other side of the door, Levi laid on the bed in a haze, listening carefully to his children lashing out on their inner thoughts to each other. Originally, he would simply ignore the late night stomping of curiosity his sons were engaged in but an itch to his chest prompted him to get up, to open the door and welcome them into the room.

Hange had spoken to him about the significance of bonding time between him and his children now that they had to come to terms with the significant deat of a parental figure; each one of them them was in a crucial stage of their development, meaning they wouldn't take their mother's death in easily, or even similarly. The psychosynthesis of each child was fragile in its own way and right now Hange's theories were turning out to be correct.

Before he knew it he had walked the distance to the door, opening it slowly to let the three children in."Oi, what have I told you about being vulgar?"

The three siblings froze, chubby cheeks puffing at the sides of their puckered lips as they averted their eyes away from their father's gaze in shame. Kurt took a step forward making sure to force his gray eyes to stare into his father's identical ones, only to speak up the words that were threatening to spill from the tip of his tongue as his heartbeat went through the roof.

"I'm sorry dad!"

Levi's hand automatically shot to the boys direction only to come and ruffle tenderly through his dark chocolate locks. His expression softened and his heart sped up at the slight change of demeanor coming from the boy; Kurt immediately wrapped his arms around his legs, pulling him closer to his smaller body. He melted under the touch. It seemed like his sorrows couldn't bear to get worse at the presence of his children.

In less that a second, Tony and John had nuzzled their way to his legs, in turn, hugging him absurdly tight close to them. Hums and soft giggles escaped them as they cheered for the acceptance of their affections. Almost as if they commanded him to, Levi squatted down, allowing them to wrap their arms around his neck and torso. His own hands came to engulf them in the warmth of his chest, pressing their little heads against it.

"John said he wants to sleep with you! I will watch over Kuchel!" Kurt spoke with the most stern tone he could muster, only to deem himself serious enough for his father to take him seriously.

"Hey I don't want to sleep alone!" Tony exhaled.

Levi couldn't help but let out a huff of amusement through his nose. "How about you all hop onto the bed with me?" He questioned, orbs darting around to all three the pairs of eyes that stared back at him "That way no one has to sleep alone!"

Normally, he knew they would cheer in excitement when you'd allow them to sleep in between you, but the heartbreaking contrast to their current reaction served as another reminder that things were never going to be the same.

Their heads were darting down, eyes burning holes at the floor beneath them as they reluctantly agreed to follow him into the room. He could tell John simply mimicked his brothers' reactions by a mere glance at him. The mellow indicator of his anxiety was served in the form of his teeny fingers mingling with the trims of his sleeves. A silent yawn escaped him, causing his chest to swell and fall in tiredness as he refused to rub any sleep away from his eyes. Noticing it, Levi knew he couldn't waste any more time, he quickly ordered them to secure their grips onto him before he picked them up, entering the bedroom once again.

With curiosity written in their faces, once they were securely set onto the matress, the boys silently crawled to the direction of Kuchel's crib, probing themselves at the edge of the wooden railing. Soon enough, Levi joined them; his hands gripped the railing as he rested his head against them, purposely mimicking his sons.

"Dad, will Kuchel die?" Kurt questioned with dark eyes probing in the direction of the newborn baby. The gulp that went down his throat didn't escape Levi's gaze.

"No, she just has stomach aches from the milk she's been drinking."

With skeptically forrowed brows Tony puckered his lips to the side of his cheek as he proceeded his father's words. "So she will stop drinking milk?"

"Not quite," Levi clicked his tongue "We'll find someone to feed her."

"Mommy wee feed her!"

A heavy sigh escaped Levi's lips as John spoke with enthusiasm. His inability to comprehend death was only natural, Levi reminded himself, but that didn't make it any easier for him to cope up with. It would months even years before Levi could explain to him the concept of death in a way that he could understand and come to terms with. For now, he had to settle with his his heartstrings pulling at him as he spoke the familiar indicators to remind John you were no more of "Mommy can't come back to feed her, so we are going to find a wet nurse."

"What's that?" Tony inquired.

"She is someone who will provide milk for Kuchel like I'm providing food for you."

"Oh!" Tony brought a finger at the side of lip as the profound realisation hit him "Like a new mommy? But why does Kuchel get to have a new mommy, doesn't she like our mommy?"

Levi wasn't given a chance to speak his mind, to educate them on the subject of death once again. Their voices were overlapping each others in a panicked state. It wasn't an uncommon thing for them to do in stressful situations; crying in sync as they stuck with each other as a lunatic team when they cried was something he had grown used to in the past few years. He knew how to handle them, but frankly, in this very moment he mentally couldn't.

"D-did Kuchel kill mommy?"

"Can babies kill?"

"Will Kuchel kill us as well? Daddy don't let Kuchel kill you!"

"Kuchel loved mommy" Levi cleared his throat, finally putting an halt to the synchronized silly assumptions that were being spoken "It's not her fault she had complications in birth."

"Then I don't want to give birth either!" A small cry escaped the group of siblings, causing Levi to bring a palm to his forehead. Sometimes, he wished he could explain things to them as you could, because how the hell was he supposed to explain to Tony that he couldn't physically give birth to someone, at this late hour in the night with his head throbbing in worry for the sickling in the crib.

"You really don't have to worry about that!" He spoke, voice flickering in the air as anxiety rushed through him for the upteenth time. "We should sleep, alright?"

The boys reluctantly bobbed their heads up and down in silently nods of agreement to their father's words. Almost in synch, they detached their hands from the crib's railing only to turn around on their knees to sprawl themselves into the vastness of the double sized bed they had always adorned.

Carefully, Levi laid on his side with his head facing Kuchel's crib, just like a few minutes ago. His hand darted inside the crib, his finger wiggling its way to Kuchel's little palm for her to grab onto. As welcoming as ever, the little palm wrapped around his index finger before a flickered breath exited his daughter's small body. Once he had secured that she wasn't going to be awaken by his actions, with his other hand, Levi plopped himself on his back and motioned to the boys to lay around him in the bed.

First John came to rest under his armpit, shifting himself to his liking onto his father's chest, that much until his ebony hair tickled Levi's chin. Levi recognised it as his perfect comfort sleeping position, the one he'd always go for when he'd sleep in your shared bed.

From that point on it only took seconds for the boy to fall asleep to his father's chest falling up and down as he breathed in a steady manner. Tony had managed to nuzzle his way next to John, fast asleep as well as he cuddled up to both his brother and his father.

"You should sleep bratty." Levi shot to Kurt's direction's as he watched him plop himself on his stomach, his head coming to rest above his hands on Levi's hipbone. Although Levi was unsure if Kurt's face seemed to lit up for a fragment of a second at the beloved petname that escaped his lips, he rested positive that he could at least convince the sever year old to give in to sleep.

"No thanks dad" He yawned "I'll watch over Kuchel! You sleep"

"Kuchel is asleep as well, why don't you come lay on my right side and close your eyes."

Kurt seemed puzzled as he examined the choices he was given. The primary instinct to step in father's shoes in order to protect his sister seemed to slowly give in to his need for some well deserved sleep. It would soon take over him completely, he figured as he stared back at his father, so he opted to comply to his father's prompt for sleep.

Besides, having the chance to sleep tight like a baby on his father's chest like his brothers was as important to his childish antics.

Thus, with a shift in his movements he found himself carefully positioned on the right side of his father's body, nose nuzzling just on the underside of Levi's muscled ribs. The question he wanted to shoot at his father remained at the tip of his tongue as sleep mellowy engulfed him.

Levi's stinging eyes felt heavy as his boys cooed peacefully in his embrace. Maybe, just for tonight, he could let himself rest in the presence of his spawns because unbeknownst to them, they had managed to temporarily put his mind and grief at ease.

Maybe just for tonight, he could let you visit him in his sleep and make things perfect again even for as long as a dream lasted. And maybe when he'd wake up Kuchel would be perfectly fine again and his sons wouldn't be drowning in melancholy and confusion and maybe he wouldn't have to spend the rest of his days wishing your bed could hold six sleeping bodies instead of five.

Tags: @levisbrat25 @alrightberries (that's also a special birthday gift to you I'm sorry it's so sad don't kill me 💀👉🏻👈🏻) @ladyofpandemonium @nobody-knows-anymore @miss-consulting-timelord

235 notes · View notes

peaceoutofthepieces · 3 years

Text

Tracing Time

Disclaimer that I am not a therapist nor bipolar but I have had a therapist so I’m hoping it’s not too awful of a depiction. Also want to add a minor content warning for the ending scene for homophobia, nothing explicit or even verbal, just a woman with an icky vibe.

Wednesday, 16:04

Song: Haux - Youth

Sander tips his head against the back of the couch and stares at the fan in the corner. It drones in slow circles, doing little more than disturbing the air right in front of it. It still makes the air in the room chilly enough that Sander is glad he’s wearing a sweater, though.

Between it and the window is an ‘abstract’ painting of the brain. Abstract in that the supposed organ is actually scattered in pieces throughout the canvas, all in various states of destruction. One has trees growing out of it, for example. Another is on fire; it’s Sander’s favourite.

He’d stared at it with an absurd sort of fascination in his first session, almost two years ago now, and his therapist, Agathe, had simply smiled at him and asked if he liked art. It was a sneaky way in, but he supposed that was the point. These meetings have gotten fewer and farther apart over that time, now that he can supposedly manage himself to a high enough standard on his own. Well, not quite enough, he supposes, or he probably wouldn’t be here at all. He can practically hear Agathe’s rebuke that they are just ‘casual check-ins’, and Sander is free to go whenever he pleases.

At every one of those reminders, Sander debates doing exactly that—getting up and going. Instead, he usually ends up slumping sullenly for a few minutes before Agathe prods her way back in.

They haven’t been mandatory in a long time, these sessions, but now there’s just something...reassuring. There are still times he doesn’t bother making an appointment, but knowing he can, and knowing that someone with the right knowledge doesn’t see any reason to worry about him, leaves a pretty damn good sense of relief.

And he did have a bit of a blip, at the start of the year. A few days in which he had to be prodded and coerced into just taking a drink of water, and had spent the majority of in his room. It had overlapped the holidays, so he’d let Robbe come and cocoon himself with him for a good chunk of the time.

It hadn’t made him better. But it made him...safe, or something similar, and that was the most he could hope for.

It was the coming-out-of-nowhere aspect that had shaken him a bit. He’d felt better, just keeping up his sessions then, being sure that he was at least doing alright with his medication. It’s working okay, the sitting and talking, so he shows up and just lets Agathe keep making sure.

The door cracks open now and she slips back in, dropping into the couch across from Sander and shooting him her usual calm, too-happy smile through light lipstick. It brings out her dimples. She’s not yet marred by wrinkles, but there’s something soft and aging about her face, anyway. Maybe it’s the graying roots. “Sorry about that, I forget this thing way too often.” She holds up the clipboard she’d carried in with an exasperated sigh, murmuring under her breath as she flicks through it and gets settled.

It’s all painfully familiar. It makes Sander smile.

He does like her. He’s never bothered denying that.

“So, how are we today?” It’s the same way she always starts, though it’s usually accompanied by—ah, there we go—clasped hands and another smile.

“Good,” Sander says. It’s automatic, but he also means it. Today is fine. It’s good.

She raises her brow when he doesn’t offer anything else. “Alright, good. Belated birthday wishes are in order, I believe?”

“Yeah, thank you. Just yesterday.”

She nods, and Sander does not think about how that was dumb when she obviously already knows. But she just settles back and crosses her legs. “Did you do anything to celebrate?”

Sander’s lips finally stretch in a smile of his own. He thinks it’s probably a little dopey, a little lovestruck, and she probably knows exactly what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. “I had breakfast with my parents because Robbe took me out for dinner. Then he had a surprise party planned at our friends’ flat.”

“A party on a school night?” Agathe’s brows raise, and she shakes her head with a small laugh. “How do they deal with that today?”

“No clue,” Sander breathes out a huff of his own, trying not to feel overly amused by how Gilles had been in the class they shared with Sander earlier in the day. For once, they hadn’t said a word, just sat with their head down for the entire lecture, wincing every now and then when Sander laughed. He hadn’t even heard from any of the others, but Robbe had looked dead on his feet this morning, as well. He’d sent Sander a slightly sunnier selfie about half an hour ago, though, so he’s probably fine. “Not very well, I imagine.”

She tilts her head. “You seem well enough.”

“Well, I wasn’t drinking,” Sander shrugs.

At this, her serene little smile returns and her nod seems approving, and even though Sander hadn’t been looking for it, he grudgingly admits that it feels good. “I know that can be a difficult choice, and I’d rarely be able to make it myself,” she laughs again. “It’s great that you feel strong and comfortable enough in that group to do your own thing.”

Sander can’t help a little snort. “Are you kidding? It was one of them that had me drinking mocktails.”

“Really?” Agathe grins.

“Yeah, but then he got kinda drunk, and the last couple he made me were just disgusting because he thought these awful mixtures would be a really good idea.”

She laughs gently. “Well, it seems like it’s not the worst. ‘He’ isn’t Robbe?”

Sander shakes his head. “No, but one of his friends.”

“And what about Robbe, then? How is he?”

“Good.” A soft smile steals over his face. “The best, as always.”

“Treating you well.”

Sander’s smile widens, and he raises his brows without saying anything.

Agathe points at him. “Not what I meant, and not what I need to know.”

“I thought we can talk about whatever I want in here,” Sander says innocently.

“Alright, then,” she acquiesces. “Tell me all about it.”

Sander blanches. He thinks about it, opens his mouth, and then thinks about it some more. Closes his mouth again.

Her smile is downright devious. “That’s what I thought.”

He huffs. “It’s very healthy, just so you know.”

“I am sure.”

“Explorative. Always consenting, of course. Frequent.”

“All very normal and well for teenage boys,” she nods, and it would be completely serious if Sander couldn’t see her eyes twinkling. She pauses. “Although, I can’t call you that anymore. How does it feel to be twenty?”

Sander narrows his eyes. “Nice change of subject.”

“Oh, if you had more to say, please continue. Just a thought that occurred to me, I don’t mean to steer you, you know that.”

He does know that, and it makes him pause, because. How does it feel to be twenty? He realises he hasn’t thought about it. He realises that’s probably a good thing—that he didn’t get stuck on his birthday this year, that it was something he just enjoyed. Maybe it was simply going to sleep next to Robbe that helped, but no anxiety had taken over at the end of the day.

Even after his conversation with Jens. It’s not the most prominent part of the day of Sander’s mind even now. Instead he finds himself tucking his hand into his pocket and grasping Robbe’s key, running his thumb over the already familiar ridges.

