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bluiex · 1 year

Note

And even more Magic and Memory loss! Grian begins to have a bit of a breakdown at the end of this one and has some thoughts that can be interpreted as abuse, so fair warning now.

~~~~

He wants to run so badly. This was a mistake. A horrible mistake and he keeps on making more.

Mumbo stands close beside him, a hand on his shoulder and chest pressed against his arm, the helpful action now being all a reminder to him that he cannot escape no matter how much he wants to. The gentle resting would be unnoticeable to most others, but to him it feels heavy on his shoulder. His mind keeps going to thoughts of how easy it would be for the grip to tighten. For Mumbo to simply move their arm around him to keep him close and in sight. Not to mention, Scar would be there to grab him if he somehow got away from Mumbo.

All it would take is some words about him being nervous about crossing the border, that he never has done so before and is being irrational, and no one would pay him anymore mind…

They would probably move if he asked, but he doesn't know if he can. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth. He feels like if he tried to talk, he would trip over his words and nothing understandable would come out.

So he stands. With their hand on his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to run.

"Sorry about that," Scar says to the clerk, talking over his head and reminding him of their presence behind him. "Had a small thing about something being missing only for it to be found in an obvious place. I'm sure you get that a lot here."

They lie so easily, like it just comes naturally for them. They look so friendly and nice, and talk in such a confident way…How would anyone ever know if what they're saying is a lie? Who would ever think about the words that come out of their mouth if they never see what he is?

The lady at the desk hmps, staring at them all over her glasses with mild contempt. "Important object or not, you wasted the time of everyone here. Every minute you hold up the line is a minute someone else doesn't get to go home. Please do not let it happen again in the future."

"Cold, ain't she?" Mumbo murmurs under their breath.

Cold? Maybe in some sense…If you are normal and don't live the life of a mage like him.

She reminds him of one of the elders who was also a no nonsense type of person. Glasses on a chain, relatively the same height, same cold judgmental stare, sits in a chair like they're above you…Just add some more wrinkles and gray hairs and it's almost a perfect match. Maybe even add some threats of carrying out some punishment as well for an even better one.

The clerk drags over a wooden tray with two stampers and two pots of ink, a loud scraping sound being made as the tray moves. When they finally have the tray where they want, they grab one of the stamps and dip it into one of the ink pots, like they already have decided their fate.

"Present your passports, please."

Mumbo moves away from him a bit, hand moving from his shoulder to rummage around in a leather pack. He tries moving away, but Scar moves up to and presses up against his other side, effectively trapping in-between the two men.

He tries not to flinch away as they lean close to his ear.

"Mumbo's got this, Gri, don't worry. It's going to be okay."

Going to be okay? For them maybe…He's going to be thinking of all the things that

can go wrong for weeks either way this goes.He doesn't say all that though, just giving a forced smile and nodding. And in return, Scar gives him a way brighter smile before resting their chin on his shoulder. Then he feels their arms snake around his torso…Oh great…

This is just going perfectly…

Mumbo pauses their rummaging, giving them a sideways glance before setting three small black books on the clerk's desk. They then return to their bag and pull out a sheet of parchment, which they hand directly to the clerk. The clerk takes the paper with a curious look, examining it carefully before dragging over another wooden tray.

This tray has a much stranger assortment of items. A painting brush, a vial of weird bubbling clear liquid, a box of matches, some thin red papers…He doesn't understand why these items would be set together.

And he is even more confused when the clerk picks up the match box, opens it up, gets out a match, and starts to try to strike the match against the coarse edge of the match box.

"She's just checking if the pass is real," Scar whispers in his ear. "It's a very simple procedure."

The match lights up with a small flame. The clerk then picks the paper back up and holds the match a few inches behind it, carefully examining whatever is revealed by the flame.

"Has there ever been any damage done by doing this?" He asks quietly.

"A few times. Before the passes had a flameproof coating."

The clerk hmphs again, setting the paper down before blowing out the flame. They set the now brunt match onto the desk and pull over the small black books.

He watches quietly as she opens up the top one, quickly skims its contents, and picks up the ink wetted stamp from before and presses it against the inside of the book. This all seems way too easy…This can't just be this simple, right?

The clerk moves the top book of the pile to the side, and proceeds to do the same stamping procedure to the second book. It's only when they move on to the third and final book she seems to pause and examine it a bit longer.

"This is the correct information?"

"It should be," Mumbo answers, patting his arm. "I know he's rather short-"

"Ey!"

"-but he is very much an adult and not a child."

The clerk looks at him. "And you back up that statement of you being an adult, young man?"

"Yes," He says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"And you understand that having the wrong information makes it look like you're trying to do something nefarious?"

"Yes…"

If only they knew it's not the age on the passport they should be worried about, but the passport itself…

"Miss, don't take this the wrong way," Scar says. "But why would we get a legitimate pass if we were going to use a fake passport? I know your job makes you need to question everything, but that would be a little ridiculous, would it not?"

The clerk's face turns into a glare, and he sees Mumbo move closer and discreetly elbow Scar. Or at least that's his guess of what happened to make Scar let out a faint choked back noise.

She folds her arms and stares at the three of them with a rather stern look. "What is your relationship with these two, young man?"

"We're…friends. Close friends, I guess."

He tacks that last part on when he remembers Scar's arms are around him. Friends don't usually have their arms just around another casually.

