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rocorambles · 3 years

Text

Reciprocate

Pairing: Akaashi x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Mafia AU, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-Con, Forced Impregnation, Objectification, Degradation, Humiliation

Summary: You should have known better than to think you could ever truly escape from him, especially when you carry something he treasures so dearly inside of you.

You reminisce on the early days when you had met the beautiful dark-haired man, when you had been swept off your feet by striking blue eyes and a serene composure.

Akaashi had never been just normal to you and you remember how he had made your head spin with the air of mystery he carried around him, how your heart whipped back and forth between the always surprising mixture of sharp blunt words and eloquent poetry he entrapped you with. He was a man full of surprises, truly multi-faceted and you remember watching in awe at how quickly he could go from easily and agilely maneuvering his toned athletic body in the gym to lazily reading classic literature with a hand posessively but gently wrapped around your waist as you curled up besides him on the couch.

There are many words you could have used to describe Akaashi. But dangerous? Dangerous was not one of them.

Funny how quickly things can change.

Even as careful as Akaashi is, even he can’t foresee unexpected circumstances, especially when you are more entangled in the webs of his life than he ever meant for you to be. And he is forced to reveal who he truly is to you or kill you when you get caught up in things and with people who shouldn’t have ever even known you existed.

You wouldn’t be the first woman he’s killed and his mind flickers to numerous dead bodies, corpses of prostitutes and other unfortunate women strewn about when things became too complicated, when they threatened his position and the safety of his clan. But he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger, can’t even bring himself to think about aiming at you.

You’re not like the other fleeting distractions and for the first time ever, Akaashi Keiji breaks Fukurodani policies by revealing everything to you in the hopes that you’ll accept him as everything he is, that you’ll join him for the long run.

Blue eyes storm over when you don’t look at him with the love and acceptance he expected of you, only fear and disappointment apparent in your eyes, and his hands instinctively clench into fists when you flinch away from him, scrambling to create space between the two of you when he reaches out to reassure you that underneath the terrifying family name and insignia, he’s still just him.

Fine. You’re scared? He’ll give you something to actually be scared of.

His fingers dig deeper than necessary as they roughly drag and shove you, movements harsh and rough enough to make a very clear point, but never enough to permanently mark you. He likes his possessions as pristine as possible after all. And he smiles at how quick you are to go limp in his arms, obediently letting yourself be led when Akaashi’s silky voice patronizingly tells you what a shame it would be for your beautiful body to be decorated with bullet holes.

You know who Boktuo Koutarou is, even if you’ve never physically met him. Everyone in your city knows who he is, his name whispered and murmured in the streets, tales of his erratic temperament and ruthless wildness spread far and wide. The Fukurodani clan has always been a powerhouse in the underground world, has always controlled your city with an iron fist, and Bokuto, even by Fukurodani standards, has more than risen to the challenge of continuing his family’s undeniable reign, garnering respect and fear even among the monsters that share his insignia. So even though you’ve never met him, you know exactly who you’re shoved to your knees in front of, who Akaashi reverently speaks to and asks for permission from to keep you at the base as his pet, and you don’t dare open your mouth or raise your head, absolute terror paralyzing you.

Gold eyes peer at you in interest. Whores aren’t uncommon in the base, lewd moans and slick sounds sometimes making the base seem more like a brothel than the home of illicit dangerous business and Bokuto has always encouraged and rewarded his men with the best cunts money can buy especially after particularly successful or tiresome raids. But for as long as he’s known Akaashi, he can count the number of times the younger man has partaken in those base pleasures on just his fingers and even then, they’ve always been one night stands, brief flings. So he’s surprised, to say the least, when the dark haired man asks to keep you around as his little toy and he has a gut feeling that you’ll become a permanent extension of the family, but how can he deny the man who’s resolutely stayed by his side all these years, who’s pledged his life and loyalty to him? Akaashi asks for so little and if all he wants is for Bokuto to provide protection and surveillance for one more body to be happy, then so be it.

You’re no stranger to sharing a bed with Akaashi, but this is different. You had always thought that he had been holding back with you, swearing that you saw a hint of something darker gleaming behind blue orbs only for it to dissolve away as you were swept away by sensual languid pleasure and gentle, attentive words. And you hate that you were right, voice going hoarse as you scream at the top of your lungs as you’re ruthlessly taken over and over again, a coldness in the eyes you had once loved that pierces deep within you, animalistic possessiveness in the way he marks you, long slender fingers leaving bruises in their wake as he holds your writhing body in place as he thrusts in and out of your abused lower lips.

Day in, day out. All you know is a fitful sumber that exhaustion forces you into and Akaashi. His scent, his touch, his voice. You’re drowning in his essence. Dying. No. That would be preferable. At least there would be an end. And you silently grieve, unable to even cry real tears anymore when you wonder when this will ever end, if this will ever end.

As much as Akaashi would love to permanently lay beside you, duty and appearances do call from time to time and he reclines across from Bokuto, watching the black and white haired man boisterously chat with Kuroo Tetsurou, the current head of Nekoma as scantily clad women surround the two men, dragging fingernails down their chests and shamelessly shoving their breasts into their faces in the hopes of gaining their favor. They sure do seem to be enjoying themselves and Akaashi grimaces when one of the prostitutes begins to loudly moan as she grinds against his leader’s swelling erection which doesn’t go unnoticed by sharp eyes.

“Akaashi, don’t be so uptight. Why don’t I send some of them to your room tonight to help you loosen up?”

Bokuto knowingly smiles in amusement when he’s promptly rejected.

“Ah, that’s right. You still have your cute pet. But you know Akaashi, pets are temporary. Don’t you think it’s time to make it a little more permanent? Maybe put a ring on it? Hell, I love kids. I wouldn’t mind having a few runts running around the base, especially if they’re yours.”

Their conversation is interrupted by a rude scoff and Bokuto snarls at Kuroo’s taunting words.

“Because God knows Bokuto isn’t having kids anytime soon. No woman could stand bearing his kids and listening to his loudmouth for the rest of her life.”

Akaashi tunes out their bickering as the gears in his mind churn.

He had kept you on your birth control pills, not wanting to disturb his time with you as he broke you in and figured out exactly what his plan for you is. He knows he loves you, knows there’s no life for him without you. But he wasn’t a dreamer. He’s fully aware just how dangerous his life is, how impossible it is for the both of you to be able to grow old together, how much more likely it’ll be that both of you end up dead side by side in a turf war gone wrong. Yet now all he can think of is what you’d be like as a mother, how you’d look pregnant with his children and when your pills run low, he tears your prescription to shreds in front of your eyes.

You have more fight left in you than he thought you would and he’s enraged by how much you despise the thought of carrying his children, every desperate plea for him to not cum inside of you while you’re unprotected, a direct insult to him and his love for you. All he sees is red as he breeds you over and over again, stuffing you full of his cock and his seed, never stopping until you’re filled to the brim with the sticky proof of his adoration, stomach heavy and sloshing with his declared affection.

Turbulent emotions ransack you and you wish you could blame it solely on the hormones raging throughout your impregnated body, but you know it’s deeper than that. It had been so easy to become numb to being used, being known as nothing more than Akaashi’s pretty pet, being the victim of a cold, ruthless stranger you realize now that you never really knew. But it’s agonizing to once again see the hints of the man you had fallen in love with and your heart aches at how gentle and considerate Akaashi is to you once more as your belly begins to swell, a comforting hand rubbing your back and holding your hair away from your face as morning sickness has you heaving over the toilet bowl. And you feel something break and shatter into a million pieces inside of you when one night, as your due date quickly approaches, he kneels in front of you, slipping the engagement ring of your dreams onto your trembling hand.

“I know this isn’t how you dreamed of any of this happening, but I promise you, once the child is born, I’m going to give you the wedding you always wanted and do my best to be the husband and father you deserve and want. I love you.”

You sob, tightly returning Akaashi’s embrace, burying your face in his chest, wishing with all your heart that things could have been different, that you could go back to those early days, that everything in between was a dream, a nightmare.

But this is reality and as you cradle your baby bump, you know that you need to do something, anything, now that it’s not just your life on the line anymore.

For the first time in a long time, it seems like fortune is finally on your side as Akaashi relinquishes his leash on you, trusting that your growing bump will permanently tie you to him, that you won’t even think of trying to escape in your current state. And you play your role perfectly, smiling and leaning into his careful touches, accepting the gifts and attention he lavishes you with, looking to all the world like an excited expecting mother perfectly matched with her doting fiance.

Akaashi resumes taking up longer projects and jobs, no longer seeing a need to keep as careful of a watch over you or a need to remind you of your place besides him every night. And seeing one of their higher-ups relax makes everyone else careless, no one paying you much attention, no more armed men outside your door and windows when Akaashi is away.

Really, it’s embarrassingly easy for you to escape, so easy that you wonder if this is a trap, almost expecting Akaashi to appear from around every corner and drag you back to the prison he had created for you, and you shudder when you can almost feel his hands against your skin, his voice murmuring cruel cutting words into your ear.

But no one stops you and you slowly, but steadily make the long journey to Inarizaki territory, discreetly settling in and making a new home for yourself, starting a new life. Inarizaki and Fukurodani have never dealt much with each other, their territories so far apart that it’s pointless to clash or ally with each other when there are so many other enemies and friends closer to both their homes to deal with. You pray that it’s enough to hide you, to allow you to leave your wretched past behind.

It seems like your prayers are answered as month after month passes, as your belly grows and grows, as you give birth to a beautiful baby girl. You can barely remember a life outside of motherhood, your heart overwhelmingly full of love and happiness as you watch your daughter grow. And as you watch her take her first few wobbly steps as her first birthday passes, you let yourself finally believe that you can really move on and look forward, locking the blue-eyed demon of your past behind you once and for all.

Except that demon doesn’t want to be locked up, that demon is far too strong and cunning for your flimsy padlock, and you clutch your daughter to your chest when your door slams open one night and your apartment is swarmed by men with the Fukurodani insignia, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes when one last final figure makes their way past your threshold and you stare into familiar blue eyes.

As if your daughter can sense your anxiety, your fear, your hopelessness, she begins to loudly wail and bawl, wrapping her little arms around your neck and drenching your neck and shirt with her tears and snot, reminding you just how much is at stake right now.

You do your best to fake some semblance of calmness, drawing on your maternal instincts to still the quivering of your voice as you gently whisper soothing words in her ear, telling her everything will be fine, telling her that these are just mommy’s old friends, all the while watching your ex-lover gracefully make his way towards the two of you, subtly shielding her little body with yours as he approaches.

Realistically you know there’s not much you can do if he does mean harm to her, but you’d gladly die defending her to the best of your abilities if it came down to it, already ready to beg for her to be spared and for just you to be punished for your transgressions and your betrayal. You finch when you feel his weight settle besides you on the bed as he sits on the edge of the mattress, heart pounding as you feel his familiar presence, and you quickly turn to face him, only to be completely stunned by the softness in his eyes as he gazes at your daughter.

Relief floods through you and you hesitantly shift, allowing him easier access to see her, something bittersweet trickling inside of you as long slender fingers gently reach out to caress tear-stained cheeks, as your daughter’s sobs die down and curious eyes peer at the stranger who’s touching her. And deep inside you know Akaashi won’t harm her, will fiercely love her, as he tugs her out of your arms and pulls her into his lap, a sad smile pulling on your lips as you watch father and daughter reunite.

Deep inside you also know that you won’t be as lucky and your fears are confirmed when Akaashi stands, still cradling your giggling daughter in his arms, blue eyes pinning you down with a look you recognize all too well. There’ll be hell to pay for your actions.

You feel nauseous, body already aching and throbbing in anticipation of your punishment. But you plaster on a smile for your daughter as she happily plays with one of her favorite toys in the backseat of the car between Akaashi and you, peppering her tiny face with kisses as Akaashi and you tuck her into the gorgeous nursery he’s prepared for her, and wishing her good night as Akaashi leads you back out, continuously waving until the nursery door is firmly closed. And only then does your act drop and you sob as a hand harshly grips your wrist, tears only flooding down more as you recognize the hallway you’re being dragged down, body shaking when you’re shoved into a room and a bed you had tried so hard to forget.

Clothes are being torn from your body and you thrash around as lips descend upon you, a mouth hungrily molding with yours, yelping when teeth harshly bite on your lower lip before pulling apart. You feel so exposed, so helpless, so vulnerable as icy blue eyes glare down at you, Akaashi’s body pinning you in place as he takes in your figure, scrutinizing every line and curve of your body, mapping every familiarity and difference from the last time he’s seen you. But you lay still, wincing when his grip on your wrist becomes bone crushing when you try to instinctively cover yourself from him.

“I trusted you. I love you. And this is how you repay me? Running away from me? Keeping my daughter away from me?”

You open your mouth to stutter out some feeble excuse, but gasp when a hand wraps around your neck, warningly tightening before relaxing. The weight of his palm still against your throat keeps you silent.

“There’s no excuse for what you did. But I promised you that I’d be a good husband, so I’ll forgive you if you show me how sorry you are.”

You nervously watch as he completely lets go of you, eyes trailing after him as he settles his back against the headboard of the bed, beckoning you over to him with a single finger. And you can’t help but feel like foolish prey walking into a trap as you obey, body quivering in fear as he pulls you in and positions you so that your legs straddle his thighs, back arching and a cry slipping past your lips as he teasingly captures one of your nipples in his mouth and sucks.

“Still so sensitive.”

You hate how well he’s trained your body, how easily your body betrays you even after being separated from him for over a year, how well he knows every inch of you inside and out and shame and humiliation lance through you when a long digit easily slides into your already dripping heat.

“I think you’re more than ready, darling.”

Even past your wanton moans, the clanging metal of his belt unbuckling echoes throughout the room and you whimper as something hard presses against your entrance.

“Come on, love. It’s time for you to apologize. Do you know how much effort and time I spent searching for you?”

You yelp as the hands resting on your waist dig into your flesh before relaxing and rubbing soothing circles into your skin.

“But it’s okay because you’re here now, you and our daughter are here now, and neither of you are ever leaving me again. Right?”

You vigorously nod your head as blue eyes sharply stare at you, relaxing when they soften and a small smile plays on his lips.

“Good girl. Now prove it to me.”

You almost wish Akaashi had just forced himself upon you, finding it so much more demeaning to sink down on his cock all by yourself as he impassively sits back and watches you. But you’re sure that’s the whole point of this, for you to show your submission and acceptance through your actions. After all, nothing he ever does is meaningless.

And you truly do feel broken, like nothing more than a good wife, a good pet as you wildly shake your hips, bouncing up and down on his cock in a way that makes your breasts jiggle, pussy clenching even tighter and gushing even more when he orders you to look him in the eyes all the while.

“You’re making me feel so good, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful. You were made for my cock, made for me. Tell me who you belong to.”

In hindsight you’ll be embarrassed by how quick you are to babble his name over and over again in response. But here and now? All you can think about is the warmth in your chest as he praises you, the warmth in your belly as something pleasant and overwhelming builds inside of you. And Akaashi groans at how tightly you squeeze around him as your peak nears, almost cumming from just the hazed over arousal in your lust-filled eyes, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss and swallowing your cries of ecstasy as you reach your high, body convulsing and twitching in his arms as he holds you steady, lips still locked with yours as he thrusts up a few more times before finding his own release and spilling deep inside of you.

You slump onto him, exhausted body collapsing and still twitching from the onslaught of pleasure. But as the fog from your mind begins to ebb away, you involuntarily tense at the whispered “I love you” that sounds like nails scraping against a chalkboard, hesitating too long to respond in kind. And you know you’ve made a huge mistake when blue eyes are coldly regarding you once more, shivering from both the cold and fear as he pulls back from you before shoving you onto your back and settling between your legs.

“Looks like you need a little more encouragement to reciprocate my feelings. That’s okay. We have all the time in the world for me to show you just how much I love you.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere akaashi #haikyuu smut #yandere akaashi x reader #akaashi x reader #tw: noncon #tw: rape #tw: pregnancy #tw: yandere #tw: impregnation

1K notes · View notes

narutogwriting · 3 years

Note

What about an angst and/or fluff scenario where kiba opens up to his s/o about his father? Like he acts like it doesn’t affect him but one day his gf asks him about it and he lets his true emotions out? I love your writing and thanks if you decide to do it!!

I’m so sorry this has taken so long to get to this! I am absolutely in LOVE with this idea! I have started and restarted this prompt a million times because I really wanted to do this prompt justice. I hope you like it<3

Why Doesn’t He Want Me?

Pairing: Kiba Inuzuka x Reader

CW: none

Length: 2.6k+

Summary: Kiba was raised by two strong women. He’s never felt like he was lacking anything not growing up with a dad. That’s what he tells everyone, anyways.

Inspired by a scene from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air you know the one

Kiba was a lot of things. Arrogant, confident, loud, sure of himself. He was hot, and he knew it, and he loved to flirt. It was easy to take him at face value, accept him for the playboy he pretended to be. But that wasn’t really Kiba, you knew.

Kiba had been raised by the definition of strong women. Between his mom, Tsume, and his sister, Hana, there was no room in his life for disrespect towards women. Despite the way he liked to pretend he was a player, Kiba held a deep reverence for all the girls in his life. Any sort of misogyny he’d picked up in the early academy days had been thoroughly scared from his body the second his mom had gotten wind of it.

Fight like a girl? Run like a girl? Act like a girl? None of those things were insults to Kiba. He saw the way his mother and sister fought, the way they ran, and how strong they were. Kiba’s whole life had been shaped by having a mother and sister that raised him.

And Kiba loved the way he grew up. Sure, his mom could be a little scary at times. But she was tough and strong willed and independent. Hana was a little softer, though Kiba wasn’t sure how she’d managed to end up that way considering how hard their mother was. They were a perfect contrast to each other to help Kiba become a relatively well rounded guy.

Kiba knew that he had known his dad when he was young. He had been too little to remember him, but he had one picture of his dad holding him when he was a baby that was tucked away back somewhere in his closet. The few times his mom--in all her fury--mentioned his father, she’d vent over the way he’d left her alone with a two year old and an eight year old child.

She didn’t talk about him much ever. It was a sore spot for his mother, he knew. She didn’t have many weaknesses, but being left by Kiba’s dad had really done some damage to her.

It was out of love for his mom and respect for her hurt that Kiba made it a point to never even think about his dad. When people would ask about him, Kiba would sometimes make jokes that he’d been too weak willed to handle a woman like his mother, but that was the extent of him talking about his dad.

And he thought it must’ve been true, though. His mother was amazing. His sister was amazing. What other reason could there be for his dad not sticking around?

Kiba’s a young child again, so young that he hasn’t even met Akamaru yet. He’s at the playground, reaching for the monkey bars. He can see his dad on the other side, waiting for him. Kiba’s happy, confident. He’s just two years old; he’s never been let down before, never had a bruise that hadn’t been kissed or a scratch that hadn’t gotten a bandaid on it. He’s never reached for someone and been left on the floor.

So Kiba grabs for the first monkey bars, his eyes securely fixed on the rings above his head. He doesn’t think to look to make sure his dad was there, because hadn’t he always been?

He reaches for one ring, and then the other, and he’s going quickly, surely. He’s half way across when his eyes flicker from the bars above him to the ground below him, looking a million miles away. The distance scares him, he falters, and when he reaches for the next ring, he misses.

Little Kiba goes barrelling to the ground, hitting the wood chips. They soften his fall just a little, but it still hurts. His eyes water as his lips begin to tremble, and reaches out, blinking blurrily through the tears.

He’s reaching out, and he’s waiting, and he’s expecting his father to be there, to pick him up and rescue him and comfort him.

But he doesn’t.

When Kiba can finally see past his tears, all he sees is his dad’s back as he’s walking away, leaving him on the floor, crying and hurt and alone.

He yells out for him, begging for his dad to come back even as he’s disappeared into the distance.

Kiba wakes with a cry, sitting up startled. He blinks, looking around the dark room. He’s in his bedroom, and it was all just a dream, he realizes.

More of a nightmare, really.

Kiba’s breathing hard, and he realizes he’s shaking. He tries to relax, take deep breaths as his hand reaches for his cheeks and sees that they’re wet.

He’s crying. He can’t believe that he’s fucking crying. “What the hell…” He mutters to himself, shoving his fists to his eyes to try to stop the tears. It was just a stupid dream.

You sit up slowly at Kiba’s side, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Kiba? You okay?” You murmur through your yawn. Glancing at the clock, you see that it’s about three am. Kiba usually sleeps through the night.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He mutters, but you know Kiba better than that. He’s shaken by something, and you slide one arm around him, resting your head on his shoulder as your free hand strokes through his hair.

“Kiba…” You say softly. He’s silent, but you don’t mind. You let the quiet drag on, letting him collect himself. You know Kiba doesn’t always have the words to describe what he’s feeling, and sometimes he just needs time to get his thoughts together. You wait patiently, hugging him reassuringly and letting your fingers massage his scalp softly.

After a while, Kiba sighs. “It was just a bad dream is all,” he tries to assure you, but you’re not so easily deterred.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” You ask him gently.

Kiba finally turns to you, seeing how you’re looking at him with those wide, concerned eyes. Since you’d been together, you’ve pushed him in the best ways. You had such a gentle, unassuming way about you that he’d never realized he needed. You were soft when he was hard, vulnerable when he was closed off, and you saw him when all he wanted was to hide away.