He hadn’t even been worrying about his major fuck-up with his assignment. He’s still not.

He’s not really giving himself the chance.

Should he be?

“It feels the same as being nineteen,” he says finally. “I didn’t become a different human in a day, sadly.”

He can see her latching on. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“‘Sadly’?”

“It’s just...a joke.”

“Okay. But why do you think it’s funny?”

It annoys him, because she’s not judgmental. She’s neither amused nor disappointed. Just curious, earnest, all focused and attentive as she gazes calmly, patiently at Sander. Even his attempt at throwing her off, making her awkward, hadn’t shaken her. She remains unfazed, as always. It’s annoying.

“I don’t,” he admits, “I guess. I don’t know what I’d consider it.”

Agathe nods, softening in her understanding, and it makes something twist in his chest. “Are you not happy with the human you are, Sander?”

He gives her a bland look. When she keeps waiting, he shrugs, gesturing at the room.

“I know,” she says gently, “that of course, you feel you would be happier without your illness. But who you are now—what you study, what you’re passionate about, who you surround yourself with, how you live your life day to day. Do you wish all of that was different?”

Sander doesn’t have to think about it quite as much. “No. But I—“

He cuts himself off, hesitating. She raises her brows and nods, prompting him onwards but not pushing. If he really wants to wait her out, she’ll move on.

“I just wish that it was easier,” he says.

She tilts her head. “Easier how?”

“I messed up. At college. I completely missed an assignment because I mixed up the dates with another one.”

She winces in sympathy. “And what happened in that case? Does that mean that assignment is marked as a fail?”

“No,” Sander admits. “He gave me the time I thought I’d have to do it. Marked it down as an extension. It’s due on Friday now.”

“And is it going alright?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t struggling with it too much?”

“No.”

“Then it seems like a fairly simple mistake. Easy to make and also, thankfully, easy to fix for you. It’s not unusual. But do you see it as an effect or consequence of your illness? Is that why it bothers you?”

Sander is quiet.

She sets her clipboard aside and leans forward, clasping her hands again as she considers him. “You have to remember, Sander, that all humans are not without fault. That regardless of who we are or what we may have to deal with, we will inevitably make mistakes. Not every slip up is a reflection of you, or a sign of failure, of failing health. You’ve actually been doing very well for a long time, now. But this belief, or this worry, that it is taking a hold of you again can sometimes help it take on that direction. Do you know what I mean?”

He takes a moment to absorb the words before nodding, knowing that if he answers too quickly she won’t believe he’s listening. But he does know. He understands. He hates that she’s probably right.

“So in a situation like this,” she continues, “do you not think, that it is more beneficial for you to focus on correcting your mistake and the fact that you have that ability? Not only mentally, but overall. That your professor is so understanding must mean he thinks well of you.”

He shouldn’t ask. He does anyway, quietly. “You don’t think it’s just pity, or something?”

“No,” she huffs. “No, I do not. Did he give you the impression that that was why he was doing it?”

Sander rolls his shoulders, adjusting his position. “No.”

Her smile returns. “I think,” she says slowly, “that this all shows just how well you’re doing. That you can acknowledge your doubts are likely just that—doubts—and that you take responsibility when you mess up and try to rectify it. Do you not think those are all good things? Things just as healthy as your sex life?”

It shocks a laugh out of him, and he sees her eyes crinkle. “Maybe,” he allows. “But it really is very healthy. I don’t know if anything else should be forced to live up to the standard.”

She represses a smile. “I remember there was a time when you would never have even spoken about this in such a kind way.”

She’s right. It still freaks him out, sometimes, the hypersexuality that can be induced by his mania, and it even made him hold back from Robbe after his episode, at the beginning. The last thing he wanted was to freak Robbe out, or disgust him, or make him uncomfortable. Then Robbe had seemed downtrodden for about a week before hesitantly asking Sander if he’d done something wrong or if Sander wasn’t actually attracted to him, and Sander had corrected his doubts and behaviour fairly quickly, because how dare the most beautiful boy in the universe think that?

“How do you feel you’re doing, Sander?” Agathe asks. “Because although I can observe, only you can feel what you feel. If you are genuinely worried, we can talk about it.”

“No,” Sander admits, after a moment. “I think everything is okay, actually.” Which is the best it can ever be, really.

Now her smile is genuinely happy. “I think so, too. And I think, even if it comes about that it’s not, you have a better support than ever. Do you agree?”

That one’s easy. “Yes.”

“It’s important to remember,” she adds, “maybe more than anything else, that if a lapse or an episode or whatever does occur, it’s not the end of the world. It’s also not a reflection of you, or a failure. Bad days, bad weeks, that’s all a part of life, and something we know you’re more than capable of dealing with and getting past. I’ve watched you do it many times before now and it’s an admirable, wonderful thing.”

Sander doesn’t actually know what to say to that. He just swallows, and feels oddly emotional, and offers her a slight nod.

The rest of the session passes in a lighter atmosphere. She lets him ramble about his assignment to alleviate what stress he does feel over it, and they spend the leftover minutes discussing his party.

Sander considers talking to her about the other thing on his mind, but ultimately decides against it. She’s already taught him how to work through that, and he really doesn’t think it will help to be putting it back into open air. Instead he leaves with a fairly upbeat farewell, and heads in the opposite direction from home.

Robbe had texted him about where he was meeting with Yasmina for a study session, and it takes Sander less than ten minutes of walking to get to the small cafe from his appointment. He sees the two of them as soon as he enters, but neither of them notice him, so he moves to the counter to buy himself a coffee before making his way over.

He’s a couple of feet away when Yasmina catches sight of him and offers her bright smile, and then Robbe is looking over his shoulder.

“Hello,” Sander greets them both, grinning as he cups Robbe’s cheek and leans down to kiss the crown of his head. “I can see we’re very busy.”

Robbe has his hand wrapped around Sander’s wrist, preventing him from pulling away. He turns his head and presses a sweet kiss to Sander’s palm, nuzzling lightly against it. Sander lets his fingers slip over and tug gently on the boy’s earring before Robbe tangles their hands together and offers Sander his crinkly smile. “Hi.”

“Not anymore, I guess,” Yasmina says dryly, but she’s still grinning when Sander glances back at her.

He raises his hands; well, his free one. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” He hadn’t, really, he’d just wanted to be here when they were done to take Robbe home. He always likes being in the other boy’s company after a therapy session. Despite them not being quite so heavy at the moment, it’s always draining. Robbe is always able to replenish him with soft touches and soothing kisses, providing Sander with a silent, comforting company.

“Don’t be silly,” Robbe rebukes, predictably, swinging Sander’s hand idly now. “How are you?”

Sander squeezes his hand. “Good. I’m surprised you look so healthy, though.”

Robbe groans and buries his face against Sander’s arm. “Don’t. I’m suffering in silence.” He tilts his head ‘subtly’ at Yasmina.

Yasmina raises her brows at him, somehow managing to look wholly unimpressed and teasing all at once. “At least you can stave it off with sugar and coffee.”

Robbe has the sense to look sheepish, ducking his head in a nod. “You’re right, sorry, sorry.” He lets out a sigh. “You’re on too high of a level for me, Yasmina.”

“Queen shit,” Sander agrees, just to earn one of the girl’s unimpressed glances for himself. “Should I run now?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just sit down and drink your coffee. And keep your hands to yourself, if you can manage it? I still need my study partner, thank you.”

Sander grins and obeys, swinging a seat from the next table around to join them, dropping into it happily. He doesn’t place it as close to Robbe’s as he’d like, but Robbe leans into him for a moment anyway before refocusing his attention on his friend.

For the first while, Sander is content to listen and sip his coffee, feeling tiredness begin to creep into his bones. He lets his head loll against his own shoulder, trailing his eyes over Robbe’s profile and drifting into a sort of daydream. He can see the boy’s lips moving, but he has no idea what either of them are saying. They only let out the occasional comment, trading questions and answers and sighs and mutters. Robbe’s eyes are still red and a little puffy, a sign of his lingering exhaustion. He rubs at them absently as he looks down at his book and lets out another sigh, and leaves an eyelash on his cheek.

Sander reaches out and gently swipes it away with his thumb, an entirely mindless action that has Robbe looking at him in surprise before breaking out into a smile. He catches Sander’s hand before Sander can withdraw it completely, laying it on the table next to him. Instead of holding it, Robbe runs his hand along Sander’s sleeve, rubbing the soft seam between his fingers as he continues his work.

For some reason, it makes Sander blush. He’s sure his smile is unbearably happy, and he flicks a glance at Yasmina just to make sure she doesn’t know, only to catch her eye. She’s already smiling at him, and she purses her lips and raises her brows, teasing. Sander pulls a face at her, and she simply shakes her head as her smile widens.

“Can you work on your assignment while you’re waiting for us?” Robbe questions suddenly, drawing Sander’s attention back with a tilt of his head.

Sander glances at his bag, which he’s carried with him all day since he had to go straight to his session from a class. He considers for a moment but ultimately shakes his head. With yesterday being an exception, he usually prefers working at night—and when it’s not cutting into time he could otherwise spend admiring Robbe. “I’ll work on it when I go home,” he promises. Then, because he can’t help himself, “You’re too distracting.”

Robbe’s grin is small, and exasperated, but he yearns towards Sander, leaning across the table. Sander meets him and presses a quick kiss to his lips, then his nose, his cheek, before resolutely sitting back and waving at the textbooks and notes strewn in front of them. Robbe’s grin turns into a pout for half a second before he squeezes Sander’s wrist and focuses again.

Sander sinks back with a sigh, enjoying the feeling of Robbe’s fingers brushing against his wrist and skimming his hand, but he doesn’t feel quite as settled. There’s a prickle skittering over his neck, and he looks to his side and finds a woman staring at him.

Her nose is screwed, and there’s a vague curl to her lip. The disgust in her expression only heightens as Sander meets her eye and she flicks her gaze down to where Robbe’s hand rests over his. Sander can only stare back, dumbfounded.

When she looks at his face again, he raises his brows, as utterly bored as he can manage, and it only takes a moment for her to look away and get out of her seat across the cafe.

Sander tenses as she gets closer, hand enclosing around Robbe’s entirely, but she merely offers him another look before leaving. He deflates, squeezing Robbe’s fingers. It’s only when Robbe squeezes back that he panics again and quickly looks at the boy. But Robbe is in the middle of asking Yasmina a question, neither of them having noticed a thing.

“I meant to wish you a happy birthday,” Yasmina says, breaking him out of the moment. His mind has fogged over, and it takes him a moment to process the words. By then, she’s already moving on. “How was the party, anyway?”

Robbe and Sander share a look, and Yasmina waits. “Jens hardly said a word to me the whole day,” Robbe tells Sander, but he seems more amused than upset, so Sander allows himself to laugh.

“You didn’t tell him we didn’t actually do anything?”

“I did!” Robbe raises his hands. “He didn’t believe me.”

“What, what did you do to Jens?” Yasmina asks, confused. Then, after a second, “You know what, no, I probably don’t want to know.”

She cringes, and Robbe apologises profusely as Sander bursts into laughter, the weird incident from moments ago already forgotten.

Totally forgotten.

~^~

previous/next

#wtfock #sobbe #rosander #robbe x sander #sander driesen #sander season #tracing time #had to have yasmina in here at some stage!

45 notes · View notes

littleoddwriter · 3 years

Text

Better Than Being Dead | Roman Sionis x Victor Zsasz | ZsaszMask

Frankly, I have no idea why I suddenly wanted to write this. But, uh, this is just me heavily projecting my Contamination OCD on Roman, because he has it (bc I say so) and- yeah.

summary; Roman has Contamination OCD (but he doesn’t know) and does some pretty irrational and awful things because of it. Victor is there for him.

notes; Contamination OCD; Vomiting; Holding one’s breath; Spitting; Washing one’s hands and body until one is bleeding; (mild) Past Child Abuse and Ableism; Anxiety; Crying; Hurt/Comfort.

Holding his breath, he waited until these people have passed him and then a few moments longer than that, just to be absolutely sure. Then, he released the breath he was holding, air rushing back into his lungs as he inhaled sharply. He was feeling a little dizzy, but it was alright. It was better than being dead. And he would have died for sure if he had breathed the same air as these people. They were dirty and sick and if he had inhaled when they’d walked past him, he would have contracted their illness and died. That was pure logic.

So, why was it that nobody around him understood him? Why did everyone mock him or yell at him? Why did everyone say he was sick in the head? He wasn’t the sick one – they were!

Roman’s father looked at him with open disgust and snarled, “Do you have to let everyone know that you’re crazy? It’s embarrassing.”

All he could do was shake his head and look at his feet. He couldn’t talk. There was so much spit in his mouth and he knew that if he opened it all his saliva would flood out, and then his father would be so much angrier with him. He couldn’t possibly swallow it. It was dirty. It would make him sick and then he would die.

So, when he finally had a moment to himself in the bathroom, he quickly looked around to make sure and then spit out all the saliva that had gathered in his mouth into the sink. He washed his hands and then his mouth. Twice. It wasn’t enough by any means, but it would have to do until he could finally go home and wash himself thoroughly.

When he got into the shower, he spent all his energy on scrubbing himself clean. His skin was red and irritated from the hot water. Some spots were even bleeding when he climbed back out of the shower because he had scrubbed them so much. It was painful, but it was better than being dead.

Those were the things he’d done when he’d been eight years old.

Now, at age forty-six, he hasn’t really changed at all.

The only thing he’s stopped doing a long time ago was to hold his breath whenever people walked past him. It wasn’t that he suddenly realised that it was unnecessary, but because he was put into more and more situations in which strangers were all around him. So, unless he had wanted to die from the lack of oxygen, he forced himself to endure it and breathe shallowly instead.

Nonetheless, over the years he started to wash his hands more and more, until he bled constantly and his skin was raw, rough and broken. That was up to the day he started wearing gloves at all times. They have somewhat become his trademark, along with his flashy looks, and he liked that no one ever questioned just why he was never to be seen without a pair of leather gloves with his initials embroidered on the back. They all just took it as another quirk he displayed.

It was better and easier if no one knew the truth. Well, no one but his right-hand man and partner Victor Zsasz; but he would never tell a soul, so it wasn’t a problem for him to know.

Of course, Roman often wondered why he was like this; why he had these thoughts and urges, these compulsions. There was no life before them either. He had done these irrational things, due to his anxieties ever since he’d been three or four years old. And at first he hadn’t seen anything wrong with it, but his father sure had. That was how he realised that what he’d been doing wasn’t normal at all.

Roman Beauvais Sionis was the odd one out. Of course he was. He always has been.

Nowadays it didn’t bother him so much anymore. He’s found his people and his purpose. He would own Gotham soon enough and then he wasn’t going to be the outsider anymore; not by any means, no.

Unfortunately, none of that changed the fact that he was currently bent over his toilet, dry heaving, after he’s stuck his own finger in the back of his throat to make himself vomit. It was utterly disgusting and depraved. He hated himself for it. He couldn’t help it. He had tried – of course he had – but to no avail.

The little killing he’s had Victor do for him, has left him with a blood spatter on his cheek. It had run down his face. He was contaminated. He was going to be sick and die.

So, as soon as he got upstairs, he spit out all the accumulated saliva in his mouth into the sink, got undressed and showered, washing himself thoroughly and spitting in the drain every few minutes. He couldn’t swallow it. It was still contaminated. He had scrubbed his face until he was free of the stranger’s blood and instead soiled by his own.

All the while, his mind was screaming at him to purge himself. He might have gotten some of the blood in his system, after all. He felt so sick to his stomach. It was in his throat. He needed to get rid of it.

And so he did.

It was one of the worst things he’s ever done because of these fears, but it was better than being dead.

Afterwards Roman was still shaken up. He sat on his chaise longue with his feet tucked up and a Martini in his hand, waiting for Victor to return from cleaning up the scene with his other men and tallying up the kills.

Skin tone-coloured band-aids were stuck on his face now, making him feel ugly and reminding him of exactly what he’s just done. In a way, he couldn’t make himself care enough, though. He couldn’t be enraged about it. He was too exhausted.

Finally, after what felt like forever, his partner returned to him. By now, Roman didn’t even have to say anything anymore, as Victor immediately walked into the bathroom and cleaned himself up first. Only when he was truly clean, was he allowed to touch Sionis at all.

Anxiously, he waited for Zsasz to enter the living area and actually come to him. He needed him so much and he hated that he did.

“Roman?” Victor asked quietly, standing in front of him now, hovering.

Quickly, Roman put down his empty glass and stretched his arms out to Zsasz with tears shining in his eyes. Without any sort of hesitation, Victor’s arms wrapped around him as he sat down next to Roman and cradled him. Roman’s head was tucked away safely between Victor’s head, his chest and his arms. Zsasz’s hands soothingly rubbed over his back and he murmured quiet reassurances to him, but Sionis barely registered them at all.

Then, he started crying. Violent sobs ripped through his body as he convulsed, screaming into his partner’s chest, crying out in anguish. It went on for so long, perhaps half an hour, but probably longer. When he calmed down a little, eventually, his face stayed buried in Victor’s chest. He couldn’t look him in the eyes just yet. It may not have been the worst moment Zsasz has ever witnessed of him, but it felt as thought it was his most vulnerable. He hated it.

“I’ve got you, boss. It’s okay, I promise,” Victor kept murmuring into his hair, where he’s been nuzzling him this entire time.

“I just want to stop feeling this way. I want to quit doing these things to myself. But I don’t know how, Victor,” Roman choked out, his voice raw and abused from crying and making himself throw up beforehand.

“We’ll figure it out, Roman. Huh? I’ve got you. You’re not alone with this,” Zsasz spoke calmly, continuing to rub Roman’s back gently.

“’Kay. You’re right. I trust you, baby,” he admitted quietly, tightening his grip around Victor’s waist momentarily.

That was that, then. He wasn’t alone. He had Victor, who was so dedicated to protecting and caring for him, by his side. With that in mind, a small smile fought its way to his lips. He could do this. He could endure it. Zsasz wouldn’t leave him alone with it.

Then, Roman was so exhausted that he finally found some peace as he fell asleep in Victor’s arms soon after.

#contamination ocd #vomiting tw #cw vomit #roman sionis #roman sionis fanfiction #victor zsasz #victor zsasz fanfiction #zsaszmask #zsaszmask fanfic #mlm ship #mlm fiction #mlm fanfic

16 notes · View notes

everlastingdreams · 3 years

Text

Weeping Monk x Reader : Playing With Fire chapter 25

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Story Summary: The Huntsman, that is what they called your brother. A name he had earned by hunting down the fey for coin. Coin that is given by Father Carden for his services. You refuse to stand aside and watch how your brother hunts down those who are fey. When you start to warn the fey camps your brother wishes to attack, you find yourself behind enemy lines. But when the Weeping Monk becomes suspicious of you, you realise you are playing with fire.

Chapter Summary: Nyra guides the three of you to your new home. When she speaks to you in private she mentions something that you also worry about.

Notes: Imma post chapter 26 as well. Let me know what you think, please. ^.^

Warnings: None in this one.

Word count: 1495 words in this chapter.

Chapter: 25/ 34+ something (plus extra chapter to come)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The people stared when the three of you walked into the town. The place looked like a village. It looked far better then Mirstone even. All homes were made of stone, some houses were larger then others. It was very diverse. Your eyes went wide when you walked past, what looked like, a pub.

Everyone seemed to be going around doing their normal daily business. This place was untouched by the horrors beyond the rocks. "The houses were here when we arrived. We only restored them a little." Nyra explained "Fey have been living here for centuries. The forest around this place provides us with the means to survive, we even have a river. And the rock formations go around this place, the tunnels are the only entrance.

You had wanted to forget about what you had seen in the tunnels, you still didn't truly understand what you had been through “Nyra, those tunnels, they protect the fey ?”

Nyra stopped in her tracks to look at you, she must have heared that your voice had shaken a little. A second later she looked apologetic “Our kind is safe in those tunnels, but to man-bloods...”

Lancelot and Percival were listening too, none of you had understood what had happened to you.

“What happens to those who aren't fey ?” Lancelot's eyes darted to you for a moment.

Nyra seemed reluctant to answer “The tunnels are there to protect us, but at a cost. Those who are not fey and wander into the tunnels perish if we do not find them quickly.”

Lancelot watched your expression change to a horrified one “The tunnels kill them ?”

Nyra nodded in silence “The tunnels...they sense guilt, fear, pain. They use it against man-bloods, making them go insane. Only those guided by fey are able to pass through them. We found out the hard way when we first came here, we had man-bloods with us, half of them disappeared in the tunnels. We had found five of them hallucinating, and three of them were busy clawing their own eyes out.

You gasped for air, remembering how lost you had felt, how afraid you had been. You took a couple of steps, turning away from them as you hugged your chest. The tunnels had fed on your worst nightmares and memories to drive you insane. You took a couple of deep breaths to calm youself down.

Lancelot watched as you distanced yourself from them to compose yourself. He had no idea what you had seen in those tunnels, but know he was certain that it was nothing good. Percival looked up to him and he nodded to the boy and then tilted his head in your direction.

Percival understood the silent communication and went up to you. The boy was hugging you before you even realised he was next to you.

Nyra send a sorrowful look at Lancelot “She was affected, wasn't she ?”

He gave a nod and watched as the boy consoled you to the best of his abilities “She was hallucinating when we found her.”

“It's a miracle she isn't still hallucinating now, how did it stop ?” She asked him, knowing that he was unaware that she already knew how the hold of the tunnels can be broken.

He averted his eyes from her and watched as you and the boy approached again “I don't really know. She came to her senses not long after she took my hand.”

He left out he part where you had hugged him, had clinged onto him for dear life.

Nyra hummed and then you and the boy joined them again.

Lancelot was looking at you, knowing that you could have died in those tunnels in such a horrifying way made him feel sick.

Nyra beckoned for you to follow again and the three of you, and Goliath, continued to walk. She finally stopped near a house, it was bigger then your tiny home in Mirstone “This one's yours. It has only two bedchambers I'm afraid. But I'm sure you'll figure it out.”

Her eyes had flickered between you and Lancelot for a second and you sighed, why did everyone assume there was something going on between you and him ? This was getting ridiculous.

Lancelot's eyes snapped to the ground when he had seen Nyra look at you and him like that.

You cleared your throat, wanting to break the silence “Thank you, Nyra. This is very kind of you.”

She smiled and gave a nod “Most of us would not be alive if you hadn't helped us. It's the least we can do for you. I do have to tell you that in this village we must all participate to care for the village. I expect you to come see me everday for a chore to be done. The boy will be expected in the building with the large door over there.”

Nyra pointed to a building nearby “The children must still be taught how to read and write properly. And he'll get to be around people his age.”

You and Lancelot nodded in agreement, it were fair terms.

“Sounds good.” You were grateful that the boy would get a chance for a normal life and education.

“No, it doesn't !” Percival sounded appalled at the idea of having to learn in a room filled with other children.

Lancelot nudged the boy's shoulder, before speaking to Nyra “He'll be there. Thank you. For everything.

The boy cussed under his breath.

You took a step in the direction of the house, curious what it would look like inside when a sharp pain went through your abdomen. You had almost forgotten about the bruises and you buckled over, clutching your stomach.

Their attention shot to you right away, the boy ran up to to support you.

“You're hurt.” Nyra concluded “You should go to the infirmary, let our healer see if they can help.”

You stubbornly shook you're head “It's just bruises. He's hurt far worse then I am.”

Nyra watched as you gestured in Lancelot's direction “I fear our healer will not want to help him, y/n. But they will help you.”

Lancelot saw how you were being stubborn about this and he tried to persuade you “Go with Nyra to the infirmary, y/n. I will be alright. You've already helped me, let them help you now.”

He breathed in relief when you nodded and Nyra walked you in the direction of the infirmary.

OoooOOOoooOOOoOOoOOOooOooOO

Nyra started to speak to you when Lancelot and Percival were out of sight as you walked with her to the infirmary.

"I can't believe that you would actually defend the Weeping Monk. I thought you hated him." A look of disbelieve plastered on Nyra's face as she looked at you.

"Yeah, well. If you had told me that a while ago I wouldn't have believed it either." You snorted.

"Even though your brother was the Huntsman, the fey still accept you after everything you have done for us. But him ? I am not sure they will ever accept him." She sounded as worried as you were about it.

You knew you would have to defend him and explain why he was valuable to the fey "The fey need him. He is an incredible fighter, but he is smart as well. He knows how the paladins work and what information they have on your kind. Your enemy's bravest warrior has abandoned them to help his kind."

"What makes you so certain he will not abandon us as well ?" Nyra looked at you intensly.

It was something you had not considered yet, Lancelot could always leave if he wanted to. A pit formed in your stomach at the thought and doubt formed inside of it but you could not show that to her "He won't."

She looked at you a moment longer before she drew a deep breath "There is truth in your words. He is famous for his... skill. Do you trust him ?"

"I find myself trusting him. And I trust that he has no bad intentions towards you or your people." At least that you believed. But you were still getting to know the man who was once the Weeping Monk, you were not sure if he would not just disappear one day. That he would just leave and not come back. You knew he didn't want to harm someone, but that didn't mean that he would actually stick around. He was struggling with his fey heritage and this might just become too much for him one day.

He was raised around man-blood, not fey kind.

Nyra stopped you in front of a small house “I hope you're right. Here lives our healer.”

She gestured to the door and knocked. Soon the door was opened and you were greated by an older man with a big beard.

Nyra gave him a quick explanation before leaving you alone with the healer.

Taglist:

@itsjustjenna @ourlazydetectivekitten @the-great-adventures-of-me @linkpk88 @mixedchicaq @boredoomfm @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks @slytherlight @beananacake @lancelotapricot @captainbucky-yt�� @crystallizedtime @thesneakylittleminx @moonlightaura03 @oh--its-just-me @gracelongstreth

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist.

#weeping monk x reader #weeping monk x you #lancelot x you #lancelot x reader #cursed #the weeping monk #weeping monk fanfiction #weeping monk fanfic #weeping monk fic #cursed lancelot #cursed squirrel #cursed percival #percival #fanfic

82 notes · View notes

cowboisadness · 3 years

Text

Found You {Arthur Morgan x F!reader}

Summery: She was there for Arthur through everything, being more than good friends but less than partners. They support eachother through the good and bad times, it’s not love tho, no, it’s not love at all.

Rating: M. Basically porn with plot. More plot than i planned i really got carried away with this. I’m mean to Mary i’m sorry. Includes angst, heartbreak and all that painful shit.

—–

Chapter 2 - Lost

He's piss drunk, I can smell it in the air and he's nursing an almost empty bottle of aged pirate rum. The strong stuff. He doesn't say a word as I sit beside him, not too close to invade his space, just far enough for him to know I'm here if he needs me.

I've never seen him this broken, his eyes puffy and unable to concentrate on anything around him. He tries, tries to concentrate on the flames ahead of him, they illuminate his face in a bright orange hue, dancing across his saddened features. I want nothing more than to embrace him at that moment, hold him tight and tell him he's going to be okay, that it's going to be better, that the pain will diminish with time, that I will be here for him through it all.

He lets out a shaken sigh as he takes in a breath, not looking to me before he speaks.

“She doesn't want me no more.” It’s barely above a whisper and I can't tell if he's saying it to me or himself. My body is screaming, my heart aching, remembering the promise I made to myself almost two years ago when we first started getting closer, that I would do everything in my power to protect him from any suffering. I instinctively moved towards him with haste, pulling him close and enveloping him in my arms. At first, I thought he would refuse and push me away but he didn’t, he leaned into my embrace, accepting the blanket of support I could give him, that I always gave him.

He hadn't eaten or drank properly for days, and after much persistence from him, I finally got him to eat something, saying I wasn't going to stop until he did. Urging him to drink my water instead of booze, knowing he would thank me tomorrow. When exhaustion finally took over, we retired into his tent, holding each other close but not going further than that. Fucking was how we used to manage our emotions, but this situation demanded something more delicate, I just hoped being here would help him. As he quickly fell into what I hoped would be a peaceful sleep, I tightened my grip around his waist and whispered: “You don't know what you mean to me.”

He wouldn't come back with me the next morning, saying he needed a few more days and promised to return soon. He did of course, then resuming to get back to business with jobs and helping the camp, seemingly pushing his feelings to the bottom of his heart and into the depths of his brain.

He seemed to get better over the months, us both flinging ourselves into jobs and robberies. It was almost like the good old days, his spark was back, he wasn't hurting or worrying anymore.

That was until he received a letter from a woman I never heard of, telling him of his son he now has. He explained it all to me, how he had met a beautiful young waitress on the night I had left him. He said he wasn't thinking straight, that his emotions made him confused, the alcohol making him desperate to feel something other than the pain.