He never could keep anything from you.

He wipes at his eyes again, quickly, like if he does it fast enough, you won’t see it, but of course you do. You never miss anything when it comes to Kiba.

“I had a dream about my dad is all.” He says quietly, and you nod in understanding, but don’t say anything; just wait for him to continue.

Shifting uncomfortably, he tells you, “I was little, like two or something. I was on the monkey bars, and he was watching me, waiting for me on the other side, but when I fell, he left, and I was crying and shit. It’s stupid.”

“Kiba,” Your voice is low and soft, but stern, making him turn to look at you again. You’re gazing into his eyes so intensely it almost makes him flinch, but he stays locked in on you.

“It’s not stupid.”

And he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. This is another thing about you that is so great for Kiba. Sometimes he thinks he needs some kind of permission to feel, like he doesn’t deserve it or it's not important enough.

And of course he doesn’t need permission, but you give it to him anyways, let him know that it’s alright to feel hurt and sad.

Kiba looks lost and broken and so sad it makes your heart clench. You love Kiba, love him so much. You can’t stand to see him like this.

“You don’t talk about him much,” You finally say, deciding to help Kiba by directing the conversation. He just shrugs, staring at his hands. “Do you remember much about him?”

Kiba shakes his head. “Nothing, really. I was pretty young. I know one or two things that my mom’s told me, but she doesn’t like to talk about him. I’ve never asked Hana… I’m sure she has more memories than me, but I don’t really want to know them.”

That makes sense to you. It’s too painful; in a way, it’s a sort of bliss to Kiba to not be able to remember anything on his own. To ask Hana, to hear stories about his dad, would only open up wounds that Kiba wasn’t prepared to deal with.

“It doesn’t matter anyways,” Kiba continued. “Ya know, it was just a dream. It’s not like it means anything…”

He lays back down, tucking himself under the covers like he’s done with the conversation. But he should know better. You’re not going to let him off that easily.

“Actually,” you touch his cheek with your hand, slowly turning his head to face you. “I think that that dream has given me more insight into your feelings than you ever have.”

Kiba stares at you blankly because while the dream upset him, he really didn’t think there was more to it. You lay down next to him, tucking yourself into his side as you stare up at him with affectionate eyes. You love this man more than anything.

“The monkey bars are the childish side of you, showing that these feelings are coming from a stunted place because you were too young to process it all.” You explain to him, and he’s looking at you like you're crazy, but you don’t mind. “Your dad was waiting for you on the other side, because you feel like you had to go to him, like it was your responsibility to be the one to initiate and carry the relationship. You have a great mom, Kiba. You should know a good parent is always there for their kids, not vice versa. “

You kiss his cheek softly as your heart aches for Kiba and his sadness, the kind that had been buried so deep, even you hadn’t seen it there.

“The reason that your dad walked away when you didn’t make it across the monkey bars is because you feel like you weren’t good enough, like you did something wrong, and that’s the reason he left....”

Your voice cracks as you speak the words because it’s so tragic, and it’s just not true.

Kiba was the most amazing person you knew. He was so great, so full of love, and everything you never knew you needed in your life. And to realize that for so long he’d been holding this feeling like he wasn’t good enough… It broke your heart.

The silence seems to drag on forever, and it almost makes you nervous. You can’t read Kiba in the darkness, and it’s so quiet. But he’s slowly beginning to shake, and when you touch his cheek again, you realize that tears are flowing freely down his face.

“Kiba,” You say, but he’s getting out of bed. You don’t know whether or not to go after him, but he’s just going to his closet. He’s reaching to the back, throwing things aside to get to whatever he’s trying to find.

When he finally does, he comes back and sits on the bed. You push yourself up to look at what’s in his hands and see that it’s a picture. It's crumbled and creased and has a small stain on it, showing you how old it is. A closer inspection shows a toddler Kiba being held by a man that looks almost nothing like him. You see that Kiba got his nose from his father, and despite having the same canines as his mom, the softer smile from him too.

Kiba’s gripping the picture tightly in his hands, and you’re almost afraid he’s going to rip it.

“You know,” he rasps out, his teary eyes locked on the picture in his hands. “It’s been years since I looked at this thing. When I was little, I used to look at it every day. I kept it under my pillow and would study it, to make sure that if my dad ever came back, I would recognize him.”

He sniffles, rubs his nose. “I would look at it every night and then every day, I’d look around everywhere I went, hoping I’d catch even a glimpse of him.” Kiba laughs through the tears, a dry, humorless laugh that makes you wince in pain for him. He crumbles the picture into a ball and chucks it at the wall.

“I don’t need him, you know?” Kiba’s trying to keep his voice calm and steady, but the words wobble as they leave his mouth. “What would I even want him for, anyways, huh? He’s never done anything for me! I got into the academy without him, I became a chunin without him! I’m becoming a great ninja! I got a beautiful girl. Everything I know, I’ve either learned from my mom or taught myself!”

He’s getting louder and louder with each word. His hands are balled into a fist, but you take them in your own, pressing your lips to them gently until they uncurl. You won’t let his pain harden him.

“I’m eighteen years old now! I can’t even remember my father! I always tell people he left because he couldn’t handle my mom, because she was too good for him, and it’s true!” The last word is broken by a sob, and he’s trembling as he collapses against you. You hold him with all of your strength and love, pressing kisses over his head as tears start to fall from your own eyes.

“She was too good for him, and so is Hana. But, you’re too good for me! You’re way too good for me, and I would never leave you! So he must’ve… He must’ve been unhappy with me.” He cries out. You can feel his tears soaking through your night shirt.

“I must’ve not been good enough for him… Why wasn’t I good enough? Why doesn’t he want me?” And it’s the presentense that really sends you over the edge. Not wondering why his dad hadn’t wanted him when he was younger, but needing to know why still, even now all these years later, his dad wasn’t around.

So you hold him as he cries, and you cry along with him. You place kisses over every crevice of his body, whisper “i love you’s” into the crook of his neck. You reassure him, over and over in every way you can think of that he is worthy, that he is enough. That he is not defined by somebody so broken that they couldn’t love anybody but themself.

You tell him as much as you can, until it’s ingrained into his brain, that if and when Kiba decides to become a dad, he’s going to be the type of man that his own dad could only dream of becoming. That, despite the pain, despite the abandonment, Kiba has come out on the other side, strong and loving and kind and a good man. The type of man that you are proud to have in your life, and proud to love and be loved by.

It’s emotional, and it’s heavy, and you both are worn and exhausted by the time the sun is breaking a light blue through the darkness. Kiba falls asleep in your arms, holding you like you’re his only anchor.

And you know it’s not fixed. Some things that are broken will always stay cracked. But it’s a start. For the first time, Kiba is healing. He is Kintsugi, the art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold. Though there are cracks in him, for the first time, with your love, he is seeing that he can fill those cracks in. He can paint them golden, become more beautiful, more whole than he was before. He will use that pain and that hurt that he’s felt for so long.

He is worthy. He is loved. He will be a better man.

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keichanz · 3 years

Text

Mistake

kay so i really don't care if some of this doesn't make sense because this is the first thing i've written in a while that i don't absolutely hate. well this version at least. ending up scraping the first draft because it just seemed wrong and went in a different direction. im glad i did cause im happy with it.

anyway i realize that this may not get much feedback because i took a different approach to it, aka the entire pov is from an OC but i can't bring myself to care too much because i wrote this purely for myself. got inspired, started writing, and i actually liked the content i was writing. end of.

btw the oc doesn't refer to inuyasha as a half-demon because he's unaware he is one and i was too lazy to delve into those waters anyhow.

also for the sake of this oneshot pls dont look too closely at the ranks of diplomat and ambassador. i was too lazy to put much research regarding positions of power so just...go with it.

inspired by @stillunderyourbed's art that can be found here.

It was…quaint. Smaller than what he'd expected. The housing structures looked subpar, there didn't appear to be any wooden walkways, and he could detect the distinct odor or fish in the air with hints of manure. There even seemed to be a perpetual dust cloud hovering at about waist high, thickening from the numerous carts, wagons, horses, and villagers kicking up dirt as they went about their daily lives. Already he felt like there was a layer of dust caked on the inside of his lungs and he wasn't even inside yet.

All in all, it was your typical countryside village, home to simple folk that made a living off of fishing, farming, and trade. The diplomat sneered in disgust. For being the rumored home of the creature strong enough to destroy the despicable Naraku, the village was…less than impressive. And to say that he was underwhelmed would be a vast understatement.

Shifting atop his mount, a chestnut gelding that had been his faithful companion for the last four years, Takeji frowned as he surveyed the sight before him. It was early afternoon, so men were out working in the fields, women were chatting amongst themselves as they laundered clothing at the river, and children were running about, playing and laughing while dogs barked at their heels. He could see the great red torii gate and the stone staircase that led to the shrine and he could hardly refrain from rolling his eyes.

The village was obviously poor, possibly even teetering on the edge of poverty, and instead of feeding themselves for a good long while, they decided to construct that monstrosity. He would never understand the minds of simple common folk. Daft. All of them.

Barely keeping himself from scowling, Takeji reluctantly climbed off his mount and forced himself to move forward into the pathetic excuse for a village. Already he knew he would have to burn his expensive attire; there would be no getting the dust and stench out of it after his ghastly visit. A visit he had not wanted to make, but being a highly revered and prestigious diplomat, it was his duty to travel to far off lands in hopes of establishing a profitable relationship that would ultimately benefit his homeland.

Although, looking around and fighting against the urge to retch at both the nauseating stench and the mere sight of all the unwashed villagers milling around, Takeji wondered not for the first time why he even bothered to accept this task. True, it was said the slayer of Naraku did hail from here, but surely having his homeland associated with this hovel would garner nothing but loss. So why had he agreed to come?

Oh, yes, he mused, grimacing as he stepped over a large manure pile right in the middle of the road. Because apparently, being all chummy with the nation's hero will allow us to have him at our beck and call, because who doesn't want a powerful demon capable of slaying the most evil demon in all of existence as an intimidating presence during negotiations, and let's not forget he alone would be equal to about one hundred soldiers in battle.

Rolling his eyes, Takeji tied his mount to a hitching post, withdrew his satchel with all the necessary paperwork, and set about finding this Inuyasha fellow. He'd been told the demon wore scarlet robes, carried a sword at his hip, and had white hair so no doubt he would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the droll browns and grays of the common folk, which suited him just fine. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could leave because there was no way he was staying even a second more in this village than he had to. Even if the next inn was hours away, he'd make the journey; the inn here was probably as unclean and riddled with bed bugs or something. Ugh. How vile.

Shrugging the satchel over his shoulder, Takeji bit back a groan, sighed, and hadn't even made it a single step before the sound of screaming froze him in his tracks. He gasped and immediately started looking for the danger, body tense, preparing to hop back onto his steed lightning fast and make a hasty getaway.

But as he looked around with wide eyes and a frantically beating heart, Takeji couldn't help but notice that he was the only one that appeared to have heard the sound of terror. The villagers were just continuing to go about their day, calm as you please, either severely deaf or completely uncaring. Takeji was beginning to wonder if he was perhaps hearing things when it happened again, a high-pitched sound that he realized with dread belonged to a child.

Takeji gaped. A child was in danger and nobody cared?! What kind of village was this?! Another shriek pierced the air, and Takeji made a decision. Very well; if these imbeciles weren't going to do anything about it, then he himself would see to the danger. While by no means a swordsman or warrior, he did have some weapons training he could fall back on for this precise reason. Traveling alone was dangerous, and you never knew what you would encounter.

Resolved, the diplomat set his jaw, unsheathed the dagger at his waist, and darted toward the direction the screams were coming from. He meandered between houses, hoped over lazing dogs, dodged startled villagers in his path, and he came into a small clearing by the forest's edge. The sight that greeted him was…not what he expected.

Coming up short, Takeji watched with a befuddled frown as one child chased around two other, slightly older looking children. One might think they were playing a game of sorts, and the diplomat started to believe that was indeed the case…until the one doing the chasing, clad in red, suddenly jumped high into the air, over the heads of the other two children, and landed before them with hands raised.

Hands, Takeji noticed with growing dread and disgust, tipped with claws on each finger and he quickly realized what exactly was happening. That wicked little demon brat, that creature was toying with those helpless children! It was keeping them trapped, preventing them from running away by leaping over their heads and blocking their route of escape! They screamed, the demon child laughed, and so potent was his fury, so enraged was he for the fact that the villagers apparently did not care about what was happening right beneath their noses, Takeji failed to notice the wide smiles on all three of the young one's faces. The blood pounding in his ears prevented him from hearing the gleeful giggles as the two human kids scrambled away from the one clad in red, and without another thought, Takeji moved.

"Run, children!" Takeji ordered as he hurled himself into the clearing, dagger raised as he charged toward the demon brat with a baleful glare. "I will take care of his filthy animal!"

All three children froze in place, eyes wide as Takeji inserted himself between the two human children - twin girls, he idly noted - and the demon spawn that dared raised its claws toward them. The brat stared up at him with big brown eyes and it - she - actually looked confused. Takeji scowled. He would not fall for such a ploy.

"I will not allow you to harm them," he spat and pointed his dagger at her. The child blinked at him and then looked behind him at the two girls who still had not taken the chance to flee. In shock, perhaps? Stunned? No matter; they were safe, so long as he stood between them and the threat.

The demon child made a face and started to walk around him, completely disregarding the weapon trained on her, but Takeji shifted and stopped her once more. He heard the two behind him whispering as the spawn looked up at him once again, this time frowning at him with narrowed eyes. And was that a growl he heard? He snorted. Was she actually trying to appear threatening? Pathetic.

Scowling, Takeji lifted a foot, placed it on her stomach, and shoved. The demon gasped as she stumbled back and then landed on her behind with a small grunt. He heard a gasp from behind him, urgent whispering, and then hurried scrambling. A glance over his shoulder told him they'd finally gotten wise and ran away. He nodded. Good. Now he could deal with this vermin without innocent eyes to bear witness.

But as he stared down at the pathetic sight before him, Takeji wondered maybe if such measures would even be necessary. The beast was still lying where she had fallen and was staring up at him with wide eyes brimming with…wait. What? Were those tears? Oh, you have got to be joking.

Rolling his eyes, the diplomat scoffed at the pathetic play for mercy and careless waved his dagger at her. The child actually flinched and followed the blade with her gaze, wariness clear in her eyes. Well. It appeared her self-preservation instincts have finally kicked in.

"Cease your theatrics," Takeji drawled, unimpressed. "They do not fool me. Now lucky for you, demon spawn, the pathetic sight you project has made me decide to spare your life. Your tainted blood is not worthy enough to soil my blade, so I will say this only one and you would do well to heed this warning, beast."

Hardening his stare and curling his lip into a sneer, Takeji spat, "Leave this place at once and do not return. There is no place for the likes of you, an abomination that preys on helpless children. Now get out of my sight, afore I kill you on principle. Your vile presence disgusts me."

The child grunted and Takeji watched, stone faced, as she got to her feet. Then to his surprise the little demon balled her hands into fists at her sides and glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the tears he could clearly see brimming her eyes. He cocked a brow, unmoved. She sniffled once, twice, and then to his utter surprise and bafflement, her face suddenly crumbled, her lower lip trembled, and she promptly burst into loud tears before spinning on her heel and running away.

"P-Papaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Takeji frowned. Papa? Were the brat's kin nearby, then? Body tense and weapon raised, he waited, prepared to either fight or flee - because he wasn't a fool and knew when he was in over his head - but when no demons came bursting out of the tree line, Takeji slowly relaxed.

Bewildered and more than a little annoyed at the whole debacle - what a waste of time! - the diplomat scoffed in derision as he turned to watch the little demon brat scurry away. And then right at that exact moment, a figure donned in red dropped to the ground seemingly out of nowhere and Takeji felt a wave of relief sweep through him. Finally! This had to be his demon quarry.

Nodding, Takeji stepped forward and opened his mouth to call out a greeting—

And then froze in his tracks as the greeting abruptly died on his tongue. Because the little demon girl, the one he'd just pointed his weapon at and shoved to the ground, ran straight to the figure robed in red and Takeji could do naught but watch with a growing sense of horrified dread as the older demon knelt down to take the child into his arms.

All color promptly drained from his face and Takeji suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He glanced behind the pair and he was somehow not at all surprised to find the twin girls from earlier glaring at them and holding onto the skirts of their mother with a monk garbed in violet robes beside her. They too were staring at him in a not so friendly manner, but upon returning his gaze to the two demons, Takeji numbly thought that if looks could kill, he would surely be dead by now.

Because the demon robed in red - which was now unmistakably the child's father and none other than Inuyasha, the demon he'd come here for - was glaring absolute murder at him and it was obvious that he was. Not. Pleased.

Takeji swallowed and unconsciously backed up a step. With one small hand fisting her father's robes, the child had the other pointing an accusatory finger at him as she no doubt recited to him their earlier…ah, exchange. Inuyasha said nothing in response, but he didn't need to. The deep, nearly subsonic growl that erupted from his mouth, complete with fully bared fangs in a truly fearsome snarl, told him very clearly of his thoughts on his daughter's mistreatment by him.

Which, if Takeji had to guess, were not very Takeji-friendly. At all.

Somehow managing to fight against the urge to flee, Takeji swallowed hard as Inuyasha pushed to his feet and stalked toward him with that same murderous look on his face. Something told him, perhaps some deeply rooted self-preservation instinct, that if he even tried to run right then, it would not end well for him. So he remained where he was and tried valiantly to control the trembling in his body as he slowly, very slowly, tucked his dagger back from whence it came.

Inuyasha stopped in front of him and Takeji cleared his throat before attempting a placating smile, but it looked more like a grimace than anything. "Ah…I assume you are…In—"

One second Takeji was staring into the scowling features of one pissed off dog demon. The next there was a bright flash of light and then he was staring at the business end of a very large and very sharp sword. With the tip just a hair's breadth away from his nose, Takeji gasped sharply and stumbled back a step out of instinct.

Sweet merciful heavens! How—?

"Usually I'd ask who the fuck you are," the demon growled, his eyes twin slits of baleful gold. "But honestly, I can't really bring myself to care enough to know the name of the asshole who threatened my daughter when she was doing nothing but playing with her friends."

Takeji blanched for the second time and he could actually feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat. He fucked up. Oh dear god he'd fucked up so bad—

"There's—there's been a misunderstanding," Takeji tried in a voice higher than usual, raising his hands up in what he hoped was a placating gesture as he eyed the very sharp point of that blade. "I—I admit I've made a grave mistake—"

"Shut the fuck up and tell me why I shouldn't gut you where you stand," Inuyasha hissed, lips feeling back off his fangs in another fierce snarl. With his ears pinned back and those golden eyes glaring absolute death at him, the demon made quite the menacing picture. Takeji had the brief, if a bit ludicrous thought, that perhaps the demon Naraku perished from the sheer animosity that was coming off of the silver-haired demon in waves.

Swallowing once, twice, Takeji realized that he only had his quick wit to get him out of his certain predicament. So bracing himself, he opened his mouth—

"He's from the continent, Inuyasha. You can't hurt him."

Startled hazel eyes swung toward the source of the voice but amber eyes stayed locked on their target, the only acknowledgment of the voice a flick of an ear.

The owner of the voice the human diplomat could only presume was the child's mother, as the child in question was standing behind her legs and was actually smirking at him. He frowned.

"You're from Shenshi," the woman remarked and Takeji swung his gaze back to her. "Right?"

Though her expression wasn't openly friendly, it wasn't exactly unfriendly either, however the human diplomat still felt he needed to tread carefully. Because while her face didn't betray anything, her stare was hard and her mouth had tightened into a thin, flat line. She had one hand on her daughter's head while the other clutched a longbow, and belatedly he realized she had a quiver of arrows slung across her back. He barely held in a flinch as he realized this was one of the demon's companions that had assisted in slaying Naraku, possibly the young woman in which Inuyasha held a more meaningful relationship.

A much more meaningful relationship, if the child currently glaring daggers at him was anything to go by since she was more or less living proof of it.

Wonderful. So he'd gone and threatened the only child of two of the most powerful beings in Japan. Clearly he'd stepped over the wrong grave and pissed somebody off.

Clearing his throat and aiming a strained smile toward the woman who was still awaiting his reply, Takeji nodded once. "Ah, y-yes, my lady. I'm—"

"The diplomat Ambassador Sharaku sent to convince Inuyasha to join his ranks so he'd have the support and protection of 'The Great Slayer of Naraku.'" The woman raised a delicate brow at him. "How am I doing so far?"

Takeji had the good grace to look a mite sheepish. "Ah…well—"

"You can't kill him, Inuyasha," she repeated and Takeji thought she sounded disappointed. "If he goes missing, the ambassador will send his troops to find out what happened or if he returns injured, it could be taken as an insult and you can imagine what would happen after that. You would risk mine or Moroha's life like that, and you know it."

Inuyasha growled but said nothing to refute her words, so Takeji assumed he agreed.

"He threatened her, Kagome," the demon spat, inching the blade closer to his throat and Takeji flinched. "Called her a fucking animal, shoved her down, and waved a goddamn dagger in her face! You can't honestly expect me to let that—"

"Papa," the child - Moroha - suddenly said, successfully stalling her father's angry tirade. A quick glance revealed the girl, still sticking close to her mother, was staring at the older demon with big brown eyes, bright with the threat of tears as she worried her bottom lip. And evidently the sight was enough to calm the raging storm of Inuyasha's fury because he grimaced, released a low growl, and then Takeji watched in stunned amazement as the massive sword suddenly transformed into a rusty katana before it was sheathed at his hip.

With a weapon no longer at his throat, Takeji could breathe a little easier and he released a breath he hadn't even been aware he'd been holding. But then he sucked it right back in when Inuyasha suddenly stepped in close and got in his face, a low, threatening growl leaking past rightly clenched teeth bared in another snarl. Golden eyes bore into his own, filled with a lethal warning that had the human male's back straightening and his blood to run cold in his veins.

"You listen carefully, asshole," Inuyasha hissed, glaring so heatedly it was a wonder Takeji didn't burst into flame. "Don't you dare think that my wife's words have any sort of sway over my decision to spare your pathetic life. I'm not scared of your weakling ambassador and I sure as hell ain't scared of his little human army. No, the only reason that I let you live is because I don't want my daughter, the one you foolishly threatened when she had done nothing wrong, to see me sully my hands with your disgusting blood when I reduce you to nothing more than a bloody smear on the ground."

Takeji paled and swallowed thickly. That particular image was…not pleasant.

Inuyasha watched the color drain from his face. Satisfied, he sneered before saying in a growl filled with sinister promise, "Now get the fuck outta my village and if you ever touch my daughter again, I'll gut you so fast you won't even have time to fucking scream."

Then with that, Inuyasha leveled him with one last dark scowl before spinning on his heel and stalking away, a clear dismissal. Neither mother nor daughter even spared the frozen human male a glance as Inuyasha paused to pick his daughter up into his arms before striding away, his wife close to one side and his friends on the other.

From over his shoulder, Takeji could only watch in a mixture of shock and befuddlement as the little demon girl named Moroha smirked and then stuck her tongue out at him, safe and sound in her father's arms.

Left standing in a state of numb bewilderment, Takeji blinked, looked down at himself, and had the passing thought that it was a very good thing he'd decided to wear brown trousers that day.

#mistake #inuyasha fanfiction #inuyasha #inukag #moroha #oneshot #keizfanfiction #papayasha to the rescuuuuue #i deliberately did not tag anybody in this and no i will not say why #and yes i did use sharaku because it sounds like naraku #listen dont fuck with his wife or kid #you will die #if you dont understand that last sentence #tough shit im not explaining it lmao

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panda9584 · 3 years

Text

To the Stars

By usuallysunny on ao3

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Chloe Decker

Summary: “Maybe it was last night. Or the night before on the balcony, when you were up against the—” ...a missing scene

Warnings: !NSFW!

Notes: A missing scene from season six that the Lucifer writers robbed us of. We want balcony sex!! The lovely usuallysunny on ao3 has given us the scene we’ve all been asking for :)

Words: 2708

You can read below ⬇️ or read on ao3 (link above)

It doesn’t surprise her anymore, the heady way Lucifer looks at her.

He’s looked at her many different ways over the years.

When they first started working together, he looked at her like she was a puzzle for him to figure out, dark eyes curious and intrigued. As they turned from unlikely colleagues to even more unlikely friends, that look softened around the edges. She remained fascinating to him, just out of his reach, but as he memorised her coffee order, and added her favourite 90s playlist to his sound system, he became more interested in actually knowing her, what made her tick.

As they became closer still, brought together by a crazy professor and a poison that danced her on the edge of death, she began to see a spark that was more than lust in his eyes. Somewhere along the way, between the banter that set her teeth on edge, and all the cases to solve, he had grown to care for her. Desire still blazed behind his eyes, glittering mischievous and wild, and she still tried her hardest to fight it—but he stopped trying to sleep with her, and started trying to be with her. In all the ways that count.

In the uncomfortable year after Cain and before Eve, she started to hate the way he looked at her. She couldn’t see the care or affection anymore, muted by pain and betrayal. But the longing was still there, keeping her on a precipice, dangling a carrot, not allowing her to let go. It’s the most shameful thing in her life, what happened with Kinley. She remembers that night in the penthouse, when he’d asked her if she could accept him. She hadn’t been ready then, and remembering that look—dark eyes glistening wet with so much hurt—makes her feel a little sick.

Chloe hopes he never looks at her that way again.

There’s so much reverence in his eyes when he looks at her now. He can freely admit he loves her, it no longer lodges in his throat, tangled in excuses. He’s lost her too, felt her die in his arms, and died for her in return. He looks at her like she’s something sacred, something to hold onto, and while it no longer surprises her, the intensity of it still takes Chloe’s breath away.

Through it all, no matter the time or place, the look is always tinged with want. He’s Lucifer Morningstar, after-all, and desire is his playground.

The look he sends her now as he prowls towards her, bathed in the soft yellow hues of the elevator behind him, clenches heat in the pit of her belly.

Her mouth feels too dry as she walks backwards towards the balcony, feeling very much like prey. She wonder if she can be called such if she wants it so much. She wants him to devour her, to crawl inside her, to become one with her and never let go.

“I thought you wanted desert,” her voice sounds deeper, huskier, in her ears as he continues to close the gap between them.

That’s what he’d said at the restaurant anyway, carelessly tossing a few hundreds down as he insisted they’d finish their meal at home. She’d expected him to drop her off at the penthouse and slip down to the outrageous kitchen that covers the entirety of floor 42. Then he’d return with some brownies, or ice cream, and yes, they’d probably eat it off each other’s bodies, but that’s besides the point.

“I do,” he insists as she steps backwards onto the balcony, cool night air hitting her body. Almost immediately, she feels her nipples pebble under her dress, a faint tremor shivering over her skin.

His dark eyes, pupils already blown to black, drop to between her thighs.

Her breath catches, molten heat pooling in the pit of her belly when she realises what he means. So she is to be prey then, she thinks wryly, as he steps outside with her and backs her up against the balcony’s railing.

He leans in, surrounding her in a cloud of whiskey and smoke. His mouth skims her jaw, warm lips trailing to her ear.

“Hold on,” he orders in a silken purr, accentuating it with a soft bite on her earlobe. His mouth curves into a smirk at the shudder that races down her spine.

She does as she’s told, her slightly shaking hands travelling to grasp the railing either side of her.

He straightens, his hands trailing an electric path down her sides until he firmly grips her hips. Then he lifts her, planting her on the balcony’s edge.

“Lucifer!” she gasps, her stomach dropping as she takes in the bustling LA nightlife below.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ve got you,” he croons, “I’d never let you fall.”

She swallows, turning her head back to face him. She has a death grip on his shoulders, made tighter by Amenadiel’s rod hanging from a chain behind her bullet, and she looks into his eyes. They shine sincere, blown wide with desire and so much love, and she trusts him.

“Yeah, you too,” she says softly, her words taking on a deeper meaning.

He smiles, genuine and momentarily devoid of seduction, before he leans in to let his lips brush against hers. She sighs, her heart stuttering in her chest. They’ve kissed hundreds of times now—from passionate, tangling tongues to a simple peck goodnight—and every time feels like the first.

Her hands travel from his shoulders to his face, feeling the rasp of his neatly trimmed beard under her palms. His own hands fit at her waist, holding her securely as he finally kisses her properly. His lips are warm and firm as they glide over hers, his tongue slick and probing as he runs it over her bottom lip. He swallows the moan she doesn’t mean to make as she opens her mouth and their tongues connect.

Every slide of his tongue against hers sends a spark of heat between her thighs. She shifts on the balcony’s edge, needing to rub them together, to relieve the ache. Her fingers dance to the nape of his neck, playing with the soft curls there. He hums in pleasure, the sound vibrating against her lips and intensifying the ache in her core.

He tugs her closer, stepping between her thighs as she spreads them wider. With one hand on the small of her back, he pushes her into him, letting her feel the evidence of his desire. She breaks away from his mouth with a moan, tipping her head back as she rolls her hips against his thick erection.

He kisses her cheek, her jaw, her neck, down to the hollow of her throat.

When he drags his mouth back to her ear, she’s breathless, and he’s panting, and he sounds utterly wrecked as he murmurs, “I want to taste you.”

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cool LA air passes through her.

“Please,” she whispers.

“I’m so glad you wore a dress,” he can’t help but quip as he slowly sinks to the floor, crooning his next words behind her knee, “now we just need to work on those crotchless panties, hmm?”

Chloe smirks, rolling her eyes to the sky.

“Not happening, Lucifer.”

“A devil can dream,” he sighs, and slowly draws her panties, crotch and all, down her legs.

She shivers again when her pussy is exposed to the night air.

“Always so wet for me,” he murmurs, as though he’s talking more to himself than to her, and skims his nose along the crease where her thigh meets her groin.

“Yes,” she whispers, her fingers tightening around the railing, “for you. Only for you.”

He gives a pleased little hum, one hand coming up to bunch the fabric of her dress in a fist of silk at her back. He holds it there, and holds her steady, as two fingers of the other hand swipe over her slit. She gasps at the first contact, her breath catching in her throat.

She’s close to begging again when he finally slides his tongue over her. Her hips arch towards him, her toes curling into cool glass, her fingers gripping the railing so tight, she’s sure she can hear the whine of bending metal.

He doesn’t seem to mind, focused on the task at hand as his talented mouth wrings out her pleasure. The sounds he makes as he eats her out border on obscene, thick growls and low groans and hot sucks as he focuses his attention on her clit. Her thighs tremble around his head and she glances down. She catches a shock of black curls against tanned thighs and she dares to lift a hand from the railing to tangle in his hair.

Over the past few months, she’s come to learn what he likes, so she’s not surprised when she tugs at his curls and he growls into her cunt, spurred on by the sting of half-pleasure, half-pain. His tongue rolls over her, hot and slippery slick, and her moan is almost a sob by the time he slips two fingers inside her.

He pumps them languidly, crooking them in a come-hither motion as his mouth returns to her clit. He takes the hard little nub between his lips and sucks hard. She cries out, cloaked by the privacy of being hundreds of feet in the air. She wonders if she’d care if she wasn’t. It’s difficult to see clearly when he’s making her eyes roll.

“Lucifer,” she sobs his name like a prayer, the only religion she clings to, as she feels herself approaching the edge, “please… I’m gonna—”

Desire strangles her throat. He hums, fucking her faster with his fingers as he licks at her.

“That’s it, baby,” he purrs, the pet-name one he only uses during sex, “come for me.”

She faintly registers the snap of his wings as she does.

Her orgasm rushes through her, exploding with a force that makes her arch her back a little too far. She sways for just a moment, not even long enough to panic, before there’s a flash of brilliant white and one of his wings is behind her, catching her as she rides the wave. The feathers tickle at her, intensifying the sensation, as he growls into her heat.

She shudders, her body shaking in the afterglow, and he laps at her lazily until she has to push him away through oversensitivity.

His wings are still surrounding her, casually cradling and caressing her, as she comes back down to earth.

He rises to his feet, brushing off his expensive Armani and adjusting his cuffs. She feels a heat rise in her cheeks at the sight of his lower face, his mouth and chin glistening with her juices. She watches him shamelessly lick his lips, his eyes black.

“God,” she breathes, still shaking.

“Not quite yet,” he smirks, before he arches a brow and asks, “good?”

She laughs, a blissed out smile curving on her lips.

“You don’t need me to stroke your ego,” she says as she reaches for his belt, not waiting for him to undoubtedly reply with a quip about stroking something else.

She slides down from the railing on trembling legs, fingers working on his buckle. Her hair billows as he shrugs his shoulders and furls his wings. The silence is deafening, the air pulsing hot and heavy between them, as she draws his belt from the loops and drops it onto the floor with a clink.

Fresh desire sparks between her legs when he kisses her and she tastes herself on his lips, tangy and tart. She breaks away to kiss his neck, taking in his masculine scent, all scotch and smoke and expensive cologne that clings to his throat. He groans, fingers flexing at her waist. With all his strength and power, she loves making him moan for her.

They kiss again as she pushes his jacket off his shoulders, uncaring as it floats to the floor in a pool of expensive Armani. She works on his buttons next, trying to keep her fingers from shaking, but he’s never exactly been the most patient of men. He’s loud, and unapologetic, and what he wants, he takes.

And what he wants right now is to be buried inside her.

So he leaves his shirt and her dress on, and he only bothers to pull his hard length out of his slacks. She barely has time to register him giving it a few pumps before he’s turning her around and bending her over the railing.

Clearly he’s in a dominant mood tonight, and it turns her on, her thighs turning slick again. His hands are a little rougher, a little less careful, now he knows she has Amenadiel’s necklace. She feels its power rush through her, heady and addictive. She pushes back, pushing her ass into his groin and grinding against his rigid length.

He mutters a curse into her hair. She grabs onto the balcony railing as he prepares her with his fingers again, and then she feels the head of his cock push against her dripping entrance.

“Please,” she begs, breathed into the cool night air.

“Please what, darling?”

Bastard, she thinks, but she says—

“Please fuck me.”

He breaches her, sliding his cock inside. They both groan at the contact, quickly fitting into a steady rhythm. She meets him thrust for thrust, feeling him withdraw almost entirely before he pushes back in. One hand holds her hip, angling her for his thrusts, while the other comes to lay on top of hers, entwined fingers curling over the balcony.

“You like that, Chloe?” he purrs, her name dripping from his lips like sin as his hips snap behind her, “you like being fucked out here in the open?”

She moans, slightly surprised at how his words turn her on. She knows he’s vastly experienced, has probably had sex in every position, invented most of them, and he’s probably a master at dirty talk—but for her, it’s all very new.

“Yes,” she confirms breathily, hooded eyes focused on the twinkling lights of the city below, “yes, Lucifer. Right there.”

He hums his approval, both hands flying to her hips. It falls silent save for her pants and his grunts, and when he slaps her ass, the sound of flesh on flesh pierces the air.

“Fuck,” the moan glides out of her without her permission, “again.”

He obeys as he gives her another smack, a thick sound rolling from his chest—half a moan, half a delighted chuckle. She imagines the red imprint his hand will leave behind and clenches around his length.

His thrusts turn long and deep, the angle hitting the perfect spot inside her. Her breath hitches as he slips a hand up to her throat, pulling her up, back against his chest. Her fingers remain curled around the railing, her head rolling against his shoulder.

He keeps a loose grip around her neck and turns her face to kiss him. Her lips tremble against his as she feels that coil inside her snap again, her orgasm rushing over her. Her tightening cunt milks his own orgasm from him and she feels his cock jerk and pulse as he comes, moaning into her mouth. He fucks her in shallow thrusts as they come back down, some of his cum sliding down her inner thigh as he pulls out.

“I love you,” he murmurs after a moment, just because he can. Just because it’s easy now.

She smiles and kisses his lips, “I love you too.”

Then she glances upwards, and thinks of the strange angel who had flown into her life a few days before.

Maybe this is how we made her, she wonders absently, another lightbringer created under the stars he put in the sky.

Two days later, when Rory and Lucifer meet again, something rare and fragile blossoming between them, Lucifer recalls, “maybe it was last night. Or the night before on the balcony, when you were up against the—”

And like a feeling stuck deep in her chest, Chloe just knows it was.

#lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer fandom #lucifer fanfiction #lucifer finale spoilers #rory decker morningstar #deckerstar #chloe decker #detective decker #lucifer netflix #deckerstar smut #ao3 fanfic #lucifer ao3

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emerald-amidst-gold · 3 years

Text

OC Interview: Fane Lavellan

Thank you for the tag @dungeons-and-dragon-age! I’ve been eyeing up this meme for a while actually, so this was perfect timing! X3

This takes place Post-Trespasser, about a month or two after, in fact. Solas brought the idea forward, and of course, Fane refused. But after some coaxing, some explanation as to why, and the promise of a whole cake, Fane agreed to humor the request.

*THERE BE BIG THINGS REGARDING FANE HERE*

I got carried awaaaaaay! XD

Introduction

Can you introduce yourself?

“I can, but it’s a lengthy list,” He sighs, “...Those who are close to me, who see as but an elf, call me Fane. Those who wish to meet cobble, call me Lavellan or Herald. Those who are blinded by reverence call me ‘He Who Flew Above’. Denizens of the Fade refer to me as, ‘Devotion’ or ‘Tenacity’. However, my true name is..” He sighs again, “...Aterian. I rarely go by it, but the truth won’t be ignored. It never can be.”

What is your gender identity, orientation and relationship status?

“Male. Elvhen. Dragon.” He huffs through his nose, shifting his gaze off to the side, “That’s all I’ll say on that. As for orientation, I’m...emotionally driven. If you asked me to look at another and tell you what’s attractive about them I would say, ‘Nothing.’ I don’t know them, so I feel nothing for them.“ He shrugs, turning his gaze back, but brandishes a glare, “There’s only one person who defies that response, and that’s because he knows me, without and within. More than that, is none of your business.”

Where and when were you born?

He lifts a hand, massaging a temple, “The ‘where’ is simple; Elvhenan. Specifics are lost to me, however, so you’ll have to be content with that response.” He shifts his gaze downwards, slowly crossing his arms, “As to when?” He sighs heavily, “...I have no answer for that other than: I’m roughly the same age, if not older, as Solas. Does it matter, honestly? Numbers fall through the cracks after a specific threshold is crossed.” What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

He unravels a crossed arm and guides his hand downwards, tapping the pommel of a sword he has fastened to his waist, “Sword. I use either long swords, short swords, or great swords.” He raises an eyebrow as a question is forwarded, “Shields?” He sneers a bit. “I don’t use shields. They get in the way, and anyways,” He raises his hand once more, the expanse steadily beginning to glow blue and silver before a spectral coating of scales cover the entirety, “this is better than any shield. I prefer the front lines, the place I can make sure no one breaches, and the lingering memory of what I once was makes sure I can do just that.” He dispels the scales and shakes out his hand before returning it to his crossed counterpart, “It takes energy to maintain, but I’m getting better at holding it for longer.” Lastly, are you happy?

He blinks before his entire expression softens, two toned eyes shining with primary gold as they shift downwards, “...If you had asked that of me over twelve years ago I would have spat in your face and said, ‘Happiness doesn’t exist in this world’. But now..” He trails off, casting a sidelong glance towards one of the fortress’s entryways; a familiar voice sounding, firm, but soft, as if reprimanding a child, “...I understand what happiness is, and it’s in every corner if you allow yourself to see it.” His eyes shift back, holding a far away look and voice coming forward in a murmur, “I only wish we all could be happy; together.”

Family and Friends

What’s your family like? What is your relationship with them?

His face holds a conflicted look, as if the memory is painful before speaking, “Complicated,” he says before beginning to tap a finger against his bicep, “I had a mother. She died when I was fifteen from a wasting disease, but she was the picture of serenity. Calm, guiding, measured. Hair like moonlight. Eyes like a clear autumn day. She was--” Unbranded features twist with a look of grief, eyes going dark as his voice drops, “...I’d rather not speak of her. It still hurts to. It hurts to speak of any of them,” His eyes narrow, grief stricken expression turning somewhat bitter, “...Especially those who throw all you did for them back into your face because they refused to listen when you needed them to most. Even so, I still wish for her happiness. Cullen better be treating her right,” That bitter turns outright malicious, dark eyes going darker as another question is meekly asked, “Father? I have no father. I only had a monster that haunted my childhood, tore my token of devotion apart, and then stalked me in my dreams. So, no. I have nothing to say about that concept.”

Have you ever ran away from home?

He chuckles, “Many, many times,” He throws most of his weight into one side, tilting his head back as if thinking, counting, “I can’t even remember the amount of times I fled into the forests, to be honest. All I know is that it happened weekly, maybe even daily,” He brings his head back, snowy hair moving with the action to brush the tops of his cheekbones, “Why do you look so surprised?” he asks, snorting a bit at the meek response of, ‘Why so often?’, “Because I refused to endure being treated like a beast every hour of the day merely because I believed differently, or rather, not at all.” He sighs within the next moment, “...I wasn’t any better than the Dalish, though. I lashed out, I spat in their face, dragged their heritage through the dirt, inflicted harm from the smallest of things...” He squeezes his arms, eyes narrowing into a glare, but seeming to see through everything, “...The past repeats. An infernal spiral that will never slow.” Would you consider marriage or having children?

“Marriage? Children?” He blinks, pale visage suddenly going flush before he snarls, “Why do I need to answer those questions?!” The blush deepens and he responds despite his displeased expression, muttering and biting the inside of his cheek, “...Damned keen eyed elves. They know, don’t they? I swear if Abelas fucking ran that mouth of his, I’ll--” He sighs heavily, letting his head fall limp a bit in defeat, “...Yes. To both. The latter is already taken care of, as everyone situated in the Crossroads knows, but...” Pointed ears are now a deep shade of red, “...marriage is...on hold. War time isn’t an ideal summer wedding.” His voice drops, eyes shimmering as if he was before the person his heart yearned for, “...The sky deserves a venue better than a garden of death and deceit.” Do you secretly hate one of your friends?

“There were those in the Inquisition who I didn’t exactly see eye to eye with,” he started before shaking his head, “but I didn’t hate anyone. Everyone is entitled to their own views and what they find important.” He scowls a bit, tapping his bicep once again with a finger, “...Even if they didn’t extend the same kindness to me in the beginning. ‘Do you believe in the Maker?’ ‘Do you believe you’re chosen?’ ‘You need to use the people’s faith. It gives them hope.’” He mocks before snorting harshly, “No. No, I don’t. Oh, that suddenly makes me trash? Ohhh. How terrible.” He scoffs. “Disgusting.” Which friend knows everything about you?