He tried his best to be there for them when he could, sending money and visiting every couple of months. He would tell me how Isaac was doing, that he taught him how to fish and planned on teaching him to ride when he was a bit older. He was proud of his son but it pained him that he couldn't do more for them, the gang always had to come first. I was there for all the stories and even helped him choose gifts for Isaacs birthdays, giving whatever advice I could give on raising a child, not that I knew much. After a few years disaster struck, Eliza and Isaac were murdered for the little money that they owned. Arthur didn't know till he saw the two crosses by the cabin, their names etched into the dark wood. I thought he was broken when Mary left him, but this, losing something so pure and innocent, it ruined him. He changed dramatically, keeping to himself, closing himself off to everyone else. No matter how much I tried to get him to open up he would dismiss me with harsh words, no longer willing to accept mine or anyone else's support. I refused to break the promise I made to myself years ago and whether he knew it or not, I'd still support and look out for him whenever I could, even though it would be at a distance. Dutch and Hosea tried to help, they knew the pain of losing a loved one. Hosea suffered the most after Bessie passed, he turned to the bottle for a full year, losing himself and almost his mind. The ever-loving father figure didn't want the same to happen to someone he saw as his son. The five of us, including John and Tilly, would talk about his decline, how he seemed to close off his heart and become cold. We tried to distract him, help him to forget or cope in ways that would stop him becoming the shell of the man he once was.

The gang had grown a great deal within a couple of years. You would believe having a supportive family around you would assist in not feeling alone and prevent you from hitting rock-bottom. But when someone relentlessly denies any and all support from those around them, they can't be helped. Not until they realise they need it. I lost the Arthur I fell for years ago - No - I don't have those sort of feelings for him, never have.

Over the next few years the gang ran into the worst trouble we have ever gotten ourselves into, we had to flee into the harsh mountains and leave the west behind us before heading back down south when it was safer. We lost people, good people, lost a lot of money and supplies, basically starting from scratch once we made camp in Horseshoe Overlook, hiding from the law, large bounties over a few of our heads.

It was here Arthur received a letter from Mary asking for help. It brought back many hard memories for Arthur, unearthing his old emotions from the depths. He bent to her will of course, but after he visited her to help with whatever she wanted he found nothing would become of them again, a small part of him hoped there was a chance.

He was suffering again, confused again.

Mary was using him, using his still evident feelings for her to her advantage. Did she know how this was affecting him? Did she care? Seeing him being drawn back to her despite knowing it wouldn't work out, well, it enraged me, more than it probably should have. He had pushed me away not long after the loss of Eliza and Isaac, no longer was I able to be the one he could confide in but by God, I wasn't going to stand on the sidelines and watch him get hurt by her again.

I loved him too much to see that happen. I made a promise.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x fem #arthur moragn x reader #arthur morgan fic #fan fic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #im mean to mary im sorry

40 notes · View notes

angeli-marco-writes · 4 years

Text

Charlie Weasley - Secret

A/N - This is my first imagine thing uploaded on Tumblr, and I’m uploading the smutty version of this story on this platform before posting the more PG version to my wattpad collection. Check it out: angeli-marco. Also this somehow became a Gryffindor reader kinda thing, it’s just what works but imagine you’re not in Gryffindor if you fancy.

Warnings - smut, rough sex, choking, kinky, all that jazz. Starting this blog off with a bang, literally. 6k words of p*rn with plot.

Summary - you have a secret regarding the dragon taming Weasley. The only issue is that he sees you as the child you were a few years ago. When you become legal, he seems to seek you out wherever you are. Maybe he has a secret, too.

YOU HAD A SECRET, a secret that no one beside yourself and your best friend knew, not that you’d readily admit to anyone that for your first three years at Hogwarts, you’d had a crush on none other than Charlie Weasley. Now, beginning your seventh year, having not seen him in three years, you’re surprised to find that your crush still lingers.

You’ve kept the notes that he wrote you, since the pair of you were actually quite close, Charlie tucking you under his wing once he found out your love of magical creatures. He nurtured your passion for the outdoors from the start of your second year. He sent notes, would help you access the forest, and he’d show you drawings of all these magical creatures that he wanted tattooed once he was older. He was the best.

All of these thoughts catch up to you while you’re lying in your tent, eyes closed and dreams clouding your vision, willing you to sleep. Until you hear yells.

Screams come from outside, howls and wails, yells for help and sacrifice. Not the kind of happy bellows that you’d expect after the World Cup Quidditch match. And then all of a sudden, moonlight beams in through the canvas of your one-man luxury tent and illuminates shadows you haven’t seen before, making you dwell in eeriness.

A head pops into your tent, followed by a voice, one that’s so familiar it makes your stomach ache and the hairs on your arm stand on edge.

“Whoever’s in here, you need to go! Get to safety, now!”

Charlie. As clear as day.

“I’m coming, what’s happening?” You call back, voice shaky while you try to stand up, legs nearly bowing and giving way beneath you.

“Death Eaters. Wait, Y/N?”

He recognises you from your voice. Your body feels electrified already. Not the right time, you scold yourself, but you can’t help feeling a little pride that he still remembers you.

“It’s me, Charlie, I’ll come to fight with you.”

You hear him stutter from outside, but within seconds, he’s raced across the expanse of your tent and has his arm wrapped around your waist.

“You’re too young,” he insists, but you just pull your wand out and look at him.

His blue eyes twinkle, even in a moment like this, and you feel as though he’s boring into your soul, which in all fairness you wouldn’t say no to.

You sigh, “I’m of age and I’m here alone, don’t think I’m not coming, Dragon Boy.”

He smirks at the nickname you gave him so many years ago, but smiles and brings you outside, still gripping onto you in any way he can.

You run to the centre of the outbreak. Men in masks levitating helpless muggles , the Ministry and other helpers already failing at bringing them down. It’s worse than you could’ve imagined. Charlie pulls you behind him, gripping your wrist with a determination, a protectiveness, one that he still had back in the day. Though it’s not the time, you feel your stomach flutter, even letting out a giggle at his gesture mere seconds before running out from behind him.

You proceed to run into the centre of the action, Charlie not far behind, calling out your name in the most desperate way you’ve heard him speak.

What he doesn’t realise is how much you’ve grown over the past few years. You’ve become trained in combat, mostly thanks to Professor Lupin, and you’re really bloody good at it. You have virtually every possible spell in your arsenal, ones that many ministry members mayn’t even know, all thanks to Lupin again who gave you one on one lessons and prepared you for anything. Not to mention that you play Quidditch for your house team, something that you always admired Charlie for, but now you’re extremely agile, ready for almost anything, and prepared to fight.

What you see is pure injustice, people being persecuted for their blood, all for a sick game. You’re a little scared, that’s a given, but you know it isn’t right, so aim a stunning spell straight at the chest of the tallest man in a mask. Non verbally, so he doesn’t see you coming. He falls to up the ground, wand discarded, a wand which you happily take and slot into your pocket. Your thought process is that you’ll take the men down one by one, maybe with a little help since you are only a 17 year old girl, while the weak ass ministry workers try what’s best for their image.

And really, that’s the way it goes. A good while later, when you’ve participated in a couple of duels, ended up flat on your arse in front of everyone, with a cut on your cheek and anger roaring in your blood, only then do you get a rest.

Charlie and his brother helped duel the masked men, taking them down, while the Ministry brought the muggles down to their Rightful Place and proceeded to wipe their memories. Horrible ordeal, all done incorrectly for press, especially since every single man got away, at least that’s what you counted. You tuck your wand away in your pyjamas. Certainly not the right clothes you wanted to be wearing when meeting Charlie again, but so be it.

You sit on the floor, looking up at the stars and hollow moon, really hungry and a little shaken up. You have a cold compress on your face, well, a tissue that you used an aguamenti charm to dampen and proceeded to lay it over your pounding forehead, throbbing eyes and bruising cut.

“Let me help you with that,” Charlie says, coming to sit beside you. You didn’t hear him approaching, so his sudden presence takes you by surprise. Surprise that evaporates the second he lays his hand on your thigh.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you quip, nudging his shoulder, “didn’t think you’d recognise me.”

It’s true, you really didn’t. You would’ve thought that you’d have to prove your identity with the notes he wrote you and by inside jokes you ice had, but he recognised you solely by your voice, very rare. You’ve changed a lot since your third year, growing taller, filling out, gaining a very desirable figure and you changed your style completely, including a complete makeover of your hair, and a nose piercing.

“How could I not? You still sound the same as ever.”

Once again, true. No matter what other hormonal and physical changes you’ve endured, not one of them included losing the babyish feature that your voice held, constantly making you sound like you’re dosed up on a little helium.

“And, you’re still as cute, but very... um...”

Wow. You have Charlie speechless, what a rarity. He has two modes, silent, or never shutting up, and the latter usually only comes when he’s with friends.

“Grown up?” You offer, turning to face him with a small smirk painted on your lips.

He chuckles, a low rumbling sound from the bottom of his throat while his eyes tiresomely yank themselves away from your best features, “yeah, you could say that.”

He brings an arm around your waist, shuffling along the ground to sit beside you, and then a warm hand encloses over your own, the one holding the bloody cloth to your face. Slowly, he takes the cloth away and replaces its positioning with rough, calloused fingers, tracing the outline of your cut.

“Tergeo,” Charlie murmurs, and he watches all the blood and debris disappear from your face, leaving a clean cut.

You stare into his eyes, feeling the same thing of fireflies in your bloodstream as you did when he looked into your eyes when you were all but a child. It’s illuminating, he makes you feel seen, he makes you feel special. He edges forwards, and forwards, until your breath mingles together...

“Try this!” He exclaims with a fake enthusiasm, jolting his head away from your own and clearing his throat with as much subtlety as a Hebridean black.

Charlie withdraws a small, battered tin from his pocket, placing it shakily into your open palm.

“I use it all the time on the sanctuary,” he opens the tin, places one finger inside, and swipes a cooling, vanilla scented balm over your cut.

You wince, involuntary flinching away from him, but your hand grips his string thigh. He contracts and calms beneath your touch as he rubs the balm over your cut, and you can almost feel it recovering.

“As good as new,”

Charlie brushes his lips against your forehead, the way he used to do, it ignites something special in you both this time.

He hesitates. “You’re still at school, aren’t you?” You nod, tucking your hair behind both ears, smiling up at him shyly. “I’ll see you sooner than you expect, I promise, but I have to be with my family now.”

Bemusement flashes over your face, but instead of questioning it and ruining the mystery, you just settle for a smile. Slotting your palm in his, Charlie steadies you to your feet and swiftly pulls you flush against him.

“You look so beautiful, Y/N, so grown up. I miss you.”

His voice cracks, neediness clear in his deep, dulcet tones. He wraps his arms around your almost bare shoulders, allowing yours to fall around his waist. He’s grown impossibly taller, gained even more muscle, and his heart has most definitely swelled in his absence.

“I miss you too,” you murmur against his chest, the words getting lost within his chest, the warmth of his skin on your face through a tear in his shirt. You could quite happily stay in his arms all day, all night and never get tired.

Soon, though, he withdraws and holds you at arms length, observing every blemish on your face and the way your eyelashes curl and the way your lips quirk into a smile at the mere thought of him. You want him to wander further, for his eyes to follow down your body, the way your bust is accentuated in your scrappy pyjama top, and the way your 3/4 leg pyjama bottoms fall low on your hip and stay snug around you with no effort at all; but he stays with his eyes fixed on yours.

“Stay safe.”

And with a kiss, the brush of his stubble on your cheek, he’s gone and you’re left to wonder if him being beside you tonight was just a dream.

-x-

It’s been months since you saw Charlie last, despite his promise that he’d see you sooner than anticipated. You, however, had expected to see him there as a new teacher on September 1st, but your wish didn’t come true.

Your first two months at school weren’t too bad: a decent DADA teacher (nothing on Lupin though), no escaped prisoners, no escaped trolls or petrified students, and you could safely say that it was the most normal year you’d had so far at Hogwarts, at least since Harry Potter started.

That basic joy and normality evaporated with the announcement of the tournament, which you most unequivocally would not enter under any circumstances, so you stayed out of the way ever since. You couldn’t be arsed with the other schools, nor all the gossip about the tasks, and you instead continued to busy yourself with your nightly creature endeavours. You’d walk to all your favourite spots where unicorns, nifflers, bowtruckles and more stayed, but not once did you bump into Charlie.

You began to feel defeated, lost, like you wouldn’t see him again and he’d just been lying, or maybe it was all a dream. But tonight, your walk is different.

The sun set early, late November creeping in and enveloping you in a warm blanket of darkness, the moon comforting you. It’s not even curfew yet, nowhere near, but maybe you’ll stay out here until sunrise, nap beneath the stars, all curled up with an aethonan winged horse, but deep within the forest you hear clattering. There’s yells, roars, sudden blasts of light, and your curiosity gets the best of you.

You crawl all through the trees and bushes, finding a comfortable path, only to come across four huge dragons in their pens, a collection of wizards, all dressed the same as Charlie, dotted around them. And then, only then, do you see his twinkling blue eyes, a breath of fire from one of the dragons reflecting in them.

“Charlie!” You cry out, not caring about any form of common courtesy on your endeavour through the final brambles until you fall straight into his arms.

“I told you I’d see you soon.” He smirks, but you can just tell that he’s itching to grin like a Cheshire Cat.

You climb him like a vine, legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck. You tug at his man-bun and watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His face falters, cheeks a flaming red, and once again he clears his throat. He turns his head away awkwardly, still keeping his grip on you, so he doesn’t anticipate when you cup his jaw and angle his gaze towards you once more.

“Do you want to kiss me, Charlie?” You ask, voice low and sultry, hips rearranging themselves atop him.

He stutters, tongue tied, pupils blown wide with lust but the colour drains from his face. You repeat yourself, eyes boring into his with a ferocity you haven’t felt since that night in August. His freckled eyelids fall shut for a couple of seconds, crinkling in the corners, and then they shoot open, his nose nudging yours, lips grazing yours...

“Charlie!”

He sighs, putting you down onto the ground, and he turns his back momentarily which allows you to examine the way the moonlight ripples over his leather jacket.

“What, mate?” He calls, the most exasperated time you’ve ever heard him use, and you can see his heavenly back muscles tensing through his clothes.

“A little hand over here?” A European accent calls him over. “When shithead gets back from his food run, then you can run off with your girlfriend, but for now we need help.”

Charlie rolls his eyes and slumps his chest forwards. Clearly he’s not happy, and you can’t blame him. It’s a lovely evening that could be silent shagging you, but he has to spend it being burnt by dragons.

“You’ve had an impact on their language then, they’ll be yelling ‘BOLLOCKS’ soon if you’re not careful.” Charlie chuckles at your quip and brings you into his side.