“Solas,” He says within a heart beat before clearing his throat, shifting his gaze away sheepishly, “He knows me without and within.” Emerald and gold blaze as the orbs go wide, the blush of roses coming back in full force, “Wait, wait, wait! I didn’t mean--! Fuck! You better wipe that shit eating grin off your face, elf, or I swear I’ll do it for you!” He growls in frustation, throwing his hands in the air, “Why did I agree to this? What fucking dragon entertains an interview!? This is worst than the courts in Arlathan used to be! And that’s saying something!”

Asked by Fans

Are you literate? Have you been to school?

”I am literate. Sometimes to a fault, in fact,” He smiles a bit, “Poetry is my niche; a lingering memory of my mother. So, I speak cryptically at times,” He snorts, amused, “Although, I guess that isn’t much of a surprise since the Elvhen language is riddled in verse rather than practical application. Still, even some of the ancients left have a hard time deciphering my words,” He shrugs, smile turning into a smirk, “They never expected a dragon to be able to talk, I guess. Well, ta-dah.” The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?

A somber expression flits across his visage and eyes, “...That, eventually, I would hurt the one person I never wanted to.” The corner of his mouth twitches, holding both bitterness and grief; a painful duo, “...And retribution came just as swiftly, but it--” He sighs, shaking his head in defeat before muttering under his breath, “Observe and accept. Observe that what came to pass was uncontrollable, and accept that it had to happen for your path to continue, for your soul to be complete.” What is something you were embarrassingly late to realize?

His face blanks, mouth going into a hard line before a sigh exits through his nose slowly, “...That I don’t have tail.” He snarls, blank expression twisting in warning, “Laugh, elf. Do it.” He nods in the next second when no sounds of amusement come forth, expression going stoic once more, “That’s what I thought. You try living centuries in one form and then transitioning. See what happens.” Do you have mental health or physical issues?

He nods, sighing tiredly. “Like my names, I have a lot.” A hand motions to his body lazily, “My entire body is littered in scars, inflicted through crude experiments by an abomination that sought power like so many others,” He expression sours, jaw working back a forth, “They’ve calmed over the years, but the memories are not so kind.” He sighs, trying to calm himself and lifts his left hand; the Anchor glowing faintly and his eyes watch it, “I have an illness, or rather, sensitivity to any Fade born essence. That, too, has calmed and I’m grateful for that. As for my mind..” He trails off, grimacing a bit as if suddenly in pain, “...Visualize the Void, and there’s your answer. Black walls with crimson torches, seats empty, but somehow wanting for memories to take their seats. However, those occupants never come, burnt to ash by fury’s flame. That’s my mind in a nutshell.” What is your current main goal?

He raises his eyebrows, pursing his lips, “Mm, as of right now, I’m busy helping Solas unlock the eluvians that he couldn’t while I was away,” He flexes his marked hand, watching it with a look of determination in his eyes, “That’ll take time, but after, my people, my kin will have their skies back. I won’t let this power be squandered, and I won’t let the key that I’ve been entrusted with fall into the wrong hands.” His face hardens further, “For if that key rusts, the locks break and the sky will blacken as surely as the earth will redden.”

Choices

Drink or food?

“Drinks.” He says with ease, shrugging, “Food is comforting, especially sweets, but a glass of rum or ale, or a cup of chamomile tea really pounds the word ‘relaxation’ into my head.” Cats or dogs?

He smiles, warmth caressing its edges, “You’ve seen Nislean wandering about the halls, laying on the window sills and curling up in front of the fire,” He hums suddenly, crossing his arms again, “Which reminds me, I need to go out of the Crossroads for milk. I’ll be getting more than five bottles this time.” Optimist or pessimist?

“Depends on who you ask,” He shrugs, seeming unbothered, “I’m neither from a personal standpoint. I try to see the bright spots, but shadows can be very persistent.” Sassy or sarcastic?

He snorts, “Ask Fen’harel,” his voice is light upon the title, playfully mocking in its deepness, “He knows all about that side. Although, he would label it, ‘insufferable’. I would call myself dryly sarcastic, though.”

Have You Ever

Been caught sneaking out?

He purses his lips, “Hmm. Not that I can recall,” he says slowly before his brows jumped and his eyes lit up with memory, “Oh! Wait. There was that one time where I was with Solas and Mythal in a...courtyard, I think?” He shrugs before shrugging, “Doesn’t matter. But, I tried to slip away, tail and all, and I...may have shattered one or two or three eluvians trying to get to the balcony.” He somewhat wistfully, smirking, “Elgar’nan got fucking stuck in a far off settlement for a week, though. Completely worth getting my horn chewed off by a wolf.” Broken a bone?

“Surprisingly, no.” He huffs in amusement, “Wonder of wonders, truthfully.” Received flowers?

“I have,” He scowls, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disgust, “but I always throw them into the fire. Most are from suitors, those who don’t know what the fuck ‘taken’ means.” Ghosted someone?

His face tightens, completely deadpan, “...No?”, he says, voice raising in question a bit, “At least I don’t believe so. But, then again...oh.” He blanks further, “...Oh. I understand the term now. You mortals are forever twisting the languages, aren’t you? I can’t keep up, but the answer is still no.” Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn’t get?

“Maybe once or twice, but I don’t ‘laugh’ per say.” He huffs through his nose deliberately, “I do that; a puff of air. Some habits are never truly able to be broken. No matter the form.”

Tagging: @oxygenforthewicked @blueheaded @little-lightning-lavellan @noire-pandora @the-dreadful-canine and anyone else that’d like to play! (no pressure, of course!)

#oc: fane lavellan #welcome to the future! :3 #where fane is more complete and content but suffering in different ways #no one said the path would be easy *shakes head sadly*#again. fane is...a ball of many things and his titles and names show that XD #*thinks about writing post-trepasser shenanigans* :3 #fane used to fuck off elgar'nan as a dragon so HARD #maybe why the god vengeance decided to personally attack him #HMMMM.#dragon age #male lavellan

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blushing-starker · 3 years

Text

Anon asked for alpha Peter and omega Tony for a baby announcement. Thank you to the wonderful @vaguekiwi for motivating me and sharing her thoughts on the story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, anon.

"Tony, Tony? Are you up? It's 7:30am already, you have a meeting with Miss Potts in forty minutes. Tony?"

Soft hands curl into already silver hair, scratching at the strands in an attempt to wake him up gently. Butterfly kisses on a cold nape, a ridiculously hot nose nuzzling everywhere. Peter knows scenting the billionaire is basically the only way one can ensure a calm morning.

Not today. And not for the next few months either.

He loves his husband, appreciates the nearly romantic demeanor, he does. But "unless you have a cup of coffee for me, there is no way in hell i am gonna leave this bed. your child has kept me up with nausea the entire night. I wanna hurl my guts out more than that time Rhodes found Dad's liquor cabinet. please, tell me you have coffee."

"..." Tony is severely displeased by the fact he can read Peter like a book even with half his mind shut off because fine, he's right and dammit all.

"I want that weird drink you make. The one with milk, cinnamon and chunks of brownie. And French toast with waffles. No jam, not too much butter, as much sugar as possible. Now, go before I scream at you for having the only dick that could get a hormone fucked forty something omega pregnant. "

The kid scrambles from bed, practically face plants with all the covers tangling long legs and yup, this is the person that the universe designated as his soulmate. Because Tony Stark can never have a partner with a reasonable, normal amount of enthusiasm, stamina and a sense of balance.

That sounds like he's ungrateful, he's not. But it turns out being three months pregnant gives him plenty of perspective to peer at life in a whole new way that does not include caffeine, alcohol or sex.

Would he kill and die for this amazing human being that makes Tony's heart race no matter the day, that inspires him to be a better version of himself? Yes, no questions asked. No hesitation and no regret.

Would he clobber Peter for doing the impossible and technically causing Tony incredible discomfort on a daily basis thanks to what his doctors can only assume is a superhuman baby he already loves and adores more than life itself? Also yes.

Things aren't mutually exclusive in this household.

Pep, bless her, has yet to find out about their future mini Parker so there's been no respite on the whole 'running a multi billion dollar industry ' thing. And yeah, while it's not exactly easy, he can focus on other things and not fall into a panicky state of mind — because him? A father? Of a super baby? Tony Stark, infamous playboy with a hedonistic streak, a dad?

Just thinking along those lines makes shame and self doubt slither over a metallic plate. Working, dealing with innovative scientists, crafting the new world of tomorrow, guaranteeing the safety of their planet, shapeshifting into a role model, a mentor (for the interns and school kids he visits, not Peter, of course, thank God they left that dynamic ages ago), loyal friend, reluctant errand boy (fuck the assholes in charge of the Accords), great husband, good man, it all distracts a fearful child from thinking, what if I turn into Howard?

"I couldn't find brownies, so cookies it is! Aunt May had a few boxes sent in when I told her work was keeping you on your feet all the time. Said it'd be a good idea to snack along the day in case you—" Peter freezes, tenses with a not-so-narrow back held ramrod straight. Oh, his husband brought him breakfast in bed.

How could he ever think to clobber such a nice, wonderful—

"Your scent is odd."

"Yeah, well fuck you too then."

Five seconds of silence.

"I'm bringing you one cup of coffee and the hormone pills."

" Yup, that's a great idea. "

---------------------------

Tony’s mumbo jumbo with self loathing is firmly put on the back burner after inhaling a delicious breakfast and chugging that one glorious cup of coffee. Until they go to the bathroom and he sees himself in the mirror.

"We gotta tell them."

"You said you wanted to wait a while before saying anything."

Peter strips, ducks into the warm shower, lets out a pleased little sigh and Tony wants to rip his fingernails off. Is it bad, having sex while pregnant? No! The doctors, every single one of them, said it's a perfectly normal thing to do. It'd be bad if they didn't have sex because Tony, thanks to his crazy hormone production, needs the extra attention for his body to understand this is a happy process that shouldn't include sad pheromones or stressed out moments. Will Peter put him out of his misery and allow a quickie in the mornings? No.

"Take more than five minutes in that shower and I'm joining you."

Listen, he grew up in the 80's and 90's, Tony wasn't immune to peer pressure. Did he cave and eventually do so many squat competitions with Rhodey his butt turned into a duck's butt? There's no evidence, he's made sure, but yes. And Starks have always turned out to be beautiful, doesn't matter your gender or age. Finding a companion for the night has never been a problem for anyone in his family tree.

That, and his work as Iron Man has kept him — well, not ripped like Cap, certainly not as lean and (God help him) athletic as Peter, but fit. Sturdy. Firm. Solid. (Peter once muttered the words 'daddy-like' in regards to his body and he nearly choked on water.)

The passage of time has made him a bit slower, dusted once black hair with, as his husband says, stardust and the corners of his eyes now show how much time Tony spends laughing or frowning. All in all, he looks fucking spectacular for his age and experience as a villain-punching-bag. Thing is, he has a belly. A bump. A curve where it was once, well. Less curvy. Is it a problem for Peter? Nope, as acknowledged every time his alpha tackles him if he so much as looks oddly in the mirror. Is it a problem for him? He'll get back to you on that.

The point is, there's a belly when just a few months ago there wasn't such a pronounced belly. It's great, of course. Proof their child is growing steadily and Tony's body is adjusting to it accordingly. A small part of him, the omega part he actually lets live, is fascinated and proud. He's doing that, Tony's the one growing a human being, creating life out of nothing in his own body. That child, although not the only physical embodiment of their relationship, is a result of his love for Peter. Of how much his husband loves him. They love each other so much they're gonna start another family together. That chokes him up a bit, reminds him how grateful he is for Peter and for the other Avengers. If they hadn't been so accepting of his status, would he have ever considered going through with this?

Anyway, he's not gonna start sobbing this early in the morning when there's no alcohol involved. It's fantastic seeing his child develop, good, warm and fuzzy feelings, yada yada yada, it's also not very easy to hide. And Tony...Tony wanted to hide it from his family because.

Because Peter hasn't been the only partner in all his life that has wondered about a future with a white picket fence. Because when he was Peter's age, in his goddamn prime, a doctor, ten doctors, all the doctors told him the same thing, smashed his dream into a million pieces. Tony was nearly infertile. There was a one in a million chances of him getting pregnant. If he did, they couldn't be sure his body would be able to maintain two hearts. And then the cave happened.

So yeah. It happened to his cousins, his aunt, a few uncles, his grandmother. Tony would do a baby announcement, but only the second that baby was outside of him and safely in his arms. Now there are still several months left and nothing certain. But time is a bitch and beginning to show the world, maybe those extra pounds aren't from eating the Parker's amazing breakfasts.

"Tony, you know I don't wanna risk-" Losing control of my strength. They've been together long enough that Tony can see quite clearly between the lines.

"Hurting us, yeah, I know, I understand. I'm getting too wide, we're gonna have to tell them or Natasha will take one look at me and whoops, impromptu announcement from someone else. It's a miracle she was out on those missions when we found out." Thank God for renegade troops.

He's still looking at himself in the mirror when Peter comes out, barely dries up and slides behind him. His husband is slightly taller now, can easily hook a curved jaw on Tony's shoulder to peer at the image they make. Contrasts, he supposes, have always enthralled Tony. The study of light and shadow. Variations of the same basic components. Where his body is aging, showing signs of wear and tear, Peter's is evolving into something beautiful, majestic. Silver hair, chestnut brown. Scarred canvas, silky smooth and sunkissed skin. Soft, fragile curves, chiseled lines that deserve to be revered more than Michelangelo’s David. But their eyes, their eyes are equally tired.

“We can tell them if you want, have dinner together and just, just say it. Like that -”

“No. It's our kid, we're not gonna act like it's ripping off a band aid. This is special, unique. Dinner is good. Fantastic, actually. Wait for dessert, and announce it. “ Peter comes ever closer, wraps arms that could carry the world around him and how did he get so lucky?

They've lied to each other in the past. Mostly in the beginning, when they were too worried about hurting their new relationship to show their desires and wants. Tony didn't explain the Training Wheels Protocol. Peter tried to fight high level crime on his own. Things got hard to understand, like being in the right place at the wrong time. Puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together, an extra inch of space prohibiting them from seeing all the possibilities that the truth could bring. They were walking the same path, just in parallel lines that never crossed.

But then he'd been rejected, thrown away and able to realize how fucking stupid it was to let Peter go when being near the kid, it felt like finally breathing after residing in the deep end of a pool for a thousand years. So Tony ran after him one day, crashed into his AP English class, half assed an excuse for the baffled teacher, yanked Peter out of the room and proceeded to have the best make out session of his life with his back against the kid's locker. And now they don't lie, ever.

Which is why it's so hard to accept Peter's, “You're beautiful, Tony. The handsomest man I've ever seen in my life. I loved you before, I love you now, I'll love you forever, Anthony Stark. You carrying our kid doesn't change that, how could it, Tony? It's going to be ok. The three of us will be ok and I won't stop thanking whoever decided I'd get to marry my wet dream.”

Scorching kisses trace his pulse point slowly, sharp nails start dragging against a too thin shirt, but it's the fact that Peter hasn't looked away from him, is confidently holding his gaze through the glass, that makes Tony shudder and stop breathing.

The bathroom is flooded with pheromones, cinnamon and honey assaulting an unprepared billionaire, and he'll die if they stay like this, can't function properly, brain switching gears, trying valiantly to remember baseball stats, past wounds, May's cooking because Peter's gonna wreck his sanity if those hands keep winding down, if those lips don't stop unraveling him like a Christmas present.

“If I'd known you'd get this handsy and romantic, I would have complained about how I look earlier." It's a gasp, half murmur, half plea as Peter grins at him shamelessly. “I know it's rude and wrong and sexist, but I like comforting my omega, acting like a stereotypical alpha. Makes me feel like I'm doing my job of making you happy. “

He quirks an eyebrow, is glad Peter can be comfortable enough to take the reins every once in a while. “You're telling me that assuring me I'm still drop dead gorgeous, “ his husband snorts, nips at Tony's shoulder for that quip, “ makes you horny because you feel like an alpha comforting, and I quote, ‘your omega’? “

Peter reverts back to the shy teenager who could barely ask a girl out to the homecoming dance, ducks his head into Tony’s neck with a blush quickly spreading over damp skin. “Well, I've got news for you, sweetheart. Your wet dream also thoroughly enjoys it so you better break tradition and have sex with me to remind me I'm the hottest man you've ever seen. "

He's actually serious about this, his self esteem hasn't exactly been, you know, the best and Tony's mood always improves significantly after playing around in bed with Peter. Besides, it's a sign of trust. Peter won't hurt him or their child, will be able to hold back his strength. He always does.

Listen, it's not exactly moral, but he has more than enough problems to go ahead and analyze his attraction and dependency on Peter while pregnant.

“So, I can distract you from your bad thoughts by acting sort of possessive and taking you to bed? " Oh, he adores when his husband is afraid of showing a new side of himself and asks for permission ever so sweetly.

“Babe, if you don't, I'll kick you out of the apartment. Give me possessive Peter Parker any day you want, like I'm gonna complain about a gorgeous, brilliant twenty something year old all over me. Now what's it gonna be, alpha dear, bathroom or bedroom? I wouldn't mind the tile but, oh God, I forgot you could pick me up." Tony clings to broad shoulders, can't help but laugh because aren't they a pair?

-------------------------

After having what he's sure was the best sex of his life, Tony stumbles out of the bedroom with torn clothes, a dazed look in his eyes and several bruises blossoming around his neck. Peter's halfway out the doorway when Tony whistles, makes sure all their family is paying attention, blurts out, “Peter and I are having a kid. I'm pregnant, woohoo, it's great, it's amazing, save your congratulations for later. We'll do a proper thing soon, if anyone interrupts and they're not dying, I'll kill you myself. See you in a few hours, " and yanks him back in while Friday activates Sock on the Doorknob Protocol.

Rhodey and Nat clink glasses while waiting on the others to pay up on their bets regarding Tony and Peter's odd behavior.

--------------------------

Later, much later, like, two days later, they have a proper dinner with their family in the tower. There are balloons and streamers, cake and ice cream, warm hugs and gentle cheek kisses, subtle tears and full on weeping (Happy had to borrow a box of Kleenex), pictures and videos and a pile of gifts taller than Tony.

The most important thing, though, is that the A.I recorded the reaction after Clint asked about baby names. He's grateful they went to the doctor before tonight. The visit revealed a treasure Tony thought he'd never have. Now it's time to reveal it to their pack.

His husband snuggles up to him, is so ecstatic the whole dining room smells like cinnamon and honey, like joyous love he'll never get enough of. Tony grins at him, curls their hands together and repeats the same thing over and over again in his head.

It'll be ok. They'll be ok. If the universe keeps giving Tony the greatest gifts he could ever want, maybe it's time he stopped looking at the horse's mouth. That's how it goes, right? Right.

He turns to look at Peter, loves him so much it aches, feels tiny feet pressing against his stomach. Guesses he's not the only one smitten with this incredible human being.

“We were thinking Marie,” Peter smiles at him, eyes lit up and lovely.

Tony is never going to forget this moment, this warmth in his chest.

“And Benjamin Parker-Stark.”

Their family loses their shit and both Friday and Karen have ample proof.

(@puppypeter look, omega tones! @tonystarkisaslut thank you so much for allowing me to use the prompt board! I am still accepting prompts! Although I can't guarantee getting them ready within a few days, I'll try to finish them on the one week mark depending on how long the fic is!)

#tony stark #peter parker #starker #peter parker x tony stark #ironspider #peter x tony #soft!starker #lovely anon #prompt fill #my writing #baby announcement #alpha!peter #omega!tony #omegaverse starker #did i love writing this?#yes i did #mpreg #a/b/o

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aestheticsfandomsandmore · 4 years

Text

Great, I kinda wrote a continuation of tianshan's last strip, even knowing it will never happen. Again, I have to remind you I'm Italian, so I may have made a few mistakes - I'd be glad if you reported them.

Hope you enjoy.

I posted this on AO3, if you want to read it there.

____________________________

“Put me the fuck down, you chicken dick!”

“Relax~ It's going to be fun.”

“For you, maybe!”

“Yeah, definitely, but you will have fun as well if you stop panicking.”

He Tian puts him down and locks the bathroom door. Then he mischievously smiles at him before heading towards the bathtub in order to fill it with hot water and some bath salts.

Mo tries to open the door but the key disappeared. “Shit, wha- what are you planning to do?”

“Like a said, taking a nice bath with Little Mo. Do you prefer vanilla or chocolate scent?”

“I don't prefer shit. Jesus, He Tian, let me out of here now.”

He Tian looks at him, still smiling but less wider. “Don't be such a damper. I'll go with chocolate then.”

Mo sighs. “I really regret coming here. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Perhaps” He Tian walks toward him, once the bath is ready, “you were worried I really meant my last message.”

Fucker. Mo is sure to be blushing because he feels hot all over his face and is even more sure of that when He Tian smirks.

“You wanted to see me and you didn't want us to part. But now you're here with me and you're complaining. Such a complicated lad.”

“Just because I wanted to see you, it doesn't mean I want to take a god damn bath with you!” he screams, feeling angry and exposed at the same time. Yeah, he didn't want to end their relationship, for some reason, but He Tian always has to break any kind of boundaries or concept of personal space, making him wonder why he even bothers trying to be less... less Mo Guan Shan-like.

“So you admit you wanted to see me! That's so cute, Little Mo!”

“I'm not going to take my clothes off. You'll have to undress me yourself.”

He Tian moves dangerously closer, only a few inches between them. “Is that a dare?” he whispers.

Mo gets even more embarrassed and takes a few steps away. “No, it isn't! I'm serious, He Tian, cut this crap, let me out-”

“Why?”

Mo swallows. If he didn't know him better, he'd almost say that He Tian is looking sad. “What's that supposed to mean? I. Don't. Want. To. Take. A. Bloody. Bath. With. You. Is it so hard to understand?”

“Yes” He Tian answers. “I don't understand you sometimes.”

Mo freezes. “Well, that's none of my business, if you can't understand something so simple, it just proves that you're a selfish bastard. Not that I didn't know already. Now give me the ke-”

“Then why have you come? Why did you want to see me, if you think so badly of myself?”

Mo tightens his fists. He doesn't really know what to say: he's been repeating that question to himself for almost a year.

“The answer is that you like me” He Tian hazards. He holds his sides gently and Mo doesn't even push him off, taken off guard. “I know you do. That's why I don't understand why you're always resisting me. I'm right here, right now, and I want you. I'm not gonna lie. So you shouldn't either.”

Mo puts his hands on his chest in order to push him away, but he doesn't really manage to do that. He's sweating, the room is hot, He Tian is hot and he can't handle him when he's so close. “I- I don't- I-” he can't think straight.

He Tian giggles and then says: “Stop thinking. This has nothing to do with your brain. This is just a matter of...” He moves one hand from his side and puts his fingers on Mo's heart. He doesn't complete his sentence but he doesn't really need to. It's a matter of feelings, emotions: painful, terrible, annoying things human beings cannot really control. His heart is racing so fast right now. He's so close to give up. He just needs one more reason...

“I won't do anything funny, I won't even touch you if you don't want me to, I promise. I just want us to hug in the bathtub for a while.”

Sounds reasonable, a small part of his mind tells him. The rest of it is shouting not to trust, not to let him get so close, not to surrender so easily, not to get naked in front of him, in any sense possible.

Mo doesn't listen to all of that. “Okay.”

He Tian smiles, a wide and warm smile that makes something inside Mo's body melt. He's not sure what that is.

“Can I undress you or you want to do that yourself?”

Mo is surprised, almost shocked that He Tian asked for permission and didn't just do it right away. “Uhm-” he's so confused by all that's happening that he's not sure what to answer. “I- I mean... okay.”

What the actual fuck? Has he actually agreed?

He Tian looks like he could explode from too much happiness in any second. Stupid, Mo thinks. But he can't help smiling a little.

He Tian softly grabs the collar of his shirt and takes it off from Mo's shoulders and arms. He is now looking at him like he's about to eat him. Mo can't really believe to be able to make someone feel like that; to make feel like that. He can't just ignore the lust in He Tian's eyes. He takes his shirt off very slowly, caressing the skin of his abdomen and chest almost reverently. He takes a minute to look at his naked bust and Mo feels like every centimeter of his body is getting hot. He can't help but shake a little.

He Tian notices. “Relax” he tells him, “we're just getting started.”

That doesn't really help him relax.

He Tian puts his hand under the elastic band of his pants. Mo swallows. He's not sure he's ready for this, but before he can say anything He Tian makes his pants fall down to his feet.

“M-M-Maybe I... I should... take this off.” Mo mumbles, feeling so extremely embarrassed by the thought of He Tian seeing his penis.

He Tian looks like he's fighting a battle with himself and Mo's sure he is: he would normally continue his doing without even caring about what Mo just said, but right now he probably knows he's already been allowed to do things he normally could have just dreamed of. It's almost like he doesn't want to push his luck. “Okay” he agrees, finally, taking a deep breath before undressing himself.

Shit, he's so fucking gorgeous. His muscular torso, his long legs, his perfect face and his... oh, yeah, he's got a pretty great ass. Mo turns around and takes his pants off, his face completely red. It is not the first time he has been staring at the other's body, but never has without even a piece of clothes on.

“Should we... get inside?” he asks but he doesn't really have the courage to look at him in the eye.

He Tian surprises Mo by hugging him closely. His hands are embracing his shoulders and his chest is all around Mo's back. “Sure” he replies, before giving him a small kiss on the neck.

Mo jumps out of his skin and He Tian laughs. He enters first and Mo follows him right after, quickly, pretty impatient to cover as much skin as possible. The water is warm and scented, he can sense his body already softnening, he feels at ease. He Tian sits behind him and hugs him, just like a minute before but now it's way more intimate. He doesn't mind, though. For tonight, maybe, he should just try to enjoy the moment.

“Feels good, huh?” He Tian asks, near his ear.

Chills all over his body. Damn.

“Uhm, yeah” he says.

They stay silent for a while, He Tian's forehead against Mo's nape, Mo's eyes closed trying to avoid the thought of their naked skin being so fucking close.

“Now I'm going to wash your back” He Tian announces at some point. Mo remembers him saying he would do so. He doesn't have the time to answer, 'cause the other boy has already grabbed a sponge and is now starting to gently rub it against his back. It actually feels... pretty good. He Tian goes from his neck to his shoulders and then rubs his spine, from his nape to his sacrum. That freaks him out: he's too close to his ass.

He Tian notices once again and, surprisingly, stops, heading towards the centre of his back. Mo breathes a sigh of relief: he's glad He Tian didn't break his word not to do anything funny. Once he's finished with his back, he holds him tighter with his left arm while rubbing his torso with his right hand, as slowly as before, almost like he's treasuring every second of it. He probably is.

Mo tries to ignore the fact that he can feel He Tian's dick pressing onto his skin; he's hard. It's such a strange feeling, but he can't help blushing and moaning for a second thinking that he's able to get such a reaction out of him, without even trying. For one, tiny second, he even imagines what He Tian would be like if he just stopped being so stubborn, if he admitted to himself something he is well aware of but is not ready to accept; what He Tian would look like around him if he were able to kiss him and touch him freely. Right now, he basically seems to be in heaven and they aren’t even really doing anything. At one point of them being so incredibly close, he figures themselves in bed and he wonders if, during their first time, He Tian would be gentle or rough or maybe a passionate combination of both. He pictures them...

“Like it?” He Tian asks and Mo jolts, realizing what he was thinking and where he actually is, blushing hard, cursing himself in his mind. When he understands the other's question, he nods. He can sense He Tian's smile on his clavicle.

Maybe he shouldn't regret to have come to his house, after all.

#tianshan #strip continue #fan fiction #19 days #mo guanshan #mo guan shan #he tian #he tian x mo guan shan #he tian x mo guanshan #i really hope something like this is going to happen #even just the dialogue part

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angelqueen04 · 3 years

Text

Hamliza Month, Day 27

@megpeggs @historysalt

Languages Summary: Alexander pays a call on Eliza in Morristown.

Alexander trooped along the path toward Dr. Campfield’s house, just as he did nearly every day now. Though there still remained a great deal of snow on the ground, the path he walked was clear and well-trodden and, thankfully, not a complete pit of mud and slush. It was still cold, but the bitterness had begun to fade. It made him hopeful that spring was at last beginning to arrive.

As he approached the neat white house where Dr. and Mrs. Cochran had taken up residence for the winter, and had later been joined by their delightful niece, he glanced toward one of the front windows which looked in on the front parlor. The lace curtains obstructed the view, of course, but Alexander fancied he could catch faint movement behind them. His heart leapt. His dear Betsey was no doubt inside.

He was let into the house by a servant, who took his coat for him and gestured him toward the parlor door. As Alexander approached, he heard the delightful sound of feminine laughter, and then two women falling into conversation that, at first, sounded unusual to Alexander’s ears. It wasn’t until he stood in the doorway and their words became clearer that he understood what was hearing.

Mrs. Cochran and Eliza were speaking Dutch, if he was not mistaken, and with all the fluency of native speakers. Which wasn’t surprising, really, if he thought about it. The Schuylers were among the descendants of the early Dutch settlers in and around Albany and New York, back before the land came into the hands of the British. The old families there held their heritage close.

His appearance must have caught their attention, because Mrs. Cochran, who sat on the sofa facing him, stopped speaking and beamed when she saw him. Eliza was sitting next to her aunt on the sofa, but had her back to the door. She turned to look over her shoulder to see what had made her aunt halt in mid-sentence, and her eyes immediately lit up. “Alexander!” she said, thrilled with his appearance. “We did not expect you until supper!”

He strode further into the room, bowing courteously first to Mrs. Cochran and then turning his full attention to Eliza, who had risen to meet him. She approached him faster than would be considered proper in most circles, but Alexander hardly cared. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and pressed a reverent kiss to her knuckles. “My dear Betsey,” he murmured against her skin.

Mrs. Cochran rose too at that moment, giving them a genuine, indulgent smile. “I’ll go see about getting something warm to drink,” she told them before slipping past them and out of the room, though the door was pointedly left open. Technically, it was tea time, Alexander supposed, though he knew as well as anyone that there was no tea to be found for miles. Still, he did not doubt Mrs. Cochran’s resourcefulness. She would bring something for them.

Eliza wound her arm in his and led him to the sofa she and her aunt had just vacated. “How are you, my Alexander?” she asked as they settled themselves.

“Well enough,” he replied. “There appears to be an actual lull in the copious amount of letters that the General must send, and so I was excused early. They will send someone if I am needed, though I don’t expect that will happen.”

She nodded. “We received a letter from my sister, Mrs. Carter. She’ll be joining us here within the next week, along with her two children.” Eliza smiled, her happiness apparent over the impending arrival of a dearly beloved sister.

Alexander expressed his own pleasure at the news, but then turned the conversation back to what he had noticed upon his arrival. “Were you and Mrs. Cochran speaking Dutch when I came in?”

Eliza blinked at the change of subject, but nodded. “Oh, yes. Why?”

He shrugged, brushing his fingers along the back of her hand fondly. “No reason. I was exposed to many different languages in my youth,” he told her, “and I became fluent in several of them. Though,” Alexander admitted, “I am a bit rusty in some of them, such as Dutch.” He smiled somewhat self-deprecatingly at her. “General Washington has a great need for my skills in French more than any other. Even as the Marquis’ English improves, he still has a tendency to fall back into his native tongue when he becomes excited over one topic or another. Which is often.” He laughed, recalling his friend’s natural high spirits.

Eliza also chuckled, and Alexander recalled that she too had met the Marquis de Lafayette in the past, and was thus quite familiar with his natural exuberance.[1] “I first learned Dutch as a child,” she said. “My parents spoke it at home more than anything else, particularly when we were just among the family. I suppose English would be my second language, with French being my third.”

She paused, and her expression seemed to grow slightly pensive. Alexander was about to ask her what troubled her, but then Eliza forged ahead of her own volition. “With French, I can speak and follow it well enough when spoken by others, but my talent for reading and writing it leaves much to be desired. Angelica always performed better than I did in such things.” A faint blush spread across her cheeks, and she looked down at their joined hands, avoiding his direct gaze.

She was embarrassed, Alexander realized with some astonishment. His Betsey was actually ashamed that she had difficulty with learning another language. And she had mentioned that her older sister was quite fluent? Perhaps some indication of sibling rivalry or jealousy? Alexander himself only had limited experience with that, due to he and his brother being so often separated, even as boys. They were never truly around one another enough to grow jealous of each other’s talents.

It won’t do, he thought with sudden fervor. He would not have his dear, wonderful Eliza look down upon herself or think herself in any way inferior to anyone or anything. While he was certain that Mrs. Carter was a wonderful woman, he did not care if she was a genius on par with Hypatia of Alexandria. Alexander refused to countenance Eliza blushing over the idea that she was somehow wanting in comparison to her sister, or to anyone.

He opened his mouth to say as much, but then stopped, still thinking furiously. There was an idea forming in his mind, but he did not want Eliza to think he pitied her. His future bride was perhaps the most modest soul he had ever met, but Alexander knew that she still had her pride, and woe betide anyone who managed to offend it.

After several moments, he squeezed her hands. “I have a proposition for you, my love,” he told her.

Eliza looked up at him. “Oh? What would that be?” she asked.

Alexander let go of one her hands to run his hand over the back of his head. “I propose a trade,” he said. “If you will allow me to practice and improve my Dutch with you, I will aid you in improving your reading and writing of French.”

Eliza’s dark eyes widened, surprised by the offer. “Truly? But why?” she inquired. “You said that the General requires your fluency in French more than any other language. What need do you have of Dutch?”

He smiled at her, letting his hand fall back atop the one he had previously let go. Taking it in his, he held both of her hands up between his and replied, “We will not always be at war, my Betsey. The former colonies, especially New York, are a port of call for many, some who seek a better life than the one they left behind, or even just as a stopping point on the way to somewhere else. There are multiple languages that are spoken in these lands besides the King’s – besides English. I mean to have at least some familiarity with as many as I can. You could assist me with that with your fluency in Dutch, and I can return the favor by aiding you in improving your French, as it a language that people should certainly know. I am aware of several books that might help you that you could seek out from your father or purchase if you so wish.”

Eliza gazed at him, her eyes still wide with shocked amazement. Just when Alexander thought he may have been too hasty in his offer, that he might have offended her after all, she broke into a wide smile. “You are such a dear,” she said, shaking her head. “I accept your offer,” she then said, and her grin took on a teasing quality, adding, “But I must warn you, sir, I can be very hard to keep up with in my native tongue. I hope you are up to the challenge.”

Alexander laughed and said, “I shall endeavor not to disappoint my teacher, then.” Impulsively, he leaned in and kissed her. He’d intended it only to be a peck, a playful gesture. The moment their lips connected, however, it was as though they were both struck by lightning. The desire that rose up in him was like nothing Alexander had ever felt before. He was not a virgin by any means, but the sudden, desperate yearning for this woman on the sofa with him put his previous conquests – not that there had been that many, anyway – quite in the shade.

And if Eliza’s own enthusiastic participation in their abrupt embrace was any indication, she too was every bit as overwhelmed as he was.

Within the space of moments, they had closed the polite gap that even engaged couples kept out of modesty and were completely ensconced in each other’s arms. Alexander marveled over just how good it felt to have Betsey like this, in his arms, kissing him, loving him. How it made him want more. He nudged even closer, encouraging her to lean further back on the sofa, and he grabbed one of her hands in his, lacing their fingers together…

The sound of someone clearing their throat pointedly reached both their ears, but took a moment for it to sink in. When it did, both he and Eliza reared back in their haste to separate. They both turned toward the door, their guilt apparent in their flushed faces, in their swollen lips, in their heavy breathing.

Mrs. Cochran stood in the doorway, a tea tray held before her. The older woman stared at them both, a single eyebrow raised pointedly. “Really, dears,” she said, her tone laced with disappointment as she swept into the room, placing the tray down on a table by the window.

Alexander opened his mouth, ready to offer his profuse apologies, to her and to Eliza, for allowing his passions to get the better of him, when Mrs. Cochran turned back to them, this time with a wicked sparkle in her eye. Before he could utter a word, she continued, “If you are going to play those types of games, the parlor is not the place for them, where anyone can walk in.” Her gaze shifted to Eliza. “Truly, dear, have you forgotten the stories I told you about your own parents?”[2]

Alexander blinked, confused, and turned toward Eliza, only to find her blushing even more fiercely than before. “No, Aunt,” she murmured, ducking her head and glancing in Alexander’s direction. “I didn’t forget.”

What was that all about? Alexander wondered. He didn’t get a chance to ask, however, as Mrs. Cochran kept close after that, never permitting him and Eliza another moment to be by themselves. She did not scold them further for their behavior, though, nor did she ever seem to inform Dr. Cochran, much to Alexander’s relief.

In the years to come, though, she would tease him and Eliza both about that day, speaking fondly of young love and how it could grow and mature into the stoutest of bonds.

-----

[1] I don’t know for certain if Eliza and Lafayette met before 1780, but Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie created a very plausible scenario for their first meeting in the early pages of their novel, My Dear Hamilton, so I went with the idea that she had her own acquaintance with him.

[2] An allusion to the fact that Catharine Van Rensselaer was actually some months pregnant with Angelica when she and Philip Schuyler married. No one in this family was foolish, so I can just imagine that Catharine and Philip endured all sorts of familial teasing about that over the years, and the kids would have picked up on it and/or were told stories about it. The whole ‘no sex before marriage’ concept didn’t truly become a huge Thing until a few generations later (thank the Victorians). At this time, I’ve read that at least a third of women were already pregnant when they married, which says that people were not as prim and proper as people think them to be. And culturally among Eliza’s people, it seems that it was the engagement that was the most important thing, not necessarily the marriage ceremony. So if Eliza and Alexander were to have some fun together pre-December 1780, well, so long as the engagement remained intact and Alexander didn’t try to run from it, then no one was going to scold them too much.

This ficlet was partially inspired by a letter Alexander wrote to Eliza, dated July 2-4, 1780, where he reminds her “not to neglect the charges I gave you particularly that of taking care of your self, and that of employing all your leisure in reading.” I’ve read several different accounts – fanfiction, pro fiction, and nonfiction alike – interpreting Eliza’s reaction to this letter as one of hurt feelings, that Alexander was thoughtlessly implying that she was somehow not good or smart enough or something like that. I wanted to do a different take on it, and came up with this. Eliza’s first language was likely Dutch, and was said to have continued her fluency in it into adulthood, but seemed to have trouble with French. Alexander was fluent in French – it was one reason he was so valuable to Washington during the Revolution – and likely knew Dutch very well from his early years in the West Indies. And I wanted him to actually think a little before offering to help Eliza with her French, and not have him hurt her feelings in making the suggestion.

So I expected this to be just a cute little moment where the two discuss languages, but then they pretty much hijacked my brain and insisted on supplying several paragraphs of them making out like two horny twenty-something-year-olds. Because that is what they were at this point in their lives. And in doing so they introduced a third language into the moment – the language of love. ;)

#my fanfiction #hamliza month #hamliza #alexander hamilton #elizabeth schuyler hamilton

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sometimeseffable · 5 years

Text

a sudden proposal

Aziraphale finds he likes talking about Crowley rather a lot.

“How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, ages. Practically since the beginning.”

The women coo. “High school sweethearts, how romantic!”

“Er, actually, the getting together bit was fairly recent. Our, uh, families weren’t too keen on it, so. Well. It was mostly me who put it off, I think Anthony would have been ready to elope a few thousand years ago.”

If there’s anything odd about the statement, the group doesn’t show it. They simply laugh it off as a humorous exaggeration, which Aziraphale is grateful for. Sometimes he forgets how time works for humans.

“Families can be hard,” says Candace sympathetically.

“Indeed. Took a while to get over thinking Gabriel would show up at my door just to tell me off - “ Aziraphale freezes, realizing the slip up far too late. Susan just clucks her tongue.

“Older brother?”

Relieved, Aziraphale nods. “A fairly overbearing one at that.”

“I know all about that,” Deidre interrupts. Adam’s mother had been, with a little demonic intervention, graciously welcoming of Adam’s ‘godfathers’ dropping in on the boy’s twelfth birthday party. Even if it was completely unannounced. “When Arthur proposed, my sister was not happy with me. Kept wanting me to get back with my ex, you remember John from secondary school? Well, I told her, I said…”

Aziraphale lets the idle chatter wash over him, pleased to be part of a human social gathering for the first time since Portland Place gentleman’s club closed. He glances over to where Crowley is busy entertaining the Them, and can’t help but smile.

The demon is engaging in a non-lethal watergun fight with the kids and Newt. The teams had started off as strictly Adults vs Kids, and has since devolved into Newt running around yelping as Crowley tag-teams with the Them in a desperate bid to get him soaked to the bone. They seem to have devised an exceedingly efficient battle strategy.

Aziraphale can just catch the edge of fangs in his demon’s manic grin. His entirely too-human heart flutters at the sight of Crowley letting go of his ridiculously aloof facade and having fun for once. Such a rare sight after centuries of looking over his shoulder, unappreciated by his colleagues and at constant risk of Hell’s displeasure.

“Anthony certainly knows how to handle kids,” someone remarks, bringing Aziraphale back to the present. “Do you ever want some of your own?”

He flushes under the August sun. “Oh - well, um, we’ve never - never really discussed it.”

The answer was a hard no, but the angel felt rather uncomfortable discussing the delicate horror of watching onesselve outlive their human children. Thankfully, Candace comes to his aid.

“Understandable. Anne and I didn’t even consider having kids until they passed the marriage act. I remember the day they passed it. Hopeless romantics, we were, we got married the very next day. It was all very exciting.”

There’s a moment of wistful joy as Candace gives him a knowing look, eyes quickly flicking down to the winged ring on Aziraphale’s pinky. He blushes harder.

“Oh,” he demurs, “No, we’re not - “

“Everything alright over here?” Crowley materializes at Aziraphale’s shoulder, somehow bone dry despite that he’d been manning a SuperSoaker 9000 for the better part of an hour. A plate slides smoothly into the angel’s lap. “Cake, angel?”