“You still like animals, right? Fancy giving us a hand?”

You know Charlie well enough to know that he’s actually serious, so he sheds his jacket to wrap around your shoulders, and brings you toward the centre of the fire pit with him. You get strange looks from all the other dragon tamers and you can’t blame them. A girl like yourself, you don’t much look like a dragon tamer, but anything for Charlie.

The task is easier than you anticipated anyway, giving you ample opportunity to watch Charlie’s body, the way he moves, the way he smiles, and you even catch a glimpse of a few tattoos. You feel heat flowing to your core, desperate for him to just snog you already.

All you really have to do is cling to the rough skin of Charlie’s hand and dodge fire, occasionally shooting stunning spells at the Horntail or pulling on some chains to keep the creatures tethered. The beasts truly are magnificent, and it’d be a lot easier to take notes on them and examine them a little more closely if it weren’t for Charlie’s cute bum looking far too tight in his jeans, making your fingers ache to touch him.

You shrug his jacket off when curfew approaches, only just keeping time by slanting his wrist towards yours every so often, and so you drape it back over his shoulders, unwittingly giving him a kind of bear hug. He brings you around to his front, your legs settling comfortably on his hips, and he smirks at you. Bloody hell, just his smirk does things to you.

His breath mingles with yours, fogging your vision from the way it steams in the cold, night air. The moon shines down and illuminates constellations with each and every one of Charlie’s freckles. You slip a hand to his cheek, resting it on his stubble for just a moment while you stare longingly into his eyes. There’s no need to rush such a beautiful moment, but then he dips his head a little in order to catch your lips in a slow, savoured kiss, allowing every feeling the two of you harbour each other to be portrayed through the slow, deft dance if his lips on yours, passion exchanged when his tongue slips into your mouth, longing and urgency once he begins to fervently nibble at your lip...

“Fuck, Charlie...” you moan into his mouth, his hips involuntarily rutting against your core. You can feel just how much he wants this.

His eyes are shut, holding you against him with one hand slipped under your bum and the other exploring your back beneath your top. You kiss him again, needier this time, breathier, and you just pray that everything you feel can be portrayed in your mix of reverent kisses and sultry movements, your hips grinding down on him.

You pull away, gasping for air, rubbing your thumb over the curve of his cheek. You didn’t even notice your other hand moving to fist at his shirt for support, too lost in the moment. Your eyes flutter open and you search his for some kind of a tell tale sign that he just snogged you senseless, and you can see it in how lust-blown his pupils are. The earth cracks beneath the two of you while you’re still wrapped in the security of your kiss, but eventually you slip from his waist and land steadily on the floor, minuscule in comparison to his stature.

“I’ll wedge the portrait open and I’ll see you later. Don’t be too late. I’m sure you know how to sneak into the girls dorms by now.” You whisper to him, your voice carried away with the roars of the dragons and the nightly breeze.

And with a wink, you’re gone, with Charlie left dumbfounded, feet behind as you walk away into the depths of the forest, only to emerge the other side more flustered than ever before.

-x-

As soon as you reach your dormitory, you’re glad to see that all your roommates have disappeared, probably to their significant others' beds, or late night training help for Diggory just to watch him work out. You, however, have no inclination for anything or anyone other than Charlie.

You tidy your bed as much as you can manage, tucking clothes away wherever you can in as small a time frame as you have, leaving ample time to let your nerves subside and your tension to dissipate before getting ready for Charlie’s arrival, you just hope to Merlin that he’ll turn up. The way he kissed you gave you he, the way he savoured you in every sense, kind yet needy, soft yet burning. Just the thought makes you rise in goosebumps, let alone imagining what he’ll do to you tonight.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime has passed, you’re lying in your four-poster with the covers wrapped around your body, the silk slip you put on leaving nothing to the imagination with the way it brushes your hips and clings to the swells of your breasts, moonlight shimmering on the fabric with any movement, the material almost not even daring to skim your skin from how in control you are of your body in that rare moment of power over yourself, and then you hear a knock, all of your composure flying out the window.

“Hey beautiful, it’s me.”

His voice sounds like molten honey with a slight rasp and you’ve never heard anything more perfect, so with as much normality as you can, you open the door to him.

“Fucking hell...”

The words tumble from his mouth so freely upon the sight of you, hair swept off your face with a scrunchie and nothing but your well chosen slip gracing your body, Charlie looks as though he may combust.

You step aside while Charlie awkwardly walks over the threshold into your dorm, no doubt one that he spent many nights in when he was a seventh year, but as soon as the chestnut door swings shut, he’s got you pressed against it with his chapped lips hovering over your own, the rough material of his jeans tantalising on your bare thighs.

“Did you think it was funny for you to kiss me like that? Climb all over me? Touching me relentlessly? I couldn’t concentrate, your ass in those leggings and you wearing my jacket, I’ve never seen anything so sexy.” He croons in your ear, causing you to involuntarily mewl and buck your hips against his. You were already at his mercy, clinging to his jacket and clawing at the back of his neck while he holds you up, the wood chilling on your tingling spine.

“When I left, you know, I thought I’d never see you as more than a friend, but now? The World Cup? You’ve gotten so mature, and your body, sweet Merlin. You’re all I want.”

You release a strangled moan, not wanting to let him know just how much his words are riling you up, but you’re sure he can already tell by the quirk of his lips, upturning into a smirk, a special glint in his eye that he was notorious for in his last year.

“Are we gonna do this? I’ve fancied you since I was twelve, Charlie, please.”

He chuckles at your desperation, but sheds his leather jacket nonetheless and steadies you on your feet once more. Within seconds, you’re pouncing on him and beginning to strip his shirt, pulling it out from his jeans and up over his head. He seems equally as eager as you with the way his hands take a bruising grip onto your hips, scared of stripping you of your only covering just yet.

You run your hands all over his tanned, muscular torso, covered in burns and tattoos and a fine dusting of dark ginger hair. There’s a Romanian Longhorn on his right peck, a Norwegian ridgeback on his left bicep (slightly distorted from a bad burn), an animated Zouwo on his hip and a crup pup on his perfectly angled shoulder blade. Charlie’s gonna be the death of you, you can just sense it by the heat radiating off his body.

Your eyes bulge as the pad of your finger trails the swells and dips of his abs, and the way his muscles ripple is divine, you may just puddle at his feet.

“I swear, Charlie...” you murmur, your fingers deftly working on his jeans, shoving them down his hips before winding your arms around his neck.

He lets out a broken groan when you tug his hair, weaving your fingers into his unruly red locks. He holds your waist and slowly grips the flimsy fabric in his big hands, allowing your back to arch against him from how electrifying his touch is on your upper thighs and now bare hips...

He kisses your collarbone, sucks marks on your neck, fans his hot breath over the shell of your ear, peppers feather light kisses to your jawline; all of them make you whimper, shivering and trembling like a leaf against his body from his other ministrations as well as the work of his lips. Until finally, his mouth slants over yours and his arms curl around your thighs, wrapping them around his bared torso, every inch of him carved by a Greek god. He slips his tongue into your mouth, savouring the moan that slides from your lips, swallowing it and keeping you for his own. He walks backwards until his knees hit the side of your bed, allowing you to clamber onto his body and latch your teeth onto his earlobe, biting a mark just below.

“Fuck baby...” he whispers. He grips your hips and ass to control your movements on top of him, feeling his boxers just tighten even more. “Your ass is perfect...”

He hikes your nightgown up even more, bunching it above your waist, while he massages the globes of your ass, kneading them between his rough fingers and pulling your ass cheeks apart for him. Just by those simple ministrations, you know that you’re in for a rough night.

“Fuck me, dragon boy,” you plead, eyes trained on his as his entire being is overcome with a desire to devour you, you can tell by the way his nose scrunches and his lips upturn into the most devilish smirk you’ve ever seen on anyone.

“That’s Daddy or Sir to you tonight, baby.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is the most pornographic sound you’ve made in your life, not that you’ve had much experience to. His palm rubbing your pussy erases all inhibitions, and the thought that you should probably warn him you’re a virgin. Not completely, you’ve done stuff with guys before, but you’ve never gone further than third base, so your dildo is your only relief. That should be enough, right?

“You’re so wet for me, my sweet baby. I bet you taste amazing.” Already you’re mewling, clawing at his back, a whimpering mess and he isn’t even inside you yet.

Within a second you find yourself beneath him, hungry eyes looking at you as though you’re his prey, one hand planted firmly on your pillow beside your head and the other with two fingers knuckle deep inside you. You cry out in pleasure, toes curling, but it all just gets so much better when he begins to thrust his hand at an inhumane speed, fingers curling up inside you and pressing that perfect spot perfectly each time. Part of you expected him to start slow: one finger, shallow and slow thrusts; but he’s just going for it, and the ecstasy is incomparable to anything you’ve felt before.

“Are you already that weak for me?” He purrs.

Yes, yes you are. His movements, the flick of his wrist and the jolt of his fingers deep within whenever you clench around him. You can’t fathom a response, especially not when the heel of his hand continually hits your clit and his lips wrap themselves around your nipple.

“Fuck, Sir, I’m so close...” you whisper in his ear, yanking on his hair with one hand, eliciting a groan followed by a swift slap to your ass, his body now being held up by only his knees .

The way your fingers thread and tangle in his red locks and pull a little too harshly makes him insert a third finger. He twists his fingers inside you, hitting more places than before, and he withdraws his hand. You whine a little at the loss of contact, and certainly don’t anticipate their plough back inside, sharp and vicious, you’re unprepared for the sudden rush of contact to your clit, and even less prepared for the way Charlies tongue licks a circle around your other nipple, so you come. Stars blur before your eyes, a strangled guttural cry leaving your throat as Charlie rides it out for you. You already feel spent, body lax after scratching marks into Charlie's back while you clenched and came totally undone around his hand.

When you look up, Charlie’s still hovering above you, glistening hand between the two of you. As your eyelashes flutter and you focus on him, he knows he has your attention, so brings his hand up to his mouth and curls his tongue around his fingers, all covered with your cum. He moans as he tastes you, the most erotic sound that’s ever graced your ears, and it may just be the most sensual thing you’ve seen in your life. A slight fire lights itself in your belly while watching him, immediately ready for round two, so you let both your eyes and your hands dance down his perfectly toned body to his boxers. Your fingers feebly wrap around his member through his shorts, grasping tightly to cause jolts of both pleasure and pain shooting up Charlie’s spine. He hisses through his teeth and immediately climbs off the bed, only to retrieve a shiny silver packet from his pocket.

“Are you gonna be a good girl, sweet baby, or am I gonna have to teach you a lesson?” He coos.

You never thought that you’d be into any of this stuff, the ‘Sir’ and ‘Good girl’ and the spanking, but Merlin’s beard it’s turning you on.

“I’ll be good for you, but only tonight Charlie.”

He seems dissatisfied by your answer. You can tell by the way he strikes the side of your ass with his palm and proceeds to look completely calm about it. You’re quite literally salivating though, his dominance increasing your pleasure tenfold.

“Fuck,” you whisper, backtracking in your mind, “I’ll do what you want, just fuck me.”

Your hands find the hem of his boxers, pulling them off in one fell swoop and throwing them to the other side of the room. He’s huge, long and a decent girth, so big that you’re slightly fearful. You made a fist around his dick and moved your hand up and down a couple of times, looking up at Charlie with innocent doe eyes that you can tell are driving you crazy by the way his cock twitches in your hand. You stroke him a little faster, thumb flicking over his tip and allowing the drop of pre-cum to lubricate a couple more jerks before you settle back down, watching Charlie as he intently focuses on rolling the condom down his throbbing length. Fuck, it’s beautiful.

“On your hands and knees.” He orders you in a throaty voice. You look at him with eyes full of scepticism but only for a moment before complying, sticking your ass in the air at the foot of your bed, just waiting for him to do something.

He brings his hand down on your ass again, the skin prickling a little, causing you to moan again, seemingly what he wants, because slowly he begins pushing into you. He starts slowly, just his tip entering you after he’s run his cock through your folds and collected your essence. He stretches as the rest of his length pushes in, cautiously placing a hand on the small of your back to steady himself. You clutch the sheets beneath you, pleasure overwhelming the pain.

“Is that ok? I’m not hurting you, am I?” Charlie sounds worried, hands rubbing around your waist and stomach soothingly.

“No, no it’s brilliant, but I don’t mind if you wanna hurt me…”

You can hear his breath hitch in his throat. “W-what do you mean? I don’t want to hurt you properly… what are you thinking of?”

Your pause is atmospheric, leaning into a yoga resembling pose with arms laying flat and your back arched to perfection, boobs pushed into your duvet. You hum, “Choking, maybe a little more spanking, just general rough sex. Mark me as yours.”

Charlie's knees almost buckle beneath him, removing a hand from caressing your body to steady himself on the poster of your bed. “You sure about this? I still wanna actually make love to you, I’m not all dominant…” You let out a soft chuckle and turn behind you, cocking a smile at him. A subtle nod paired with the part of your lips gives him all the answer he needs to grip your hips and pull out from you, only to slam back in with an unrivalled force.

Your ass jiggles with the power of his thrusts, Charlie's dick pumping in and out of you making you reach new heights of pleasure. His hand wraps around your hair, forming a ponytail and pulling you flush against him, your lightly sweaty back against his heaving chest, his hair tickling your spine. One of his hands grips your hip harshly, intermittent grunts of your name escaping his lips, and the other hand moves up your body, massaging your breast and plucking at your nipple.

“Can I choke you?” His voice comes out raspy, followed by a moan as you clench around his twitching cock, merely from his words.

“God, please.” You beg him, unsure if you’ve ever been so needy in your life.

His long fingers slowly wrap themselves around your neck, pressing his palm down and squeezing lightly. Hard enough so that your breath is slightly laboured and your senses are heightened. You can hear him counting under his breath, still thrusting in and out of you ferociously, and when he hears your breathing becoming an issue, he releases his grip. With a few seconds allowance, you gulp down as much air as you can, swirling your head around to face him. You bat your eyelashes at him, tongue darting out from between your lips, and you kiss him. His lips captured by your own, tongue dancing in your mouth, keeping his dominance over you. He spanks you once, twice, squeezes your hip, his mouth still locked on yours, kissing you tantalisingly. His kisses make you crave even more of him, his hand squeezing around your neck again as his pad of one finger travels down from your hip, pinching the skin on your pubic bone, and he presses down firmly on your clit. His thrusts grow erratic, the pressure on your clit and your oesophagus making the fire in your stomach spark even further, your high so quickly approaching…

He pulls away to whisper in your ear, “Come on me, pretty baby. Good girl.” You moan louder at his coaxing words, the wave of your second orgasm crashing over you and drowning you in pleasure. You cry out his name, his lips moving from pressing feather light kisses behind your ear to your lips, swallowing your screams of his names as much as he can. Your fluttering and shuttering around him allows Charlie to chase his high too. He throbs inside you, dick pulsating until he comes too, his movements slowing as you ride your highs out together.

You crash onto your bed face first, Charlie pulling out of you before joining you, your bare legs entangling as his fingertips brush your face.

“So, that was…”

“Perfect.” he finishes for you, pressing his lips to your nose gently.

“Yes,” you agree wistfully, savouring the moment of just being wrapped in his warmth, “a dream come true.”

He virtually giggles, unable to keep his hands off you. “Cuddles for a bit, and then round two?”

-x-

The next morning comes far too soon for your liking, sunlight blaring through your drapes and your bare legs tangled with someone else’s underneath your sheets, a strong arm draped over your body, warmth pressed against you.

You scramble as much as you can, jolting your neck to check that it was Charlie, and that last night was reality, and you let out the heaviest held breath you could from all the relief crashing down on you like waves, until reality hits.

“Shit. Charlie, Charlie, you need to sort the dragons! Fuck!”

It’s already late, but Charlie just groans and brings you closer into him.

“Charles,” you grumble, nudging his arm away from your body as best as you can, but still, he doesn’t budge and you’re too small to move him. “If it’s any consolation, we’ll definitely be doing this again, so you can let me go...”

Clearly that’s the remedy. His eyes shoot open and he begins to press soft kisses across the harsh marks he left last night, his hand gently caressing your soft skin, making you squirm and giggle a little.

Charlie being as gently dominant as he is (complete softie), refuses to let you do anything without him. That includes showering, dressing and hair. He massages any bruises or rough spots where he was a little too strong last night, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, kissing you whenever he can get to your lips.

“Godric, baby, I haven’t been able to get you out my mind for three months.” He tells you, arms twined around your waist while you primp. “You’re so perfect, so beautiful, such a good girl for me.”

Only a four year age gap, yet you still manage to moan the word ‘Daddy’ when he squeezes your hips just right and suckles on that sweet spot.

“Fuck,” his voice is breathy and strained, clearly trying to hold back, “if you call me that again then we’ll miss the task.”

You chuckle at him but hug him nonetheless. Yeah the intimacy is great, but this just started, and he’s a bloody good hugger. Just being close to him is enough. You wear his jacket and twine your fingers with his own, your other hand resting in the crook of his elbow to feel him as close as possible. When you finally do leave the dorm and climb down the disabled stair case, you get the strangest assortment of looks you’ve ever received, everything from shock to fury to admiration to jealousy. Your cheeks heat and you turn shyly into Charlie again, only for your console to be broken by a high pitched screech, one you know to belong to Fred and George when they’re feigning shock.

“Y/N! How could you!” Fred bursts out, pointing at you with a quivering hand, jaw slackened and face aghast.

“And Charlie, sleeping with a student!” George finishes, the exact same expression written across his face.

You merely scowl at them, but they’ve bought even more attention than you’d had before, namely two girls who would be far from happy.

“Really Charlie?” Ginny says incredulously, making fake gagging noises but snuggling into her brother's side nonetheless, clearly happy to see him.

Hermione stands before you, giving you a horrible stern, disapproving look with pursed lips and folded arms. You offer a snide side eye in return, not so subtly removing your hair from your neck just to watch Hermione’s reaction, and it’s worth the audible gasps from those around you. Bruising purple marks scattered across your neck and the join of your shoulder, a red handprint on the column of your throat. Hermione looks like she’ll faint from pure disapproval, after all, you were supposed to be the innocent animal girl.

“Part of me is impressed-“ Fred announces, a sly smirk painted on his lips.

“And the other part is disgusted.” George adds, scanning you up and down as though vying for another tell tale sign.

Charlie gives them what they want, spinning you into his body with his hands holding your waist beneath your jumper, letting it ride up a little to show more bruises. The twins look nothing but dazzled at the sight of your skin covered in splendid marks. They give their brother a subtle look of solidarity, exchanging no further words before leaving. Hermione remains speechless, but Ginny looks simultaneously confused and scarred.

“Sorry Gin,” Charlie says with a genuinely apologetic style, but turns away from her, leaning down to fleetingly capture your lips.

“I guess I’m something to talk about even when I’m gone, but I promise babe, there’s more where that came from. Dinner, tonight, the edge of the forest before I leave.”

You grin to yourself, squeezing his hand as you make your way to breakfast. All that passes through your mind is how wonderful it is that you finally have Charlie back. Your Charlie.

#charlie weasley #the weasleys #weasley imagine #Harry Potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter fic #fred and george #fred weasley #george weasley #hp and the goblet of fire #dragons #tattoos #harry potter smut #weasley smut

843 notes · View notes

lykegenia · 3 years

Link

Nate x f!detective

I barely have time to draw breath before three figures stumble to a halt in the broken doorway, the rest of Unit Bravo drawn clearly from other parts of the warehouse, their postures tense and alert for danger.

Adam steps forward first, his gaze sweeping in a calculated arc over the room. “What happened?”

“We smelled –”

“Someone needs to go and check on Nate,” I interrupt.

There’s a heartbeat’s pause where confusion reigns. Mason is the first to respond, swiping the unlit cigarette from between his teeth with a muttered curse as he whirls away out of sight. It leaves only Adam and Felix to stare at me, and both keep their distance, the frown on the commanding agent’s face sharp enough to cut glass.

“Detective?” he asks.

“It was an accident,” I explain, swallowing. “I cut myself, just my finger.”

“You ought to have paid more attention –”

“Jesus Christ, Adam, this is not the time.” I twist around to face him properly, hand aching under the stream of cold water, and once more the rational part of my brain steps aside to marvel at the ease with which I take control of the situation. As if this is just another crime scene, as if my heart isn’t thundering in my ears lie Niargra Falls. “I need you to switch off the oven and fetch me a med kit.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Felix asks from even further away, golden eyes hopeful.

I force a smile to my face. “I’m fine, really. But thank you.”

Adam returns from the far corner of the room a moment later and sets down the first aid kit and a roll of kitchen paper at my elbow.

“We’ll leave you to it,” he says with a terse nod.

“Thanks.”

“There is blood on your sleeve,” he adds. “You should soak it as soon as you can.”

He turns away as I twist my arm trying to catch sight of the supposed bloodstain, not daring to take my hand from under the tap until the two vampires have left the room. When I eventually hold the lacerated finger up for inspection I sigh at the look of the wound. The cold has turned the whole digit bloodless, and while the cut itself is pretty deep the sharpness of the knife worked in my favour and it shouldn’t need stitches.

I pat it dry with a few squares of paper towel, careful to avoid splitting it open again, then rummage one-handed in the first aid kit for the antiseptic and a box of plasters. The sting of the concentrated alcohol draws a hiss from me as I pour it over the wound, but the whole process of cleaning and wrapping up the finger is over in less than a minute, with only the clinical smell left hanging in the air. After a moment of consideration, I fish an extra plaster out of the box and add it to the first so it stays extra secure.

That done, my attention can finally turn to the mess of dinner abandoned on the other side of the kitchen. The tray of vegetables I pull from the oven is still half-raw, the potatoes overboiled and almost mush after I drain away the water from the pan. I make sure there’s no blood on the duck breasts before wrapping them back in their brown paper to go back in the fridge. I wash the knife, and I wash the chopping board, as well as I can one-handed. For the rest, it takes me a long poke about in the cupboards – because of course Nate doesn’t own any Tupperware – before I can transfer everything into containers. Most of it probably won’t taste all that good if it has to be cooked again, but making the choice to throw it away without Nate’s input feels… wrong. Even if what I really want is to throw the whole lot at the walls.

Either way, my appetite is completely gone. In its place, a sick feeling worms through my stomach, part worry for him and part relief that what happened wasn’t worse. The look in his eyes keeps surfacing, drawing me back, distracting me to the point where I realise the CD of overtures finished playing ages ago, unnoticed. Now that I hear it, the silence presses on me like a stone.

I leave the washing up in the sink.

No one stops me in the labyrinthine passages to my room. The silence follows and grows larger as I strip out of my jumper and toss it into the bathroom before pulling a new one from the drawer. The stain on the sleeve is only small and should come out easily enough once I soak it, but I’ll have to take it back to my apartment to wash it properly. At least the blood soaked into the fabric instead of dripping onto Nate’s hand. His reaction was bad enough already.

Once thoughts of him break through, there’s no stopping the flood. A glance around the bedroom shows just how much empty space there is, and I shiver. The wash of loneliness threatening to swallow me is one that wouldn’t have bothered me before Unit Bravo came into my life, before I got used to the comfort Nate provides just with his presence. Right about now I should be enjoying an intimate dinner and quiet conversation, his warmth at my side after the week of paperwork that’s kept us apart. Instead, there’s just me, and the hollow sound of my breath. Hard to believe I ever thought that was enough.

A text comes through from Felix as I dry my hands.

You ok? Nate wanted you know if you’re ok too

I’m fine ☺️ Where is he?

In his room, he’s pretty shaken

I’m going to go talk to him

He starts typing a reply, but I don’t wait for it. The path to Nate’s room is so familiar I could walk it in my sleep – and nearly have, more than once, creeping from my own bed in the middle of the night with only a little guilt that I might be interrupting his own rest. Getting used to another body was difficult at first, but sleeping with someone else next to me, at least when it’s him, feels better than I ever thought it would, even if Mason keeps teasing that we’re not making the most of the situation.

I swallow as I knock on his door. “Nate?”

There’s no answer. Despite the bubble of disappointment in my chest, I wasn’t really expecting one.

“I wanted to see if you were alright.” Though my ears strain in the quiet hallway, I can’t hear any sign of movement. I sigh. “Look, you don’t have to come out, or say anything. I guess if you’re not listening it’s not like there’s anyone else here to listen to me talking to a door like a crazy person either.”

The attempt at humour falls apart, and a deep breath pulls through my teeth to keep the prickle of heat in my eyes at bay.

“I’m alright, Nate. It wasn’t your fault, just an accident. Please don’t guilt yourself about it too much – I know you’ll try to. I’m…” I falter, my thumb running over my plastered finger. “I’m going to go home. I’ve got laundry to do and an early start in the morning, and it’s probably better if I go.”

Tension is running through the halls like a vibration, all the vampires kicked up by the unexpected smell of blood even if they don’t want to admit it, and I don’t want them to see how unsettled it’s made me in turn. The nightmares of Murphy have faded over the past few months, but I can feel them crawling in the black mud of my subconscious, waiting to surface, and I don’t want to be near Nate when they do. I’ve handled them well enough on my own in the past.

There’s still no sound from Nate’s room that my pathetic human ears can pick up.

“If you need anything, call me,” I say, with a last moment of hesitation before I turn away.

There’s not much to pack. I’ve got a permanent drawer here now, and a second toothbrush so I don’t need to remember it back and forth. I’m ready to go in minutes. In one movement I pluck my car keys from the bowl by the door and flick off the light, and I don’t look back.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #n sewell #nate sewell #nate sewell x detective #nate sewell x f!detective #nate x leah #leah kingston #my writing

18 notes · View notes

power-of-ages-writeblr · 3 years

Text

Gods Don’t Die

(this is a piece I wrote on my old blog as part of a 50 followers celebration - tweaked and re-uploaded! :3)

“Gods don’t die.” He protested, no longer Aetius, nowhere near Zeus. “They-! They don’t!”

The nameless being before him only laughed.

o0O0o

“Gods don’t die” is something that the whole world believes. Humans and monsters and magical creatures, bound together by this one understanding; this one law of creation. You could destroy a god, tear up their essence, break them into a thousand tiny pieces and cast them into Tartarus – it would rid you of them, but it would not kill them. They would not die. They couldn’t.

The only ones who know differently are the gods themselves. They are not immortal, as is believed by the rest of the world. As they themselves had previously believed. No – they are each the latest in a long line, selected by chance beyond even the fates.

And just as their powers were once given, so too they must eventually be given away.

o0O0o

“Gods don’t die” becomes a mantra that each one repeats to themselves as time begins to run out. That belief, held by the entire rest of the world, is one that they force themselves to indulge in. They must fool themselves. They must block out the truth. Gods don’t die, they can’t, they mustn’t-!

They won’t.

o0O0o

Gods don’t die, they agree as they gather. They are sitting in their chambers on top of Mount Olympus, overlooking the wretched world, as they have always done. And they have a plan. Because somewhere down there are their successors. Still mortal, and still unknowingly awaiting their mantles and destinies. But if the Gods can take the initiative, and strike them down before that happens… they will not have to give it all up. They will not have to cede their thrones, nor their power, nor their identities – all that they have come to claim as their own, after so long.

“It is cruel.” Cautions Hestia.

“It is dishonourable.” Admits Ares.

“It is selfish.” Explains Dionysus.

“It is childish.” Chides Hera.

Of all of them, it is Hades who ultimately casts the deciding vote. Thanatos himself stands behind him and nods approval.

“There is nothing cruel or dishonourable or selfish or childish,” he says, “about not wanting to die.”

Nobody argues.

o0O0o

Gods don’t die, Demeter believes as she moves to bring about the destruction of the girl slated to succeed her seat of power. At the very least, she believes as such until the moment where the plants she had snaked around the mortal to crush her are blasted apart. Splinters fly. Leaves crumble into ash. Even as she watches, fresh greenery sprouts up around the girl – but their curls are protective, not constrictive, and the spears of thorns they form are pointed in Demeter’s direction. Faced with her own power, she feels vulnerable in a way she has not throughout her entire Godly existence. She feels vincible.

“You, girl.” She is forced to put effort into keeping the tremor out of her voice. “What is your name?”

The girl stands up straighter upon realising she is being addressed. The terror is still apparent in her eyes – being smote by a God is just about the worst fear of every mortal in the world. But she still holds her head high.

“Ianthe.” She says, boldly. “My name is Ianthe.”

It is at this moment that Demeter can see her successor’s spirit. The girl is young and strong, and so very afraid, but she is also idealistic. No weathering through age, no nagging belief that loss is inevitable. And Demeter herself realises the truth of her own existence. She is not infinite. Much like the plantlife that she knows so well, she is seasonal. She is clonal. And she is only prolonging the inevitable.

“No, it isn’t.” She responds.

o0O0o

“Gods don’t die” is a phrase that Athena is infinitely familiar with. She knows full well that it is a lie, as well as all that that lie entails – and that knowledge weighs on her as she fights. At least, she assumes it must be affecting her, or she would not be losing at all.