The women all twitter at the pet name. Suddenly, the idea of correcting Candace’s assumptions seems terribly wrong as Crowley settles into the lawn chair next to him, arm slung loose over Aziraphale’s shoulders. His demon is wildly animated in his storytelling, wooing the ladies further. Aziraphale listens to him with a flutter of pride and quietly eats his cake, contemplative.

The drive back to London is spent in comfortable silence. What had begun as Tchaikovesky’s 14th symphony has morphed slowly into the heart-aching refrains of Love of My Life. Crowley hums along softly, fingers laced through Aziraphale’s on the angel’s knee as he steers one-handed.

Aziraphale watches him. Warm light from the setting August sun catches his hair so that it shines like fire, painting delicate gold over high cheekbones. Those infernal glasses cover his eyes, yet he imagines they would be soft with contentment. In fact, with all the tension loosened from his shoulders, radiating love like a furnace as he is, Aziraphale is quite sure this is the most relaxed and - dare he say it - happy Crowley has ever been in his presence. Possibly, and he would be remiss not to consider it, his happiest since the Fall.

All of a sudden, the millennia he’s spent denying they were even friends feels like an anchor crushing his chest, collapsing his ribcage until he can barely breathe.

They break the silence at nearly the same time.

“So, I was thinking when we got back, we could get - “

“We should get married.”

Since they’re doing just ten over the speed limit, the Bentley’s screeching halt holds less promise of imminent discorporation than usual. Neither being moves; Aziraphale’s heart beats a rapid tattoo in his chest as Crowley stares at the road ahead of them, mouth ajar.

“...Thai,” the demon croaks, “I was gonna suggest Thai. Hang on, back up, you want us to what?”

Aziraphale wishes the seat would open and swallow him whole in a fit of cliche. “I - I said perhaps we should get married,” he says, voice sounding terribly small even to his own ears, “I just - well, I was talking to Candace, you know, Deidre’s friend, and - and she made an excellent point regarding - “

“Okay.”

“Sorry?”

“Okay,” Crowley repeats. The black glasses leave his face unreadable, “We’ll get married.”

It does not sound like the most enthused of proposal acceptances.

Aziraphale feels the swell of assured confidence deflate a touch. “Oh. Right then. Tickety...boo.”

Crowley nods and turns back to the road. The Bentley makes it another ten meters before it stops again.

“I can’t go in a church.”

“Loads of people get married other ways, dear.” Aziraphale wonders if that were a true concern, or a deflection that could be used as a big red TERMINATE button.

“Right.”

Another two meters before they stop.

Aziraphale throws up his hands, exasperated. “Oh for Hell’s sake, if you don’t want to marry then we won’t!”

“No!” Crowley yelps, strangled. He twists his ridiculously lanky body to face the angel, and were he capable of it, there would probably be sweat on his brow, “It’s not that, it’s just. Like married married. Like you want to spend the rest of eternity trapped in a legally binding contract to me in the eyes of the Almighty, and you think we won’t tear each other up because sssomeone’s leaving the telly on or dishesss in the sssink, and it’sss not too fassst - “

Aziraphale kisses him.

The rest of Crowley’s diatribe is muffled into a short mmph. Instinctively, his hands come up to frame Aziraphale’s face, protective as always. Aziraphale pushes the glasses back up into his hair. Wide gold eyes blink at him, terrified and hopeful and oh-so smitten.

Aziraphale presses another reverent kiss to his palm. “Too fast?”

“Never.” Crowley lets out a shaky breath. “Whatever you want, angel, s’long as you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth again, slow and sweet. Then he pulls away with a frown. “Don’t we miracle the dishes clean?”

“It’s an expression,” Crowley mumbles before swooping in for a thorough snog. Aziraphale’s hand tangles in his fiance’s hair - oh, but isn’t that a thought? A very, very lovely thought. Someone snaps their fingers; they fall, giggling, into the back seat, trading fervent, giddy kisses.

London can wait. They’ve got all the time they need.

---

Part two of the ineffable godfathers miniseries

#my writing #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable godfathers

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aaronbleyaert · 4 years

Text

Tomorrow is a Hundred Years Away

And even as I’m pouring the last drops of our second pot of coffee in your cup I’m still trying to tell myself that I’m not going to make another pot, but even my own mind can’t keep a straight face at the thought. I decide to pretend a third pot was the plan all along and pour the water in for another go before bringing your coffee back and setting it down with a little flourish.

You sit as you do, as we do, every morning, at our big ugly kitchen table: two 30 somethings who are more than happy to slowly sink into the staid portrait of a classic old married couple. We sit side by side, our legs touching, comfortable in the warm silence our two bodies create. The very thing that my teenage self feared most has come to pass: I'm living the life of a happily married woman, wife to a man I adore. The horror of comfort! The terror of wedded bliss! All of those years spent scared of being tied down, of being locked in a marital prison; all for naught. My life, this life, here with you - the whole thing almost feels like too much to wish for.

I watch as you gaze out the window, trying to burn it into my memory. “Remember this, Stephanie.” I think. “Remember, remember, remember.” I try to lock this moment, this one perfect moment, right now, here, of you and I just like this, away down deep where it can’t be touched. Where it can live, somewhere inside of me, forever.

Of everything I’ll lose in the next few months, moments like these are what I’ll miss the most.

I remember when you and I sat here - looking out this window, just like we are now - for the first time. That first early morning, having our first coffee together in this house, looking out at the tendrils of early morning mist still stubbornly clinging to the tops of the pines; I remember how the trees seem to stretch out forever like a lush green carpet across the valley before disappearing off into the low hanging clouds in the distant sky. It felt like all the good in our lives was laid out right there in front of us, just waiting for us to step forward into the future and live it.

“Would you look at that” you said on that morning, a little kid giddy with excitement. “The trees, the clouds, the sky, the world, the planets, the stars; all of it right out there, right outside our humble kitchen window. The whole sum total of existence, all trapped behind a single pane of glass.”

We sat there in quiet reverence, knees touching, marveling at the vast beauty of the world beyond our window - breathless at the thought that nothing less than the all of existence was sole spectator to you and I, and that moment: Our first morning spent together. I remember gently knocking wood; a quiet wish that this moment would last forever - or that somehow, in some future life, I could live this moment again, Over and over and over, for eternity.

“What a sight.” I said.

And then you leaned over and kissed me.

Looking back at my life, at our life, that moment is maybe the happiest I've ever been. I wanted to trap it like a firefly in amber and live inside it for a hundred million years. But, of course, the Great Unspoken Tragedy of Time is that it keeps gently nudging us forward, ushering us past what truly matters while muddying the clear waters of purpose with petty wishes and self-important worries. Eyes up! Face forward! Onward! Onward! A brighter future lies just around the corner, it says! A better life! All the while, the happier tomorrow is quietly slipping by the beautiful present into the yearned for yesterday. The next moment is always only a moment away - whether or not you want it to be. We cannot make a home in the present, so we must make that home in our memories. And to lose that home is to lose everything.

Not wanting time to push me forward into the next few minutes and the confession I have to make, I look down and watch my fingers trace the raised patterns of thick paint on the table. God. This table. If there is anything in all of creation that is completely impervious to time - and not to mention ugly - it is our kitchen table.

This thing must weigh a million pounds. A heavy hideous stout old beast slathered with cheap white paint, it’s almost pretty. Like one of those ugly dogs that are cute, it’s where hideous and adorable meet back on the other side. It’s my secret hope that the table is actually made from some kind of beautiful wood; Walnut, or Rosewood. Something valuable. Or Teak: The wood of royals. Wouldn’t that be a trip? Something majestic under all this crap paint? As the doctor visits have mounted and my life has started to come apart these past few weeks, it’s been all I can do to not take a steak knife and scratch off a little of the paint to take a peek underneath to see if my suspicions are true. I can just see the Antique Roadshow now:

“Stephanie: Good news! Your boring old kitchen table is actually a teak treasure from the jungles of India, brought by the explorer Francisco de Almeida in the year 1505! How did you come about it?”

“Well, Mark, it’s a funny story; it was actually our kitchen table for years and years, just sitting there, quietly, as we had our coffee every morning. Anyway, one day - ”

“Wow. How funny.”

“Right? Anyway, one day I had been going through a lot of medical trauma and so to distract myself thought just popped into my head: What if there was something special about our ugly table?”

“Something special, Stephanie?”

“Yes! Something special - you see, it used to be covered in this awful white paint.”

“Thick, cheap, white paint?”

“Yes, Mark. Exactly.” (audience laughs)

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes! And I just started thinking: This table, this ugly, heavy, but otherwise rather unassuming white table - what if there was something more to it? Something special, underneath? Something more beautiful than what we could see on the outsi - “

Hey, what are you thinking about?

I blink quickly, and look up, returning from the Roadshow set to your kitchen. Our kitchen.

Nothing, I say. Why?

You just looked like you were thinking of something funny.

I look back down at the table, at the white paint. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I open my mouth to tell you my theory about the table and its secrets, about the Antique Roadshow bit with the 1505 Francisco story in this Mark voice I made up - but instead what comes out of my mouth is not the theory about our (your) table and its exotic secret, but instead it’s the thing I need to tell you. The thing I’ve been needing to tell you for weeks. The Truth.

I’m sick.

I’m really really sick. Like, the kind of sick where people don’t get better sick. I hear myself using some of the same words the doctors used when they told me: Rare, Degenerative, and eventually, the only word that matters in these sorts of cases: Terminal.

You look at me in disbelief, your wide, beautiful eyes not wanting to accept what I’m saying - much the same way, I imagine, as I looked at the doctor when she told me the news. Only she also used other, bigger, more doctory words like “transmissible spongiform encephalopathy”. I don’t tell you these words; it feels like to say them aloud would be too much like dark magic; too much like summoning an evil I don’t want. Although, at this point, what’s one more curse on top what I’ve already got?

You look down at your hands. You look at them for a long time. I wonder what you’re thinking. Then you quietly ask how much time we have left. I notice you say we, not me. You’re sweet.

I press my bare feet into the cold kitchen floor, trying not to cry and trying to figure out how best to tell you the truth without actually having to say it out loud. The silence settles around us like a dark cloud; a flock of big black birds, all watching with their beady eyes, waiting for an answer. Minutes pass. The clock ticks quietly in the hall.

It’s when I tell you how long that you finally start crying. We lean into each other, our bodies comforting each other in their own way. Our coffees sit on the big ugly table, untouched, steam rising lazily into the cool morning air.

Definitely shouldn’t have made that third pot.

***

When I was a kid, I lived next to this kid named Phillip. It was never Phil, just Phillip. One Summer, Phillip and I for some reason became obsessed with digging this hole. I don’t honestly remember how it started; maybe one of us had seen something on time capsules, or maybe we wanted to try to find out if the water table really existed. Whatever. Kids are stupid.

What I do remember is that, one day after school, Phillip and I for some reason started digging this hole on the side of his house. And every day after that, after school, we would run home, go back to the side of his house, and work on The Hole. Deeper and deeper. Wider. Steeper. Down down down. You’d think that we’d get sick of it - after all, you’re just digging a deep dumb hole, there’s nothing down there but more dirt you dummies - but that wasn’t the way we saw it. To us, it wasn’t just a hole; every spade of earth we turned over was a chance for a new forbidden discovery, a new illicit thrill. Arrowheads! Haunted pottery! Old machine parts! Every day we ran to The Hole, shovels in hand, with the same thought: What new thing would we discover today? What new piece of magic lay secretly buried, all these years, just out of sight, waiting to be discovered and pulled up into the light to be born into a spectacular new life? What beauty lay hidden just under our feet, lost down there in the cold black earth?

Our all-consuming daily digging obsession went on and on past the end of the school year and well across that whole summer; The Hole got so big and deep that we started putting a tarp over it to keep the rain out so it wouldn’t become a flooded mess. In the end though, it met its fate like all childhood adventures: Boring reality butted in. One day, Phillip’s dad walked around the side of the house, found the hole, and made us fill it in. When we protested, he just shook his head: “You spent your whole summer on a hole. Youth is wasted on the young.”

***

My brain is so weird; sometimes I think it knows things that I don’t. For instance, I’ve recently started catching myself thinking of “our” things as “your” things:

Your car.

Your house.

Your bed.

Your ugly kitchen table.

Your life.

Your life after me, of course I mean. What will that be like, I wonder? My life always felt so rushed: I dashed to work, I hurried home, I raced to the store, I ran to the bus, I worried about missing the train, the dinner, the movie. Why? Why did I do that? Why was I worried? My whole life I’ve had plenty of Life left to live, but I spent it all driving a million miles an hour to a million different places - only to get there and be worried about what I was doing next. Onward! Onward! Missing out always felt like a fate worse than death. How wrong I was.

Now that my life is ending, and there’s an actual clock counting down, I couldn’t care less. I don’t rush anywhere. I don’t race to any event. I don’t worry about making the movie or missing the bus. There will be other movies, other buses. Now that my future has fled, what’s most important is what’s around me, right now. It’s only at the end of my life that I’m realizing that life really takes place in between the times we think will matter; the moments I didn’t pay attention to were the ones that mattered most. Turns out the real beauty in life was there just underneath the surface after all.

They say those who fail to learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them - but that’s wrong. No one gets to repeat anything. We should be so lucky to given such a chance; mistakes or not.

***

My first thought is that I am freezing cold. Why am I so cold? And why is everything in my bedroom orange? I look around, and it takes me a second to realize that I’m not in my bedroom. I’m outside. What am I doing outside at night? The orange glow from the streetlight throws wild, unfamiliar shadows on the trees by the side of the road. What is this? I hear you screaming my name from somewhere far away. As if in response, the icy winter wind gusts out from between the black trunks of the barren pines, pushing me in your direction. I turn, my legs stiff, and begin walking towards where I think you are, but it’s cold and -

I wake suddenly in our (your) bed. It’s morning. I look around, slowly. The terror of the bad dream slowly drains out of my chest in the white glow of the morning. I look over; you’re still asleep. I desperately have to pee - a side effect of the medication - so I slowly pull the covers back and roll to the side to get out of bed without waking you. As I put my feet on the floor, I notice they are bloody and scratched; black with dirt. Not a dream after all.

***

One night, I call my mother for our weekly catch up - but her phone keeps ringing and ringing. This never, ever happens. She always picks up. Concerned, I find you in the living room half watching the TV while doing your crossword.

I’m worried about my mom. I say. I think she’s in trouble. Maybe hurt.

You look up, sharply. Hurt? What do you mean?

I just tried to call her. It just keeps ringing and ringing. Should we call someone to check on her?

Your face changes. I can tell you don’t want to do this, that it hurts you to do this, but it’s something you feel that you need to do. You pause, then carefully put your crossword aside.

I think your mom is okay. Come here for a second.

You stand, and I follow you into the kitchen. There is a piece of paper taped to the wall next to the phone that I’ve never seen before. It is written in all caps with a big black marker and says:

CALLING YOUR MOM?

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

IS IT AFTER 8PM? ------> YOU HAVE ALREADY CALLED HER TONIGHT.

IF YOU HAVE ALREADY CALLED, SHE WILL NOT ANSWER.

DON’T WORRY, SHE IS FINE.

You look at me, and at the clock. My eyes follow yours. The clock reads 8:34. I slowly nod. As I put the phone back on its cradle, I read the note again. It’s in my handwriting.

***

Even as I’m pouring the last drops of our second pot of coffee in your cup I’m still trying to tell myself that I’m not going to make another pot, but even my own mind can’t keep a straight face at the thought. I decide to pretend a third pot was the plan all along and pour the water in for another go before bringing your coffee back to the table and setting it down with a little flourish.

You sit as you do, as we do, every morning, at our kitchen table. It’s a heavy old thing slathered with cheap white paint. It must weigh a million pounds. I secretly suspect (read: hope) it’s actually something beautiful underneath; walnut, maybe. Or teak. The wood of royals! Something exotic - wouldn’t that be a trip? These past weeks it’s been all I can do to not give in to the thought and scratch a little bit off with the butter knife to take a peek. What if it’s something valuable? Like really majestic? Hidden under all that hideous thick paint uncaringly slopped on. The more I think about it, the more positive I am: Someone, at some point in history, decided to cover this regal, majestic table in terrible thick white paint. But did that change what the table was, underneath? It changed the way we (I) looked at our (your) table, but didn’t change what the table was, inside. What an epic crime it would be if the table believed that it was just this white coated monstrosity. That it forgot what it truly was, underneath the thick paint. Does it still count as something beautiful? Even if I’m the only one who knows it?

Not wanting time to push me forward into the next few minutes and the confession I have to make, I look down and watch my fingers trace the raised patterns of thick paint on the table. My life, this life, here with you - the whole thing almost feels like too much to wish for.

I watch as you gaze out the window, trying to burn it into my memory. “Remember this, Stephanie.” I think. “Remember, remember, remember.”

***

It can be hard to see yourself as you really are. To try and see the truth of someone else? Nearly impossible.

So years ago, I came up with a neat little trick: whenever I would a take photo, I did something sneaky: I would count to three, and then pretend to take the photo. Everyone would smile. Then, believing it was done, they would relax - and that’s when I would really take the photo, capturing everyone in that one unguarded moment. We are really only our true selves when we believe no one is watching. Those moments that are in-between; those are only real moments that matter.

***

I am outside, in the darkness. No orange light, now. On all sides, I am surrounded by branches that claw at me with their long, sharp fingers. No matter which way I turn, they are there, raking their nails across my cold, tender skin. When I was younger I used to live in a hole with a kid named Phillip - not Phil, but Phillip - and every Christmas morning, Phillip would hide under his bed, hysterical, refusing to come downstairs and open his presents. He thought that Santa Claus was a giant bearded fat man in a red suit with long, sharp claws who would crawl down the chimney into the house while you were sleeping. We would sit in our hole, in the dark, and Phillip would tell me in a high whisper about Santa: That he could see deep into your soul with his ancient watery yellow eyes and knew in your heart how you felt - if you had acted bad. If you had darkness in you. It petrified Phillip. Silly Phillip, I think, as I stagger through the cold forest in the dark, the branches scratching my arms and face. The bearded man only wanted to bring you his gifts. The bearded man. With the claws. He would crawl down the chimney while we were sleeping, he would slither into our heads with his long claws and wrap himself around our hearts, knowing how we truly felt. Click click click his claws tapping against the old wooden floors in our house in the night, scratching and scurrying over to the plate of treats we had left out for him; an offering to the long clawed greasy red shadow that came every year in the night. Traveling on the night air, high up in the black sky, soaring on the sharp cold winds that roar right at the edge of space across the slumbering world, the only witness to his flight the endless flickering points of pale flame, flickering white stars long dead, like the countless white grubs in the steaming fresh earth of endless turned spades, that one hot sticky summer we spent digging our hole. Phillip died not long after we filled in our hole; died that winter, his blood leaking out into the bright white snow. His dad put him in a different hole, down in that cold dark earth where everything is alive and nothing lives. Phillip, not Phil.

A sudden winter wind knifes through the dark woods, scattering a small flurry of snow and bringing a gasp to my lips. There is rot in these woods, I think, suddenly afraid. It feels like something is watching as I stumble around; something ancient and hircine, watching with watery yellow eyes, crouched somewhere I can’t see. A low sob escapes my chest. I don’t want this. Please. Long brittle fingers eagerly scrape against each other, somewhere high above against the black night sky. It’s cold. So cold. Off in the distance, a faint voice screams for Stephanie. Who is Stephanie?

***

It’s morning.

I am sitting in your kitchen, at your table, as you set a cup of coffee down in front of me with a little flourish. It’s cute. Our first date, and already the consummate host! You will make some woman very happy one day, I think. Knock wood that it would be me. It would be nice to sit here with you, morning after morning, day after day, and have this sort of life together. My younger self would recoil at the thought - me? A happily married woman? Content with starting my every day off like this with you - I can just picture my younger self screaming bloody murder. I laugh at the thought. Us, every morning, like this, at this table? A dream. Almost too much to wish for.

Although, this table… It is hideous. Who would paint such a beautiful table with this cheap white paint? A shame. A crime. It has the look of such a pretty, ornate table; you can nearly see the beauty, just underneath the surface. But in your home, this ugly table stands alone - the rest of your house has the look of a woman’s touch. Tastefully decorated, but lovingly lived in. I wonder who you used to live here with. How it ended. Did she break your heart?

My eyes wander back to the table. I wonder what really is underneath? I can’t stop thinking about it.

When I was young, my neighbor and I spent the summer digging a hole. To everyone else, it was two weird kids digging a weird hole. But we did it because we had a crush on each other and didn’t know how to say it. So, instead, we spent every day together, digging - it was as good a reason as any to be in one another’s company and not have to awkwardly talk about it. When the hole got deep enough, we would sit in our hole, our special place under the tarp, and make up stories about the things we were going to find; buried treasure, magical pottery; old robot parts. One day, when I was in the middle of a story about a bank robbery and how the gang had no choice but to bury their loot and split up before they were captured, he leaned over and kissed me. It was my first kiss; a small moment in the middle of an unbearably hot, sticky Midwestern Summer under a tarp in a big wet hole next to a house - but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. I kissed him back.

There are few things more true in this world than the beauty of a small moment.

When you’re not looking, I take your butter knife and scrape some of the paint at the edge of the table. The wood underneath is dark. Excited, I try to press into it with my thumbnail. It’s hard! Teak, I’ll bet! I love teak. How beautiful! I smile to myself. A teak table painted birdshit white. Who knew? The wood of the royals, right here under all this cheap paint. A thing of beauty, just waiting its turn to be rediscovered and once again have its moment in the sun.