Her chosen “successor” is a mortal named Gaia (and she almost laughs at the irony of being named for one goddess and usurping another), who possesses none of the cool intellect or strategical knowledge that she does. Instead, she fights with her fists. And her legs. And occasionally her head. She’d initially struck Athena as the female counterpart of Ares, and her resolve to not lose her seat to this cretin had been strengthened.

And yet, trap after trap, and feint after strike after feint after strike, are all blown through as though they’re nothing. Athena uses every battle technique that she has been blessed with the knowledge of, and the girl breathes in and out and clenches her fists and outmanoeuvres her at every turn, almost as if by accident. She raises her shield, Aegis, and the mortal closes her eyes and leaps into the air and strikes the shield so hard that it buckles under the weight of her fist. Athena is thrown backwards by the weight of the strike, and rolls against the ground for a long time before coming to a stop, weapons and body both broken.

She opens her mouth to say something – to ask how – but the girl speaks first.

“Why?” She pleads, sounding so distraught and so horrified and so very mortal, even though she is something far beyond that now. “Why did you do this?”

Athena doesn’t know what to say.

“Why did you attack me?” The girl demands. “What did I do to you?”

It wasn’t what you did, Athena wants to say. It was what you were going to do. What you were going to become. But the words die in her throat as she considers them. War is many things. It is bloody. It is necessary. It takes and it takes and it takes, and it rocks the world. And so rarely is it righteous to anyone other than the aggressor. War is the home of courage and cowardice both, and all she has done today is fight to preserve herself – to remove someone else from the equation before they know that they are a part of it, all so that she may cling to what she knows.

If a goddess of war does not stop and ask why she is declaring it, Athena thinks as her vision darkens, then perhaps her title is best lost to her after all.

o0O0o

“Gods… don’t die.” Rasps Zeus, though his mortal wounds suggest otherwise.

Looking down on him, foot planted on his chest, is… some mortal. A young man called Theophrastus who has just inherited his parent’s farm, and never strove for anything more, never will strive for anything more, despite now possessing all the powers of the lord of the skies.

The farm is now embers around them, the flames and the heat long snuffed out by the rain.

Zeus tries to move, but cannot. It is clear what will happen next.

At least, he reckons to himself, he did not go quietly. The battle between Theophrastus and himself had lasted for two straight days. The lightning had split the sky open, and the thunder had shaken the earth. In the end, it had been an old war wound that had caused his downfall – his tendons had never been the same since Typhon, and his reflexes were not what they had once been. And, after so many hours of constant fighting, he had faltered, and been unable to avoid the final bolt of lightning that Theophrastus had hurled at his chest. And so, he had fallen.

He looks up at the sky, blinking, wishing that he could shield his eyes from the rain. At the end of all things, it is all just poetry on top of poetry. The universe emphasising over and over and over again that his time is over, that he is no longer fit to be himself. To be Zeus.

“If Gods don’t die,” Theophrastus asks coldly (his parents were inside the farmhouse when Zeus blew it to pieces), “then how have I killed you?”

It is suitable that as he dies, Zeus finally understands.

“You did not kill Zeus.” Says the old God remembering what his name had been so long ago. “You killed Aetius.”

o0O0o

“But… but Gods don’t die.” Stammers the young man at the foot of Hades’ throne.

Hades rises and removes his helm. “No,” he agrees, “they don’t.”

He throws it. It rolls down the steps in front of the throne, coming to a stop as the knees of his successor. The man can only look up at him in bewilderment.

Yes, Hades muses, there is nothing cruel or dishonourable or selfish or childish about a fear of death. But there is nothing about it that is anything other than futile, either. If there’s one thing that being lord of the Underworld has taught him, it is that your feelings for death are irrelevant. It will always claim you anyway.

And yet, it is not always the end of the story.

“Gods don’t die.” Says Hades, accepting his fate with a heavy breath and a light heart. “But Gods are not what you think.”

#writing #original fiction #short story #writeblr #writing drabble #I don't know how to TAG things #Not Power of Ages #flash fiction #? maybe??#I was given the prompt 'Gods don't die' and just went with my gut. which turned out to be the ancient Greek gods??#not sure why. I guess because I know them decently well. And also because they're a bit of a tumblr mainstay. :P #ANYWAYS I've never written anything like this before and haven't written anything like it since #wack

17 notes · View notes

atsukashii · 3 years

Note

Can I get Alex x Tokoyami + they/them pronouns + 🌙 + Black for the event?

i just wanna be happier am I being too greedy?

✘ how do you get over heartbreak if you keep seeing the reason for your shredded heart in everything you do?

✘ GENRE: angst

✘ WARNINGS: aged up characters, death sorry thats like the only angst i can write.

✘ WORD COUNT: 1.4k

There’s not a set of guidelines that help someone get over a heartbreak. You know this, because you’ve scoured the darkest depths of the internet praying to find something that will help this. You’d tried the dating apps, the copious amounts of cheap wine which you then regretted when your head was hung over the toilet the following morning. You’d even decided that letting your friends set you up on a blind date was a good idea.

Whether it is actually a good idea or not, you’re not sure yet. As you sit at the table at a fancy restaurant across town from your messy apartment, you can’t help but look around in a soft kind of wander. You’d never gone to places like this with your ex, not because he didn’t want to treat you to places like this, but the fact that you both preferred the low-key, hole in the wall restaurants that only sit ten people that he always used to manage to discover.

Mentally slapping yourself, you try to shove all memories of him from your mind. Just for one night, you promise. Just let me have one night.

“Alex?” A voice calls from your side, startling you enough that your knee hits the table. The stranger smiles softly at you as you bite back a groan at the sharp pain radiating from your leg.

“I’m Sen Kaibara,” He explains, holding his hand out towards you as an offering. Gently you raise your own, hoping he doesn’t comment on your slightly sweaty palms.

“Ashido has told me a lot about you,” Sen continues with a sweet smile as he sits in the chair opposite you. He seems nice enough of a guy, and you truly try in the hour that follows to give him your undivided attention, slipping into easy conversation around eating your meal. He’s easy to talk to, and you mentally thank Mina for not setting you up with a complete nut-job. It’s not until he’s explaining what he does for a living does your mind begin to play tricks on you.

At first, it's just a flash of black in your peripheral vision. The next, you swear lights glint off a set of ruby eyes that has your body turning so fast that you shake the table. Your eyes frantically search over the space where you saw it, but come up empty as there’s no sight of those familiar eyes anywhere outside the restaurant.

“Alex?” Turning back to Sen, you try to offer him a weak smile, but the adrenaline that’s causing your heart to race has you panting for breath. It looked like him, but it was a trick of the light. He’d left you. This time, you place your shaking hands on the table and offer a weak excuse of needing to get home because of work early the next day, and luckily for you, Sen doesn’t make a fuss. Only offering you a knowing smile in return before waving down the waiter for the bill.

The second time this happens, it's when you’re on your way home from work. You’re walking down the sidewalk, arms full of bags from your previous stop to grab some groceries - the stack of ramen in your cupboard no longer cutting it. You’d been on the other side of the road, focusing on fishing your keys from your coat pocket when you’d seen him. Knelt down against the concrete, scratching a filthy cat as it nuzzled his ankles. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you attempt to swallow down your emotion as you move forwards almost in a haze. His name almost falls from your lips before a loud beep cuts it off.

There’s a hand at your elbow, and suddenly you’re flying backwards, and headlights fly by in front of you, however you manage to catch your reflection in the windows of the car.

“Are you alright?” Comes the voice of the stranger who had pulled you away from being cleaned up by a car. Blinking slowly, body settled in shock, you’re not sure what had just happened. Your eyes lock onto the spot underneath the blinking neon sign of the store across the street, and there lays the filthy tabby, curled in a ball - but no other person in sight. The reality scares you, and ignoring the strangers question, you quickly gather the bag you hadn’t realised you’d dropped before you scurry home.

The third time it happens, you’re sitting on the front steps of your apartment complex watching the rainfall mere inches from you. Sticking your hand out, droplets accumulate in the palm of your hand before quickly over spilling. Some stick closely to your skin and trail down your arm, wetting the plain black hooded sweater that dwarfs your figure. After Tokoyami had left, you hadn’t known what to do with it, so at first, you’d take it and the remainder of his things that you’d had on hand to a donation bin. You’d stood in front of it for what felt like hours, your body not physically letting you drop it in. Eventually, you had just thrown the bag into the back of your car and driven home.

You know he wouldn’t have cared if you had tossed his things, he was laid back like that. But you cared. Was it so bad that you still weren’t ready to get over him?

You’d been together for only a year and a half, but that time felt like an eternity. You knew every part of that man, and he understood every aspect of you, even better than you did yourself. People can’t expect you to get over him in less than a few months. Not when you’d lived with him, surrounded by his presence, not when you’d spent every waking moment with him, not when you’d loved him.

With stinging eyes, you eventually stand up from your seat, the biting cold finally urging you to your feet. You don’t get the chance to turn around though, because right before the steps as if he’d stepped out of the shadows was Tokoyami.

He wore the same clothes as the last time you’d seen him slipping out your front door with a small wave over his shoulder. He looked as perfect in this moment as he had back then. But unlike back then, he didn’t look at you with happiness in his eyes, leaking from his very being. Now, only pain swirled in those ruby eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to our dinner.” His deep voice rumbles between you, the sound so familiar it causes the welled tears to slip down your cheeks. You had been so mad that day, sitting at the restaurant he’d found for you both, sitting at the booth waiting for an hour for him to show up. You’d never felt more ashamed and humiliated as you had when the server came over with a pitying look, asking if you wanted to order yet. Instead, you’d shaken your head, thanking the man, before walking out of the store and towards your friend's house, not wanting to return home that night. Tears of frustration had covered your face the whole trek to Mina’s apartment that night, but now, its tears full of anguish that slip down your cheeks with no sign of stopping. You’d been so mad, but not now. Now, you missed him.

“‘Yami, it’s okay,” you say over the rumbling sky as you step into the pouring rain, not caring as the bitter water soaks you to the bone.

“You need to let me go,” He says again, and your body begins to shake from the cold. His eyes plead at you but you just shake your head. How can he ask you that? He’d only left you months ago, how could he demand that of you. You didn’t know how to function without him, you weren’t ready to let him go.

“I can’t,” The words slipping from your mouth in a broken whisper. “I don’t know how to do this without you.” You sob, wanting so badly to reach out and touch him, to feel the familiarity of his skin on yours, the warmth. But as you stand there under the rain, Tokoyami stands in front of you, the spitting image of the man you’d remembered, he utters the brutal truth of your life and the reason that you’ve been slowly trying to create some semblance of your old self in the past few months.

“But I'm already dead Alex.”

✘ a/n: this actually hurt me to write even though i don't read tokoyami fics, but I hope you liked it none the less anon

✘ EVENT STATUS : CLOSED ✘

#special event 🧚‍♀️✨#tokoyami fukimage #bnha tokoyami #tokoyami angst #tokoyamifumikage #fumikage tokoyami #bnha fumikage #tokoyami x reader #fumikage x reader #fumikage angst #lols writes

18 notes · View notes

croctears · 3 years

Text

a part two to this maybe? dk, again this is unedited and i’m trying my hand at a more flowery language. hopefully it isn’t too flowery lolol.

the cultural terms are further explained at the bottom.

Envy, with its tendrils green with jealousy, wraps itself snug around our little beating heart. Yet we continue to let it consume us, basking and boasting in the covetous desires. And again, do we have the capacity to ingest the wants of the human soul?

“They’re so pretty!”

Cherry blossom petals frolicked to the lilt of the wind in merry pink blushes, kissing the tips of her fingers. They slipped by cheekily, never getting caught, leaving only the tickle of velvet left as the aftertaste. Hsien-Chen sighed. It was the first spring since they moved to the capital; the flowers here are different from the ones in the countryside.

Her little sister ran ahead, giggling in glee. Two small buns sat atop her head, thin hair pulled tightly in a clean, smooth updo. The smile stretching across her face was far wider than any of Hsien-Chen’s when she was that age—not that she could remember ever being this carefree. After one fateful meeting with a messenger of Death ( her mother sobbed over her for days, thanking the Heavens and Yánluówáng for being merciful and not taking her daughter away), Hsien-Chen became a silent child.

According to Mama, she’d met Heibai Wuchang, more specifically the white counterpart of the duo; Xiè Bì'ān, the White Guard.

“No, you’re mistaken,” Her mother had shaken her head, frowning at Hsien-Chen’s recounting of the event. “That’s not a woman, and you’re lucky you didn’t meet Fàn Wújiù instead.”

Was she supposed to be grateful? Grateful that the White Guard, Xie, had taught her to make amends and become a better version of whoever she was going to grow up as?

She should be thankful for an opportunity many hadn't had the chance to get.

But why is it still so difficult to be angelic?

Round and round it goes, slippery and thick—soft as the finest silk in China, lithe as the strings of guzheng. Round and round envy goes, around the souls of men. Do we not notice it, or do we take no notice of it?

Hsien-Chen swallowed a lump of saliva lodging in the ridges of her throat. Her hands shook, palms sticky with sweat. Tucking the piece of parchment into the elaborated pieces of her robes, she hurried across the study room, sock-covered feet making no noise against the smooth wooden paneling.

She couldn’t believe she was going to cheat.

On a national exam, no less.

Pinpricks of moisture dotted her forehead, satin clothes sticking to her underarms. Hsien-Chen shook her head firmly.

No, it’s not her fault she’s always second to that Luo family’s brat. They are better off than her parents, providing him with more possibilities and renowned tutors when she only had herself to depend on. Was it wrong to sneak in answers she already read through? It was merely referencing.

Tighter and tighter, over the limbs and minds. Tighter and tighter envy’s fingers gripped our souls, dragging down, down, down. Tight was the constraints, yet our eyes were still clouded with discontent.

“Did you hear? The daughter of the Wang family had four wedding proposals today! One of them is a son of a businessman.” Hsien-Chen’s companion exhaled dreamily. “She’s beautiful, it’s no wonder!”

Hsien-Chen snorted, wringing her arm out of her friend’s hold.

“She’s your neighbour, isn’t she? The Wangs’ young miss.” Her friend asked. An innocent question that made her blood boil to a degree she never knew was possible.

Oh, how Hsien-Chen hated that girl next door. Always adorned with bracelets, necklaces. On her dainty feet always a pair of expensive embroidered shoes, no less than a noblewoman’s. And as if her being spoiled wasn’t enough, the girl was born with such elegant features, big brown eyes, small upturned nose with pink lips.

Oh, how Hsien-Chen hated her. They’re the same age, but Wang Jing appeared to be on a whole other level. And she knew, no matter how hard she tries, she’ll never reach that league. Her chest tightened, breaths coming in short angry heaves.

“She’s fooling around with their gardener’s son.” Hsien-Chen blurted without thinking. Whether it was true or not was up to the discernment of those who heard.

“What?” A handkerchief covered her friend’s face, widened eyes barely containing the disgust and excitement at the unexpected news. “That’s so wrong! Such a disgrace. Don’t you think people should know about this?”

Hsien-Chen shrugged. “Do what you will.”

Deeper and deeper envy hauls men, smooth and gracious through the waves. Deeper and deeper our beings go, into the sea of envy’s poison. Can we swim, or are we nonchalant with our foreboding demise?

“I wish I never had you!” Hsien-Chen screamed, clutching her head. Hysterics enveloped her, lashing out at the crying boy. Her son. Her older daughter held him protectively, hand rubbing furiously at her tear-streaked face.

A raised hand. A sharp smack. The boy wailed, clutching his red face.

“Mama, stop!”

“You too! I hope you die along with your good-for-nothing father!”

The vase broke, shards flying as Hsien-Chen swept more decorations off the shelves. Her children cried louder and louder and—

“Stop crying! I’m leaving. I’m leaving! I deserve better than this life!”

The slam of the door silenced the young ones for a moment and Hsien-Chen could feel the cogs of her brain turning again. Children were noisy, or her children were noisy. Lan’s kids were docile beings, same goes for Yi’s twin boys. Filial, gentle souls, unlike hers.

How she despised her children, her simpleton husband.

How she despised her life.

The back room was serene enough for her to collect her thoughts, a tired groan escaping her chapped lips as she sank down to the dusty floor.

Despair. That was the word for what she was feeling.

Despair, resentment, bitterness.

Envy.

“I’m better off dead.”

“Sure you are.”

“Who are you?” She whipped around in shock, clutching her heart. In front of her was a man, young and tall. He had an air of masculine handsomeness, the kind you normally feel around young warriors or generals. An austere smile danced on his thin lips, bulging biceps placing down a heavy-looking mirror in front of her.

“Who are you?” She repeated.

“I believe a mirror was supposed to be delivered here.”

“I believe not.” Hsien-Chen crossed her arms, shooting him her best scowl.

“Are you sure?”

He pulled the cloth off, and the mirror. The mirror was…

The mirror was the exact same one. The one she saw in the storeroom of the old couple her mother worked for. The same mirror Xiè Bì'ān showed her future.

“No,” Hsien-Chen shuddered, backing away from him. “Is this a joke to you?”

“You’ve met my partner, I believe. Xiè Bì'ān.” The man was grim, unsmiling. “I too should believe you know who I am.”

“Fàn Wújiù?” It came out a frightened squeak, quivering with dense fear.

“My partner has a kind soul. Me? Not so much.” The Black Guard of the Heibai Wuchang muttered. “He did warn you many years ago. That was your chance.”

Hsien-Chen fell to her knees. “But my family…”

He laughed scornfully. “Weren’t you wishing they were dead a few minutes ago?”

“Please sir! Please just—,” Hsien-Chen felt tongue-tied. What was she even begging for? A second shot at life? She already knew an opportunity like that, an opportunity many hadn’t had a chance to get would be better off not given to her.

She’d already wasted the first one.

“Is your- is your friend here?”

The Black Guard was stern, but nodded. “Outside.”

And true enough, the White Guard was standing there, hands behind his back. He had seemed like a woman to five-year-old Hsien-Chen, but now, she saw clearly he was a man. Albeit slender with delicate features, his elegant stance was somber once he spotted her.

Hsien-Chen was mildly surprised that he was taller than the other guard.

“It’s your time now child.”

“I know.” Hsien-Chen wrung her hands nervously. “I think I just want to say I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For wasting your time. You could’ve gone to another child. Maybe they’d listen to you.”

Xiè Bì'ān brushed back his hair. “It was fate. There’s nothing to be done now. Don’t fret.”

Her lips parted, then she closed it again. She could see Manchurian cranes against the orange-daubed skies, fishermen’s songs loud enough for her to hear.

Her husband must be coming home any moment now.

“What would I be if I had listened to you then?” She turned to face the white-clad man, but he refused to answer.

“You have to come now.”

“I guess we are arresting you right now.” Fàn Wújiù nodded to his partner.

Hsien-Chen stretched out her hand, hoping to feel the plush texture of the cherry blossom once more.

“I guess this is it.”

So indeed, the waves roll, swallowing the cries of regret and frantic yelps of realisation. For it is too late if we notice at the brink of death, now may we rest well in the icy comfort of envy’s clasp.

first off, this story takes place during the qing dynasty, after the imperial examinations were passed for women.

i'm personally not taoist, but had derived lots of taoist myths as inspiration! partly bc i'd grown up listening to these stories (: i hope you learn a thing or two about Chinese culture, though my version in this story is definitely tweaked.

Heibai Wuchang is "Black and White Impermanence" literally, and are deities in Chinese folk religion that escorts souls to the underworld. grim reaper, if you may. the white counterpart is Xie Bi'an while the black counterpart is Fan Wujiu.

as for Yánluówáng, he's the king of the taoist underworld. the mirror that is referenced in my previous story, Mirror of Retribution is a mirror used by the Yánluówáng to judge dead souls when dealing out punishments.

#writing #writing community #writeblr #writers community #writer #ayo im struggling so hard with this istg #i cant get the words to flow bc guess what #yeah ive been coding for the past month and all i can think of are python string commands #一croctalks #一crocwrites

4 notes · View notes

ibijau · 4 years

Note

Hi I hope you are well! in Worse engagement AU, does NHS ever find out about LXC getting longer-lasting incense, or LQR intentionally failing him his first year in Cloud Recesses? Poor NHS just can't catch a break, and I love the angst

Worst engagement AU

He does! And I may or may not have pushed myself to write nhs failing his year just because of how badly I wanted to write this, ahah.

Set soon after they get married :D

warning for... I guess he’s having a panic attack of sorts?

Unpacking is a terrible chore, worse in some ways than the packing that preceded it, but at least Nie Huaisang gets some help from his...

His face heats up. It's going to take a while to get used to the fact that they're married. It's only been a few days, and half the time it doesn't feel real. Which is the entire reason why Lan Xichen insisted that Nie Huaisang unpacked his things so they could put everything in its proper place and turn the Hanshi into something that's home for both of them. Even more than Nie Huaisang, it's obvious that Lan Xichen can't believe he gets to have this. It shows in the way he looks at Nie Huaisang when he enters the room where he's working, always half surprised to see him there. It shows also in the way he clings to him at night, as if Nie Huaisang might disappear otherwise, or run away, or do whatever other insane thing Lan Xichen might be imagining.

“What are those?” Lan Xichen asks, having opened a chest and found it full of various papers.

Nie Huaisang abandons the books he was trying to organise and comes to sit next to his husband, a little closer than necessary perhaps, but he knows Lan Xichen will appreciate it.

“This... Ah, it's a bit of everything,” Nie Huaisang admits. “Things I’ve done for fun these last few years. Most of it is bad poetry. Some of it about you, actually.”

“Did you?”

“I got very creative with insults at one point. I made Jin... I made someone read them, he found them very funny. Jiang Cheng saw them too, but he made a fuss about me being rude.”

Lan Xichen's smile freezes into that very annoying, very polite expression he has when he's unhappy about something. They usually avoid talking about Jin Zixuan, really, but Nie Huaisang was so taken by nostalgia for a moment that he half forgot. Besides, the poems really were funny.

Still, Nie Huaisang takes pity on Lan Xichen, and quickly digs into the chest to find something that will let him change the conversation. There's some half finished paintings, some calligraphy attempts, even notes from his time as a student and...

“Oh, right, I kept that,” he mutters, grabbing a neat little stack of paper. “That's probably good for a laugh.”

“Poems?”

“Even worse,” Nie Huaisang chuckles. “It's that exam I failed, my first year in the Cloud Recesses. I really thought I'd done great, you know? Well, maybe not great, but decently at least. Heavens, sometimes kids are so stupid they can't even see how stupid they are.”

Lan Xichen tenses next to him, and rather than to laugh along, throws him a concerned look.

“You kept that? Why?”

Nie Huaisang shrugs, grinning, and looks over the failed test. It always just felt like an important reminder that he’d never manage to play by the rules of others. A good chunk of the paper is unreadable because Lan Qiren had crossed over those wrong answers, but suddenly Nie Huaisang feels curious to see if he'd figure out how he got it so wrong.

“May I see?” Lan Xichen asks, his tone almost too careful, as if he fears he might offend.

“Sure, why not,” Nie Huaisang replies, handing him the papers and turning his attention back to the chest. “You know, I think I have a few portraits of you somewhere in there. Let me just find them, I think one at least is pretty good.”

While Lan Xichen deciphers the physical incarnation of all of his failures, Nie Huaisang continues digging into the chest. He does find a few portraits, but not the one he wants. These are doodles of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, and this he must get rid of discreetly because it's Jin Zixuan, smiling, so Lan Xichen won't like it, and this... well that's a painting of Lan Xichen alright, but he doesn't know how his husband might feel about, ah, imaginative depicting of what Nie Huaisang had once thought their married life might become. Besides, aside from the faces, everything was copied from one of his artful books, so it hardly counts as his own work. And this...

“Huaisang, are you sure this is the test you took back then?” Lan Xichen asks in a strange voice.

“It's not something I'd forget, is it?” Nie Huaisang replies with more bitterness than intended.

He half regrets it when he looks at Lan Xichen. Nie Huaisang almost can't figure what sort of an expression is on his husband's face except that it's an intense, rarely seen one.

Then it hits him.

Lan Xichen is furious.

“If you're having second thoughts because you're realising that I'm really an idiot after all...” Nie Huaisang starts, an old, half forgotten rage and terror already welling in his guts.

“Huaisang, I wouldn't have passed that test.”

Nie Huaisang stares. It's all he can do, when nothing makes sense.

"And I'm not saying I would have failed it when I was the age you were," Lan Xichen continues, blind to Nie Huaisang’s growing panic, his hands clenched on the papers, nearly tearing them apart. "As I am today I would probably not pass this test. The questions are made to look simple and to have easy answers, but they are actually on complicated subjects that only a scholar would know.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Nie Huaisang mumbles, fear still curling in his chest, though a little less tight now. Lan Xichen is angry, but not at him.

Possibly for him.

But it makes no sense, none of this makes sense, because if his exam was really this hard and tricky, then…

“Uncle set you up for failure,” Lan Xichen states, almost a hiss.

Nie Huaisang stares.

This is. This is important. This changes. It just. It changes everything. It should make him angry, and it should make him happy. It should make him feel something, but instead he’s just numb.

It changes everything.

It changes too much.

Nie Huaisang doesn’t even know how to start unpacking everything this discovery means. It’s too much, it’s all at once, it’s the very basis of everything he’s done and felt those last few years being shaken on its foundations so badly that it threatens to crumble.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t think, he can’t breathe, because it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s…

He feels hands on his and that grounds him. One of the hands move to his face, wiping tears he hadn’t realised started flowing down his cheeks, just as he doesn’t know when he closed his eyes. He opens them when a gentle, worried voice calls his name.

“Huaisang,” Lan Xichen whispers. “Huaisang, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know.”

Nie Huaisang nods, trying to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t doubt that Lan Xichen didn’t know. Neither of them wanted to be forced to spend time together at that time, Lan Xichen wouldn’t have played along if he’d known, not even for his uncle.

But this is still…

“I didn’t fail,” Nie Huaisang manages to gasp. “I didn’t fail.”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m not stupid.”

He hears Lan Xichen make a noise almost like a wounded animal, feels himself being pulled into a tight hug that he doesn’t, cannot resist.

It’s not.

It’s not that he actually thinks he’s stupid. Nie Huaisang has learned, has accepted, that he’s quite smart, in his own way. He’s good at reading people, and at becoming friends with them, and he knows about literature and poetry and art and, and he’s nearly as good as Jiang Cheng for mixing patterns, and he understands animals and how to tame them. Nie Huaisang is clever, and he’s forced everyone who matters to see how clever he can be, but he knows what some people still say.

Even now, there are some who think that Lan Xichen should be pitied for their marriage. He’s heard them say that Nie Mingjue should have released his sworn brother from that ridiculous engagement, now that there are no Wens left to justify the need for an alliance. That a man as brilliant and respected as the mighty Zewu-Jun deserves a better spouse than that kid who somehow managed to fail when studying in the Cloud Recesses, something nearly unheard of.

But he’s not stupid.

He didn’t fail.

“You’re the smartest person I know,” Lan Xichen whispers against the top of his head, fierce and sincere in a way that Nie Huaisang doesn’t know how to handle. This, also, is too much, but in a way that hurts less. “I will go talk to Uncle. He owes you an apology.”

It’s almost funny. The idea that Lan Qiren might have to say sorry to Nie Huaisang…

Not so long ago, he would have said that it was impossible. He would have suspected that Lan Xichen would never dare confront his uncle, least of all on Nie Huaisang’s behalf. But now, if Lan Xichen says he will obtain an apology for him, his husband believes that he’ll really fight tooth and nail to get it. He’ll probably still fail, because that’s Lan Qiren and he isn’t one to admit mistakes, least of all when he can argue that things turned out fine for Nie Huaisang, but it doesn’t matter. The apology doesn’t matter. What does matter is knowing Lan Xichen is on his side, and the fact that he didn’t actually fail.

“Don’t go now,” Nie Huaisang demands, pressing himself closer to his husband. “I want… stay with me for now? I don’t care, I really don’t care, just stay with me.”

“Anything you want, my love. I wouldn’t have gone until you felt better, don’t worry.”

Nie Huaisang sighs, and closes his eyes again. He’s breathing easier now, the worst of the shock has passed. Later he’ll feel angry, he suspects. Furious even.

Later.

For now he is at relative peace, in his husband’s arms, loved and protected and seen, the way he always wanted to be, even back when he was a child too shy to dare want anything.

The rest doesn’t matter not really, not when he’s proven his worth in spite of what others say, but…

He didn’t fail, and an old wound he didn’t know he still carried stops itching.

#xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #worst engagement au #yes lxc will have to fucking work hard to get nhs to like him but still #it soothes my soul to write them happy here and there #jau writes #that was a lot of writing today but work really sucked and I needed something GOOD ok?#Anonymous

98 notes · View notes