I look over to see you watching me, smiling with your big wide eyes. Did you see me scratch your table? I smile back. What a beautiful smile you have - and I tell you so. It’s flirting, shameless; I know. But what do I have to lose? A handsome man like you, single? Inviting me here, into your home? Making me a morning coffee, of all things? Almost too much to wish for.

You ask if I’m hungry; I’m not, but I want to stay with you here in your house for as long as I can, so I say yes. An obvious trick. You laugh and pull out a pan to make some food. It’s quite the production; you drizzle oil into the pan like a ballet dancer; you crack the eggs like a ninja; you drop the salt and it spills all over the floor. I love it. I love it all. I am laughing hysterically, in spite of myself.

I look out the window: The trees, the world, the sky, the stars; all trapped behind one single pane of glass. All of it just a spectator to you and me and this moment - this one, lovely moment. How can I be so lucky, I think, to live a life that would have just a single moment like this. How lucky to be alive at all. So many years I lived rushing from place to place, right by moments like this, instead of living in moments like this. Youth is wasted on the young.

You look up from the sizzling pan. Ugh, that smile again. Lord. I can’t. My heart beats faster. Do I have a really have a shot with this man? This wonderful man, as I sit at his ugly royal teak table in his beautiful house? Expertly assembling my breakfast on a plate, you glide over with a little dance, and set the plate down. Suddenly, I’m starving. Pulling your chair close, you sit next to me, our bodies almost touching. It is sublime.

You run your finger over the edge of the table, over the small scratch I’ve made in the paint. I didn’t notice before, but I see now that it’s next to countless other small scratches made by someone else. Sadness flickers across your face, and you look up. Our eyes meet.

It's teak! I can't help but exclaim. The wood of royals!

You break into a laugh.

What a perfect moment, I think. Time pushes us forward - but please, just this once, let it wait. Let me live right here for just a moment more: in our house, at our table. Here, with you. Silence settles around us like a warm blanket. The clock ticks quietly in the hall.

I look out the window. The trees, the world, the sky, the stars; all is still.

What a sight, I say.

And then you lean in for a kiss.

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twinklebrain · 4 years

Text

Indulgence

A ficlet. Qiao Chusheng likes spoiling Lu Yao. Lu Yao is happy to be spoilt. Bai Youning is not happy.

No spoilers. I’m just trying to get into QCS’s head a bit. Not too sure where and if this ficlet will go any where.

Excuse the grammar. If you like it come say ‘hi’!

Qian Chusheng makes no secret over the fact that he enjoys indulging Lu Yao. Anyone with half a mind could see his obvious give-ins to Lu Yao’s every whim and fancy. All it takes is a slight downward pout of those very kissable lips, plus the barely there widening of baby-doe eyes, and Chusheng acquiesces without any further hesitation.

“You need to stop spoiling him,” chides Bai Youning as Lu Yao exclaims with unmasked glee over the receiving of yet another expensive present.

Unperturbed by the tightening of her thin lips and the glaring dark eyes, Chusheng humours her with the standard, “I’m not. It’s parked under his consulting fees.”

But as her nagging became a regular mantra, Chusheng starting plying his responses with mild bite.

“It’s not like I’m not paying for your meals too.”

“Did you forget about the time I paid for the apartment’s renovation? Last time I recalled, you lived there too.”

“Aren’t you getting front page by-lines each time he completes the case? Shouldn’t you be happy that Lu Yao is willing to continue working for me, and therefore allowing you first-hand access to all the clues and solution?”

But the bites don’t do anything to inhibit Youning’s onslaught; if anything, they rile up the daughter of one of Shanghai’s most revered mafia bosses even more. The Mercedes Benz was probably the straw that broke the camel’s back as she proclaimed loudly in exasperation, “Chusheng-ge! Have you gone mad? Don’t forget your position as Inspector. What will people think? It’s not right to let him wrap you around his fingers like that!”

Chusheng’s eyes narrowed dangerously, the words, ‘those who live in glass houses should not throw stones’ on the tip of his tongue. But he bites them back; he does not relish the thought of being called up by Bai Qili on claims that he was ‘bullying his precious princess’. From the day he was adopted by the Bai patriarch, he learned that there are dire and painful consequences to saying ‘no’ to Youning. Bai Qili’s threatening snarl to throw him back out into the streets was more than enough to keep Chusheng silent on all of Youning’s future shenanigans. For the sake of survival, he chose instead to smile blithely at her orders. Call it being ‘grateful’, ‘knowing one’s place’; it doesn’t really matter because the truth is, without Bai Qili, there is no Qiao Chusheng. He may not be a learned man, but he is not stupid. Chusheng knows that there is no such thing as a free meal; Bai Qili didn’t pick him up because he took pity on him, but because he knew how to use Chusheng’s fists and street smarts to his favour. Bai Youning doesn’t throw a princess tantrum for no reason, it’s because she enjoys pushing Chusheng’s buttons and seeing how far he would go to take her side instead of her father’s.

Qiao Chusheng is also acutely aware that the fist can only command so much respect, and it is useless when it comes to stopping people from gossiping. Since he accepted the role as police inspector, he knows people give him a wide breath because of who his benefactor is; without Bai lao-ye, he is no one. So despite whispers within and outside his force that he was nothing more than a puppet for the Bai patriarch, Chusheng continues to turn a blind eye on Youning’s so-called ‘investigative reporting’; so long as the case is cracked and Bai Qili doesn’t lose face over the incident, he can withstand all forms of backstabbing and slander.

Having lived most of his adult life on the whims of others, even at the expense of his own wants, Chusheng is thus, more than familiar to the idea of being being used. And if push comes to shove, he has no qualms either of using others as tools to get what he needs.

That is, until he meets Lu Yao.

To the untrained eye, Lu Yao appeared no different from the Bai family; their relationship was after all, build upon a business transaction – you help me solve the case, I pay you for your services. But unlike the father-daughter duo who wanted to use Chusheng for their own personal gain, Lu Yao seemed genuinely vested in building a relationship with him, even to the point of wanting to help him hone his skills and earn the respect of his fellow peers.

“Aiya Inspector Qiao, can you use your eyes for once and look at the crime scene properly?”

“Come on Inspector Qiao, use that brain of yours and think, I’m sure you can see there are loopholes in his alibi.”

“I know it’s late, but since your lights were on I figured you’re still working on the case. Well you can put that thing on hold because I’m hungry. If you pay for supper, I’ll share my thoughts.”

“I haven’t touched anything! I swear! A-Dou can vouch for me. I was waiting for you before I started investing the scene.”

“Of course I didn’t run away! I was worried about you!”

“Bravo Inspector Qiao! You’re finally using your eyes and that clever brain of yours.”

He had entered the agreement with full knowledge that Lu Yao saw him as a ticket to a free meal, both literally and figuratively. And for the most part of their early interaction, Chusheng treated Lu Yao as nothing more than just another means to an end, an end that would expand Bai Qili’s influence in Shanghai. But somewhere along the way their barter came a change. Though Lu Yao asks for many things, a German-made oven, a British toaster, and other random odds and ends, he never seemed to recall what he asked for, and is always genuinely surprised and grateful for the gifts. Increasingly, there are even moments of embarrassment, as if Lu Yao is caught with his hands in the cookie jar, while his mouth is already stuffed full of cookies.

Such moments give Chusheng pause; he has no doubt over Lu Yao’s excellent memory, and so can only wonder if Lu Yao actually cares for his gains, or does he use the exchange as an opportunity to test the boundaries of their relationship?

“Are you absolutely sure I can have this?”

“Well, maybe not the big vase, how about the little one?”

“You know I’m going to bake you a cake next time you visit. Put lots and lots of strawberries because I know you like them.”

“If you get the wine I promise I’ll cook you dinner. Need to break out the new stove you know.”

Each time Youning interjects with ‘That’s too much!’, Lu Yao wiggles an eyebrow and huffs, “Bai Youning you keep quiet. You’re not the one paying.”

Chusheng can’t help but laugh at the bickering; he may not be able to openly counter Youning, but through Lu Yao, he feels a sense of triumph that finally, there is someone with the guts to push back.

“Qiao Chusheng, what’s with that devious grin on your face?”

Chusheng breaks out from his reverie as he turns his attention to the lanky man on the sofa seat next to him; all long arms and legs spread out as if it was the most comfortable position in the world. He doesn’t miss the playful glint in the doe-eyes.

“I was just thinking that you would look nice in a blue jacket,” he responded airily.

Lu Yao had the decency to blush, “If you keep buying me nice things I’m never going to want to leave you.”

Chusheng stares back, as a slight pink creeps into Lu Yao’s pale cheeks. His consultants averts his eyes as he pulls himself upright before mumbling, “Ah, well, you know, what I mean to say is, I haven’t solved this case yet.”

Chusheng finally smiles, as he leans forward into Lu Yao’s space, “But you will.”

Lu Yao rolls his eyes, but his smile matches Chusheng, “But I will.”

Chusheng enjoys indulging Lu Yao. And no one is going to tell him to do otherwise.

***

#my roommate is a detective #qiao chusheng #lu yao #mriad #明国侦探

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nikkywrites · 4 years

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Cemetery of Power || Caffeine Challenge 30

Lila starts her ritual. A friend begs her to reconsider. Part two to this.

Used the dialogue prompt and picture sorta.

This is edited a fair bit. Some for flow’s sake, but I did tweak Lila’s spell/ritual and it changes a bit from there. No major shifts, but you may want to give this a glance over if you’re following in the transfer. This encapsulates the kind of changes that’ll happen to everything.

*****

Lila strides out of the bar, blade pressed against her side, bell dinging over her head like a toll for death. She walks around the side, to the cold, bricked, dark alley. Spray paint tags the wall, still wet, a swirl of colors that is abstract to any human that doesn’t know better, but more to those who do. It’s a doorstop for the portal she’d opened to get there.

It leads to the woods. Long grass curling around her ankles, hooked fingers from below trying to pull her in with old magic imbued and rotten. Spindly, tall trees reach for the sun, jagged branches thirsting for magic that no longer lives under it’s cover. Magic migrates, like flocking birds, to where it is easy to live, to where those who practice it reside. When the nest is left behind, empty, the twigs and dirt and sky thirst for what is now gone. These grounds were sacred, once. Lila was going to make sure that they were again, if just for a single moment.

The buildings were long gone, overtaken by nature as the centuries dragged on, but the magic they had been built with, tempered with, housed with, remains. It will take more then time and earth to remove that.

It thrums under her feet, desperate, pleading. Lila unsheathes the Soul Dagger she’d dealt Xia unfairly into relenting. It should corrupt her, leak poison into her blood that explodes her mind, taunting her with all her thoughts of death. Lila isn’t a Soul Keeper. She doesn’t have a drop of it in her past, in her ancestry. But the blade will cooperate nonetheless.

It knows what she is and what she’s going to do. It will listen. Cooperate. It’s going to do what it was made for, regardless that it’s not Xia wielding it anymore. Not a Soul Keeper. It knows this is important.

It takes souls. Cuts the bond between body and spirit. Is an astral blade forged by the Fates, eons and eons and eons ago.

There are few things older than a Soul Blade. This one, Lila knows, happens to have come from the Cutter of String. The final Fate, the lesser Fate, the one who held the shears.

She walks through the trees, pulling against the magic in the ground, in the dirt, in the trees. It obeys, with that blade in her possession. So few know of Fate’s connection with Soul Keepers. Lila knows.

She knows of it’s history while also knowing of the corpse that lays in the ground here. An old body, an old soul, old magic that powers the plants to this day, however dwindling it is. Secret knowledge. Deadly knowledge.

Kneeling, she digs her fingers into the soft earth, malleable with power. She hums a few notes of an old spell-song. She stakes the blade into the ground, to the hilt. Light spills from the edges and she drinks some in, allowing it to strengthen her throat. She begins the chant.

The tongue she uses is old. Ancient. Powerful. Forgotten. Monarchs had crumbled under the taste of a single syllable, a fraction of a word, of a sentence, of a declaration. Now, it burrows and grabs and tugs.

Bones rise from the dark dirt, shambling into a skeleton’s form. With words alone, she assembles one of the oldest skeletons, restoring it to it’s original form. To pristineness. To smooth white instead of craggled yellow-brown. When assembled, she stops. Slowly, reverently, she glides her finger along the clavicle, a sharp jutting point.

“Ward,” she breathes, running her gaze along the forgotten fragment of life. The skull tilts, in response, empty eye sockets turning towards her. “I’m sorry.”

For everything. What she’s done. What she’s doing.

Taking the dagger from the earth, she holds it in her hand. Resumes her chant, lets the power of her words shake the air. His bones vibrate. Her fist tightens and she severs the spine where it holds the skull. The bones sparkle into luminescent powder. She coaxes it into her palm. She blinks at the stinging in her eyes.

Closing her fist and pressing it to her heart, she says the part of the chant, the ritual, the spell, that’s actually draining. Important. The point of no return. Magic spears her. She opens her palm and blows the lackluster dust from her palm. The grinded remains of his bones, unneeded anymore.

It sparkles in the air, hangs still like a puppet on the end of a string. Blows away in conjured wind and becomes nothing that will ever be assembled again. Together.

Lila’s marrow burns.

“What are you doing?” A voice sounds behind her, a familiar one that is too late.

She doesn’t turn, instead aids the invading magic within her, infuses it into her breath, her being, her soul. As sacrifice, she trades three inches of her hair and a secret long passed. Her skin changes, rippling into a darker shade, adapting to a thicker epidermis, the skin of a boy who had changed magic. Who almost became a god. A true Ever. Unforgotten. Almost, almost.

Finally, she turns to her visitor, with the enchantment accepted and progressing. Changing her.

“You know what I’m doing,” she says, dual-voiced like a doubled edged sword, hers and something deeper.

Colin looks at her, pity in his eyes like a corpse from a noose. “You can’t do this.”

Her hair recedes into her skull, shorter, thicker, lighter. “You’re to late to stop me.”

“Stop trying to be him,” Colin says, a plea instead of an order because she’ll never listen to that. “You’ll never be him. He’ll take you.”

She stands, bones shifting under her skin, breaking and shattering, painful but welcome. “I’m not doing this for fun.” The feminine lilt is receding, a background echo to his deep tenor. “I’m adopting him so he won’t be lost. You can sense it. Traders are hungering for a piece of him. He was rotting. It’s too dangerous for him to lie dormant any longer. He’ll rot this forest.”

Colin steps forwards, hesitant, arms raised. “He will consume you. That tongue will only keep him bound for so long.”

His eyes, wide and green, are begging her. Please. Don’t. It’s hopeless. Already too late. He’s a part of her now and if she doesn’t get rid of him quick, things will stay that way. He will consume her. But she has to try. Too much is at stake for her not to.

“It’s not for forever. But no one can get their hands on him. Not even the company.” She fixes brown eyes that aren’t hers on her friend, steely and serious. “He’s too much. He could be used to destroy Nons. For eradication. War. It’s too much, Colin.”

Tears light his eyes. “The Garden is sealed. You won’t make it.”

The old soul bubbles within her own; a temporary extension, a temporary half. “Together we can do it. We have to try. It’s his best chance.”

His tears fall. His face collapses on itself in preemptive grief. “You won’t come back,” he whispers, voice breaking like she imagines his heart is. He steadies his breathing as her outward transformation completes. “Why is this your duty? Why does it have to be you?”

She doesn’t have any more time to spare him the answer. It’s not an easy one anyways. It has things she can’t tell him in it. Things she keeps only to herself. It’s a hard answer.

But the short of it is that no one else is capable. For reasons both in her control and not. She is Ward’s only chance at peace.

Taking a breath, first and new in this body, she stands over him. Taller, body thin and boney. Once, he had fostered all life, protected something doomed to death with his kindness, turned tides of extinction into tides of evolution. Much of magic would be dead and lost if he hadn’t sacrificed all he did. If he hadn’t created all he did.

Unspoken, his name is just a series of letters to most, a category of spellwork to others, nothing in it’s entirety but something in fragments. To Lila, to long dead corpses, to something he bore that still remains, he is more. He belongs in the Garden, in the cage of ethereal vines that holds souls too powerful for Keepers to have and too powerful to sit in the earth he once breathed in.

He is too much to let lie. Important in ways that don’t matter. Corrupted too much by time to be harmless and giving and true to what he was. He must be moved.

The forest would change. The Garden would change. Her and her magic would change. Stepping forwards, closer to Colin and not, her footprints sink below the mantle all the way to the core, to molten metal and chunks of forbidden, ancient magic.

His aura, even in death and new not-life, is strong. Pungent. Trees bow beneath it, grass abating, life waning. Magic leaving the forest to die. To look the same but be hollow under bark and grass and sky. Sighing, she takes a step forward in the forest and finishes her next at the gate of the Garden. The cemetery of power.

Immediately, all remaining bits of magic left behind withers. Gone ebbs the fiendish pull of the call for blood, for death, for skin. Centuries among humans had turned his kind healing into vicious corruption. His magic had rotted over time and started trying to self-live, to sustain itself on outward life.

It had tried not to fade into obscurity. It knew what it was. What it did. It knew it did not belong where it was.

Haunted woods haunted no more, Lila brandishes his power and skin like a fleet of trained men. Tearing at rust, at vegetation, at gates made of celestial, intangible steel, she demolishes the veil of protection and starts lying his soul to rest among all the dead, among world domineering strength, among vile healing and kind destruction.

She takes an old soul and heals the world.

*****

I’m still proud of this. Apparently originally I wasn’t sure about it, but I like this piece. I have no idea how the core of it came in an hour, but this is something I’m proud of. A little big, maybe, in the scope of it, but good.

Poor Colin. He’s just trying to be a good friend, but he doesn’t understand.

#writeblr #writing #writblr #writers of tumblr #creative writing #nikkywritesstories #my writing #oc lila #everlasting world #soul keeper world #oc colin #repost from my old blog #i forgot about the end of this. the air of it #its nice #(that last line though)#its one of many that i like #this is probably one of the most solid things ive written for my writeblr so far #oddly proud of it #favorite

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vintagedaydreams · 4 years

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True Love Never Runs Smoothly Part 4 (Marcus)

@littlebabybatthings @amwolowicz @waxingmoonstone

Here is Part Four for the Marcus story arc! I do sincerely apologize for the delay.

The usual warnings apply - mention of suicide, some cussing, etc.

Enjoy!!

(The Carlisle version of Part Four will be up once it’s complete!)

You finally emerged from your room, your grumbling stomach pushing you to venture out in search of food.

You glanced around warily, still shaken by your dream. Damn brain. As if this wasn’t a bad enough situation – now you were dreaming loving, comforting dreams about who knows who.

Surely you didn’t deserve any of this, right? It wasn’t like you were a horrible person or anything!

“(Y/N),” a voice suddenly greeted from behind you and you yelped, spinning around.

Bella and Edward stood in the corridor, Bella looking at your worriedly, Edward half amused.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, “hey guys.”

“(Y/N),” Bella said softly. “Are…are you okay?”

You grimaced, thinking back to the dream and how absolutely done you were with this whole situation.

“I’m okay…enough,” you finally sighed.

“How are you feeling?” she pressed, her and Edward both moving closer to you.

Hurt, confused, nervous, anxious, depressed, angry, lonely—“Hungry,” you finally muttered.

Bella opened her mouth to say something, but Edward cut in with, “Come with us. I’m taking Bella to the kitchens to get her something to eat as well.”

Your mind flashed back to the confrontation with Carlisle last time you tried to get food from there and Edward added quietly, “No one will be there, (Y/N). Just the three of us.”

You nodded, sweeping out a hand halfheartedly. “Lead the way, tour guide.”

Edward gave a small smile and you all started down the castle corridor. The doors to a room you assumed was the kitchen had just come into view when Edward suddenly spoke up, “Bella and I are not Bond Mates.”

You jerked your head over to look at the two of them, thrown by the sudden conversation starter. “What?”

“It’s true,” Bella said with a small smile, picking up the conversation after a glance at Edward. “Marcus has the ability to see relationship bonds and can tell what kind they are. Not every vampire has a Bond Mate – hence why they’re so sacred. But those that don’t are still capable of finding love. Very deep, strong love.”

“Like you and Edward,” you said softly.

“Yes. Like me and Edward.”

“When did you become an expert in vampire bonds, then?” you asked after a moment as you all ducked into the kitchen.

“She’s been asking a lot of questions and gathering intel since we’ve both decided to disown my family until they get their act together,” Edward answered smoothly before Bella could.

A deafening silence rang out through the kitchen.

“You…what?” you finally managed to get your mouth to work.

“Well, we were going to tell you with a little more finesse,” Bella replied, “but this works, I guess. I’m not sure what Carlisle is playing at, but everyone in the family has treated you horribly. And that’s not right. Rosalie wasn’t even this horrible to me when Edward started up with me and he has less of an excuse for falling for a human.

I mean, with Edward and I not being Bond Mates, I can kind of understand that Carlisle and Esme love each other, okay sure. But Carlisle lived with the Volturi for decades. I find it hard to believe that he not once was told he had a Bond Mate, especially with how sacred they are in the Vampire world. And even if he did love only Esme, and would only love Esme no matter what, that does not excuse the way that he’s been treating you. I’ve lost a lot of respect for the ‘human loving’ vampire that he claims to be. He’s one of the worst of the lot, especially since the family takes their cues from him. If he would just man up and get to know you, or at least tell them to quit being complete and utter assholes, he might have a smidgen of my respect still.”

You were wide eyed by the end of Bella’s rant. You looked from her somewhat red faced and breathless form to where Edward had quietly started to get breakfast items gathered on the counter.

“She’s not wrong,” the bronze haired vampire said with a gentle look to you. You felt your eyes instantly fill with tears and mentally cursed at him. So much for no more tears. You should have been dehydrated by now.

“I don’t…I mean why…How are…”

“(Y/N),” Bella said firmly, taking charge once again and leading you over to sit at the table in the middle of the room. “You are my friend. You helped me so much when Edward left. You are more important to me than a family who can so easily turn on someone who should be one of their own. Quit questioning it. Edward and I are here for you. And we always will be. Besides,” she said with a wicked grin, “I have some ideas for how we can get them back. And a few of them include Marcus.”

You choked on your next breath and Edward lightly scolded Bella from where he was cooking on stove.

Bella took it all in stride, waiting until Edward was finished before saying, “Half of these were your ideas, Edward. Besides, you were the one who dropped the ‘we’ve disowned the family’ bombshell suddenly. Don’t act all coy now.”

You looked back and forth from Edward to Bella as they bantered back and forth, feeling yourself settle and a small smile take over your face.

At least this was still the same.

Edward served both you and Bella breakfast and thankfully, he steered the conversation to random things – what the castle looked like, the gardens, how he and Bella were actually being accepted wholeheartedly into the Volturi, the library, the shops and stores that he and Bella had explored after sunset – instead of anything to do with Carlisle and family.

And you were so grateful, you couldn’t even put it into words. So instead you just sent warm fuzzy thoughts to the mind reader, hoping he’d get the picture.

The soft look he gave you said that he did.

It wasn’t until you three were walking down the corridor from the kitchen that Bella brought up Marcus.

Your somewhat horrified look at her question, “So what do you think of Marcus?”, made her laugh lightly.

“The Queens think you would be a perfect match,” the brunette continued with a sly smile and you choked on air.

“What?” You had thought that Athenodora had been just trying to prove a point, not actually being serious!

Bella cast a glance at Edward who sighed and nodded. “It is true, (Y/N),” he said with a slight smile. “Queen Athenodora did brush up against me and her thoughts were all centered on finding happiness for Marcus. And you featured prominently in all of them.”

You gaped at Edward, mind running a mile a minute. Didn’t you have enough on your plate with Carlisle without trying to think about the…attentions of any other vampire? And if you weren’t good enough for your Bond Mate for crying out loud, the most sacred and revered bond in the entire vampire world, what made any of them think you were good enough for one of the Kings?

A low growl broke through your thoughts and you had a very brief flashback of that night in the throne room, before Edward was speaking to you.

“You are more than enough, (Y/N). My sire is an idiot.”

“Eddie,” you started lowly, shocked that he had called Carlisle his sire and not his father, but Edward continued on as if you hadn’t spoken at all.

“Bella and I have talked about this a lot, (Y/N). She is right. We are not Bond Mates, but love each other very much. Carlisle may love Esme and may not want another, but he could have – should have – handled it better. Much better. The fact this his Bond Mate, that you, were contemplating suicide and had felt so abused and cut off from the family that was supposed to at least treat you with respect due a Bond Mate that you felt suicide your only option… It is unforgivable. Whatever excuses he may have, it does not excuse his treatment of you. I am only sorry that I did not do something about it sooner than now.”

Your eyes filled with tears once again, but you valiantly held them back. Nope. No more crying. Though you were touched by both Edward and Bella’s words. It was comforting to know that you weren’t in this alone. Not anymore.

“Thank you,” you managed to croak, hoping again that your warm fuzzy thoughts could adequately express what your vocal cords could not at the moment.

“Anytime, (Y/N),” Edward said softly and Bella came around to wrap you in a gentle hug.

“We’ll always be there for you, (Y/N),” she murmured before pulling away and giving a small smile.

“Now! Enough of this or I’ll start crying too. Back to the Plan – so how do you feel about a late lunch in the garden today?”

You looked at Bella quizzically. “I’m sorry?” You were sure that she was going to ask again about your thoughts on Marcus. Not on tea time in the garden.

“Yeah, I think it would do you some good to be out in the fresh air. No other Cullens – or Hales – will be around, (Y/N), promise.”

You looked from Bella to Edward and back again before giving a hesitant nod. Maybe some time outside your rooms would be good for you.

“Okay. It does sound nice. What time?”

“Oh, later in the day. Sometime after 2pm probably. But I thought we could go exploring a bit until then. The castle really is beautiful. And I think you’d enjoy the library. There’s even a piano in there.”

You gave a small but genuine smile. You never learned piano yourself, but absolutely loved listening to it.

“I’ll make sure you have some music to listen to,” Edward said with a slight smile.

You reached out and wrapped your arms around Edward, feeling yourself settle a bit when cold arms wrapped around you in return. After the tremulous past few weeks, it was nice to feel grounded again.

“Come on,” Edward said after a few moments, “the library’s this way.” --

The library was absolutely stunning. High vaulted ceilings, ridiculously tall bookshelves practically bursting with books, comfortable looking chairs and couches scattered around and along the far wall, perpendicular to the fire place, a stunning piano, framed by large glorious windows.

“I may never leave this place,” you murmured in awe, wandering slowly from bookcase to bookcase and reverently touching every other spine.

A low chuckle sounded behind you and you absently flipped Edward off, tilting your head sideways to read the spine of the book in front of you.

An incredulous laugh escaped your lips.

“Seriously? They have the book Dracula?”

“Caius picked that up on one of his travels,” came a cultured voice from behind you and you spun to see Aro in the doorway. He gave a courteous nod to both Edward and Bella before moving across the room to stand next to you. “He thought it would be a good collector’s item. All things considered.”

You gave a somewhat delicate snort. “Makes sense. I mean…all things considered.”

Aro chuckled lowly offering you a hand and gesturing to the settee behind you. “Come, have a seat. Perhaps Edward may play something while we catch up? It has been awhile since we last spoke.”

You hesitated for a moment, thinking of all the quips and remarks about you and Marcus. What would Aro think when he saw them? Marcus was his brother, his fellow king, one of the few vampires who could claim to know Aro. And now, here you were, unfit for your Bond Mate, but being thought of to pair with the soft-spoken King?

Edward gave a soft growl as he passed you and Aro on his way to the piano. You blushed lightly at the questioning look Aro sent you before you bit the bullet and placed your hand in his.

Cold fingers wrapped gently around your own and after a moment, Aro gave a soft sound, mouth turned down into a displeased frown.

You winced. You knew it. Of course, a vampire thousands of years old and a ruler of an entire race would not be a good match for you. Or rather, you wouldn’t be a good match for him.

“I had rather thought we talked of this already, (Y/N),” Aro said suddenly as he gently steered you towards the couch, opposite the chair Bella was occupying.

You looked over at Aro questioningly and he gave you a measured look. “I do believe we spoke about your worth already and the grave misstep of Carlisle and his family. I will have none of these downtrodden thoughts.”

You blushed again, even redder than before, not meeting either Aro’s or Bella’s eyes.

A soft tune started on the piano and you sent Edward a mental thank you once again.

“My sister and my wife have been telling me about the conversation they had with you,” Aro began quietly after a moment and you startled to feel your hand still wrapped gently in his own. Your eyes shot up to Bella as she got up and moved over to stand by Edward on the other side of the room at the piano thoughtfully giving you and Aro some privacy. Well, from her ears. Edward could still hear every word, though he was pretending he couldn’t.

A light tug on your hand turned your attention to the vampire leader seated next to you and you realized what he’d just said.

The conversation the Queens had with you. In your room. About Marcus and his state of happiness.

Oh dear.

“I must admit, the idea has merit,” Aro continued and your eyes shot to his in shock. Even Sulpicia, Aro’s wife wasn’t thrilled about the idea when Athenodora brought it up in your room. In fact, Athenodora had to reassure her that no one, especially the kings, could hear anything they said about it.

But now it had merit?

“My brother has been alone for a very long time, (Y/N).” Cold fingers finally released yours with a final pat. “We have all watched him slowly fade century by century. It is neither something that we want for him, nor something that he wants for himself. But I must admit, we have all been at somewhat of a loss. Oh, he’s tried to court a few women over the centuries, but no one ever really piqued his interest or stood up to our rigorous standards. Until you.”

You knew you were gaping unattractively at Aro. You knew it.

You just couldn’t help it.

“I…what?” you finally managed. They hadn’t even known you for more than a few days; how would they know that you would be good for anyone, let alone a vampire that had been alone for centuries? And why would Marcus think you were interesting? You’d literally done nothing but cry and cuss out vampires since you got here.

“Why me?” you finally asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Why not you?” Aro countered and you threw him an exasperated look. Which he countered with a raised brow. “I truly am at a loss for your low opinion of yourself – and I have seen your memories. You are a remarkable woman, (Y/N). I do wish you would believe those of us that are around you and can see you clearly. But I know Marcus and he’ll enjoy the challenge of restoring your self worth where it belongs.”

Before you could utter anything, Bella suddenly called from the other side of the room, “We were planning on a picnic in the garden later.”

“How splendid!” Aro grinned, turning half way on the couch to look behind him at Bella and Edward at the piano. “It should be fine weather this afternoon. Well! I shall leave you three here to peruse the books. Please feel free to read anything here; there is quite the selection. (Y/N), might I suggest the bookshelf nearest the fireplace to the left? I think you may enjoy a few of those titles there the most.”

Standing gracefully, Aro gave a regal bow before exiting and leaving you staring after him. Somewhat concerned with exactly what books Aro thought to point out to you, you headed to the suggested bookshelf and glanced at the titles.

A large grin broke over your face at the sight of your favorite genre and you happily picked a book before heading back to the couch.

Reading would definitely take your mind off of everything. With a contented sigh, you flopped onto the incredibly comfortable couch and immersed yourself in the pages, lulled by the still playing piano.

#Twilight Images #Marcus x Reader #Twilight #Volturi #Cullens

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freedom-shamrock · 4 years

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Hero Cafe - Chapter 2

Also on AO3

< << Go back to Chapter 1

Oops? It’s not a one-shot anymore.

⁂

Chat Noir happily bounded over the rooftops, a bulky parcel in his arms as he headed to his new favorite place. It was his night to patrol with Carapace, and he was delighted to get to introduce his long-term hero buddy to Marinette's Hero Cafe. He'd wanted to be the one to escort all of the B-team members, but Ladybug had objected to him patrolling that much. Something about exhaustion consuming her kitty. But she had agreed to some schedule swapping so he could have the absolute joy of inducting most of the B-team to their exclusive club. Chloe was going to love that aspect.

"Okay, dude," Carapace called, keeping pace with Chat and his ungainly package. "I give up. Where are we going and what the heck are you dragging around with you?"

"You'll see. We're nearly there," Chat replied, dropping to the roof of his old college. He patted the brown paper wrapped bolts of cloth. "This is pale pink damask and sage green bamboo jersey that is utterly decadent to touch."

Carapace stared at him for a moment. "D-damask and jersey? Are those fabrics?"

Chat Noir nodded. Didn't everyone know what damask and jersey were?

"Are we going crafting? Because I've gotta tell you, I'm not handy in that way." Carapace looked a bit reluctant, like he didn't like having to admit that.

Chat laughed. "This isn't for us. Don't worry, I'd be way over my head if I had to actually make something with these." He felt a delightful warmth in his belly as he thought of Marinette creating things with them, though. The colors fit the springtime scheme she'd been designing with recently. "They're for our hostess."

"Hostess?" Carapace asked.

Chat nodded. "As Ladybug instructed me, take a different route each time you come. We don't want to lead anyone to her."

Carapace's eyes went wide. "We're going to Ladybug's house?"

"As if." Chat snorted and shook his head. He gestured toward the twinkle-lights on the balcony across the way. "Have you ever met Marinette Dupain-Cheng?" He took his team mate's expression of awe as an answer. "I know, dude. I hear ya." He sighed happily. "The one and only, beautiful and amazing Marinette has made something very special just for the heroes of Paris. Come check it out." He led the way over to the pleasantly lit and comfortable little rooftop cafe. As they both touched down, Chat waved grandly to the tables and kitchenette space. "Welcome to Marinette's Hero Cafe. It's a place where you can warm up, get out of the weather, catch a snack, or even recharge your kwami." He leaned the fabric parcel against the wall so he could better show off the amenities. "She's keeping us stocked up on a variety of snacks, including kwami favorites. Leftovers from family dinner are in the refrigerator." He pulled out the pot, closing his eyes and enjoying the aroma of tonight's dal soup. He loved family dinner. Even when he ate alone at the Hero Cafe, it felt so different from eating alone in his father's house.

"Woah," Carapace whispered reverently enough to make Keanu Reeves proud.

Chat served himself some dal, popping it into the microwave. While it warmed, he leaned down to tap lightly on Marinette's skylight. There was a bright glow from her room, and he wanted to thank her in person. The skylight raised slowly just as the microwave beeped.

"Oh," she said softly. "Chat Noir, Carapace, good evening."

Chat smiled warmly at her. "It's a beautiful evening, Princess." He bowed to her.

Her brilliant eyes rolled a bit, but she looked happy. "Silly kitty."

"This is an amazing thing you've done for us, N-uh Marinette," Carapace said, fumbling her name a bit. It was to be expected when one stood in the presence of a goddess. Chat was grateful he'd gotten to know her when he was still an awkward teen, and had moved past the truly embarrassing presentations of adoration.

Her cheeks pinked a bit. "I just wanted to do something for you, the heroes who risk yourselves every day for the rest of us." She shrugged. "I know it can't be easy, and while I'm sure people thank you all the time, those are just words."

Chat sighed happily. Of course words were cheap and Marinette would never be satisfied with such flimsy appreciation. But then, neither would he. "You have no idea how much this means to us, Princess," he said, reaching for the parcel he'd lugged across rooftops for her.

Her eyes went wide. "What is that?"

He lay the package before her as though he were a servant and she the highest empress. "A mere token of my gratitude."

She picked at the seam, where the paper was overlapped and taped. "This looks like more than a mere token, Kitty."

He held up one finger. "You've given up this space to us, Princess." He turned briefly to look out into Paris before looking back. "With a view like this, you've given up the most inspirational place in your house." He waved his hand around to the cafe itself. "And you've put time, effort, and money into this."

"Because I wanted to," she pointed out.

Chat nodded. "Yes. And I want to make sure you have what you need to make your design dreams come true, even with you giving so much to us." He gave her mid-level kitten eyes, hoping that holding back a bit would allow him to step up if needed.

"Fine, I'll accept," she allowed, shaking her head and smiling. She peeled away the paper, and his large cat ears picked up her gasp. It was followed by a soft sigh. "These are amazing," she whispered.

"Please enjoy them." He nodded then finally went to retrieve his dal from the microwave.

"Oh I will," she promised, carefully lowering them into her room. "You two have a good night now. And if there's anything you find I'm low on, or that you'd like me to have in the future, please add it to the suggestion box."

Chat was savoring his dal when Carapace settled in at the little table with his own bowl. "I love this stuff."

"Few things are better than food prepared by the Dupain-Chengs," Carapace agreed.

Chat nodded. "Tom and Sabine liked this plan of Marinette's and are helping with the food." When Ladybug told him how the cafe came to be, he'd loved that part of the story. What he wouldn't give to have a family that loved like they did.

"I can't help but notice how familiar you are with Marinette, though," Carapace said, his words slow like he was being careful with his choices.

"She's my friend," Chat pointed out. "Has been since Evillustrator targeted her."

Carapace looked surprised.

"She was a great help for that fight, and she's…" He hesitated. Ladybug knew some of this, but he'd been careful to keep it on the down low otherwise. And he knew Marinette never mentioned their friendship, unlike some people who constantly claimed to be besties with one or more of the heroes. "She's been there for me when I needed it."

"I had no idea," Carapace muttered. "She… I've met her as a civilian, you know. And she's never said a thing."

Chat nodded. "She's as good as Milady at keeping things to herself."

⁂

Check out Chapter 3 >>

I have a lot of ideas for this, but only a super vague plan for an overall arc, so we'll decide in the end if it actually has plot or if it's just a series of day-in-the life moments for our heroes and Marinette.

If you’re so inclined, feel free to support me over on Ko-Fi

#Miraculous Ladybug #fanfic #my writing #Fluff #Hero Cafe #Chat Noir #Carapace #Marinette

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noxtms · 4 years

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❝ HARRY JAMES POTTER DAY, sometimes referred to as hjp day, is a british wixen holiday marking the birthday of the late harry james potter. it is observed on the 31st of july, annually, though celebrations often last through the week. it was officially registered with the british ministry of magic on may 19th, 2014 by minister kingsley shacklebolt.

potter, famous from birth for being the ONLY person known to have survived the killing curse, was a key figure in the fight against he-who-must-not-be-named during the second wizarding war. many credit him as the most important person in bringing about the dark lords eventual demise, thanks to his unique efforts to find and destroy several horcruxes. the campaign for a holiday in potter’s honor was mostly undertaken by his former classmates and freinds, soon after the end of the war. there was some controversy surrounding the date chosen, as many older wixen wanted the day to be the end of OCTOBER ; the date that marked the end of the first wizarding war and the day that potter originally survived the killing curse. ❞

WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE :

IN GODRIC’S HOLLOW : it’s become a bit of a tradition for members of the wixen community around britain ( and sometimes the world ) to make the journey to godric’s hollow as a sort of pilgrimage, if you will. the muggles who live in the village have never quite made sense of the influx of robed individuals they get at the end of july each year, but they’ve long since accepted it happens - and have gone out of their way to encourage that this ‘tourist boom’ continues by turning it into a sort of village wide festival. while they hang bunting, put balloons outside their shops and quietly murmur about how all the inns in town have been booked out for the sixth year in a row, wix make the journey around town, visiting the site of the potters home, and leaving flowers at the statue of them in the square. this, of course, is in place of the fact that no matter how hard they search ( and a small number try their HARDEST ), they’ve yet to find his grave.

IN DIAGON ALLEY : how else would businesses celebrate the birthday of the chosen one, if not by slashing their prices for the weekend of july 31st and holding what some would consider a small street festival? it’s not exactly in good taste, but it did originally come from somewhere well intentioned. the very first alley celebration of harry potters life WAS ministry sanctioned, after all ( even if they’ve since tried to put some distance between them and the capitalists ).

IN HOGSMEADE : it isn’t the only event that happens each year around this time, and it certainly isn’t the biggest ( or most highly advertised - that honor goes to the new nightclub on knockturn alley, who’ve been plugging their free ‘daiqharry’ cocktail with each ticket purchased for entry to their party on the night of the 31st ), but its the one pulled together by madam rosmerta at the three broomsticks that often draws the larger crowd of those who actually knew the boy. the hogwarts professors, sans mcgonagall, often book out one of the back rooms to share a drink the night of his birthday - and many of his peers use it as a way to get together and honor the boy they know they can thank for much of what they have, now ( and that they wouldn’t, without him ).

OUT OF CHARACTER :

'harry potter day’ is a bit misleading, really ; the CELEBRATION of harry potters life and the honouring of a boy who made so many sacrifices for the wixen community spans the entire weekend, usually, and brings with it both... undeniable reverence for him, and a frankly inappropriate amount of commercialism. the recent benefit attack is still fresh in the minds of many, but won’t stop the usual festivities that span the entire country. in godric’s hollow, people carry on the yearly tradition of trying to find his grave site ( while those that know quietly visit to pay their respects ), and on diagon alley, shops cut their prices by half and shopkeeps talk fondly of the boy with messy hair they once had the privilage of serving. there are get togethers across the nation, big and small, but the three broomsticks in hogsmeade is a favorie of many who personally knew him, and who find the ‘holiday’ a rough one to pass.

these are all things you guys can use in your roleplaying this week, but this event is going one step further by asking one more thing of you : this week, you’re encouraged to do at least one flashback thread set at any point in your muses past, even just the last six years, exploring... anything that you want. a key event with another character, the immediate aftermath of the war, a summer visit to hogsmeade before everything went so bad. more than that, you should plot and rp this thread with someone who you either haven’t done anything with, before, or who has a character yours is implied connected to, but you haven’t gotten the chance to explore things with yet. you’re only required to do the one - but feel free to do more, if the muse strikes !

the event officially begins on tuesday the 28th at 12:00am GMT, 10:00am AEST & 12:00pm NZST and monday the 27th at 5:00pm PST, 6:00pm MTN, 7:00pm CST, 8:00pm EST & 9:30pm NST ! it’ll end the same time a week from now, bringing us to august 4th - and catching us up a bit, timeline wise.

you are not under any obligation to pause any threads you currently have going, and are encouraged to put as much a focus on the event gimmick and event itself as you feel comfortable doing !

ALL event related starters ( including private ones, this time ; let us see ‘em ) should be tagged as nox.event005 ! you have as much a choice as location as you always do !

if you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to message the main, and please reply ‘rip harry’ to this post once you’ve read it !

#nox.event #nox.event005 #thank u [ redacted ] love of my life for help w that gd wikipedia entry-

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