Already lied for them…Just what am I doing…

The clerk stares at him for a moment before reaching towards the black book and pressing the stamp to its pages. He hears one of the other two let out a sigh of relief, but he doesn't know which one. He's too busy just staring forward, watching his fate get sealed with a simple stamp…

Funny how the smallest things can change someone's entire life, huh?

"That's all there is?" He asks, seeing the clerk look up at him and feeling the other two jolt a bit. "You check a pass, some books, and you send people on their way?"

"Yes…What did you think was going to happen?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but stops when Scar's arms tighten around him, pressing him against them even more. He takes the warning and closes his mouth.

"It's their first trip over the border," Mumbo says, quickly taking initiative for the situation. "Coming over was a little difficult, for about the same reason you thought, but the clerk then was a bit more…aggressive about it. So the whole experience got a little soured for them."

The clerk lets out knowing hum, staking up the three books and handing them back to Mumbo, who takes them with a polite nod. The clerk moves her gaze to behind them and motions for someone to come forward, most likely the next person in line.

Well well well, look where you little show of defiance got you…Nowhere.

He lets himself get moved away from the clerk's desk, clasping his hands tightly together and holds them in front of him. Of course this would be how it goes…Why did he think it would be any different? Of course there would be no alarms raised by three people traveling together, even if two of those people are mages. Why would anyone care? It just looks like someone has requested for more magical assistance on a project. Nothing to worry about.

Especially not when there is a non-magic user with them, who has a royal pass you can only get from the king. If you can place your trust in the king, then who can you? The king would make sure to send someone who could handle the mages and keep them in line. Why bother worrying?

Scar nudges his head with theirs, making Mumbo let out an annoyed huff.

"Scar, what did I say about touching them like that? I let it slide at the desk because I didn't want to make a scene, but you really need to stop, mate."

"I'm sorry! They just look so sad and I'm just so used to doing it that I just do it before I even realize!"

The mage one seems to like you…Maybe you can use that to your advantage. Try to use them before they use you.

He clenches his hands even tighter together. Why is this the cycle of his life? Being used and using other people, all because he was born with magic inside him that he can manipulate to his will…at the order of his master.

A hand touches his shoulder again, making him stop where he is.

"Is there anything you want to do?" Mumbo asks him softly. "Anywhere you wanted to go first? We can go to a town nearby here if you want, get some things. What do you think you need?"

What does he need? Did they really just ask him that? Everything he had is at the estate of the lord he was with before. What doesn't he need?

"Whatever you think is best, sir." He turns his head and gives them a fake smile. "I am but a tool at your disposal, for you to use as you wish. What do you think I need?"

Mumbo's mouth forms a straight line, looking rather uncomfortable with his words. He thinks he can see Scar looking uncomfortable as well.

"Gri, please don't talk like that. You're not a tool."

"But I am. Just nothing more than a special servant. Our lives belong to our masters and we must follow their orders like any other servant in fear of being beheaded, we just get our own rooms."

"Grian..."

"Though most of the time our rooms are mostly used for storage rather than an actual space for us. All our time is to be used to make our master's life easier."

"Grian."

"We don't even get to choose who we marry and have a family with most of the time. Maybe if our lord really likes us, but most think about creating the perfect mage for their heirs. We have no control-"

"Grian." The grip on his shoulder tightens. "Stop. Please."

He stays very quiet as they pinch at the area between their eyes and sigh, looking at him with such pity after.

No…You're not supposed to look like that.

"I don't know what went on with you while you were…wherever they would place you…but things are different now. Things are different here."

You're not supposed to pity me…

"The laws are different, the people are different…You'll be okay here. I know you don't trust us right now, but you will be okay."

You're not supposed to be comforting me.

"It's going to take some time to get used to everything, and you'll probably feel like a fish out of water, but Scar and I will help you. We can help fill the gaps on anything you don't know and don't remember. If you'll let us, of course."

You're not supposed to still act nice…You're supposed to be mad!

Their hand moves from his shoulder to his cheek, caressing the area like it's normal for them to do it. And it almost feels…nice?

"Will you listen to the plea of a desperate man, and let us help you? To let us show you what you were taken from and what you could have had this whole time?"

A small pathetic noise escapes from his mouth, and a series of emotions well up inside him. It feels…Why does it…This isn't supposed to happen! This is not how this is supposed to go!

They aren't supposed to still act kind! They are supposed to be mad, furious with him even! They're supposed to tell him to not do something like that again, to stay in line or face the consequences! They're supposed to make him apologize for his outburst! They're supposed to punish him and not care if he silently hates them! They're not supposed to care for him at all!

"Why can't you just make this easy?" He chokes out in a shaky voice.

A confused look forms on Mumbo's face, which immediately turns panicked once hot tears start running down his face.

"No no no, don't cry!" They pull him into a hug, with his face pressed against their chest and their hands gentle on his back. "You weren't meant to cry! I didn't think you would get upset! I'm sorry!"

He lets out a choked sob, squirming in their grip. No, you’re not supposed to hold him. You're supposed to tell him to get over it. That you'll give him a better reason to cry if he doesn't stop!

"Wow Mumbo, your emotional speech made them cry. Congratulations."

"Scar, shut up and help me get them somewhere more private!"

"That's what-"

"Scar!"

AWWW GRIAN *rolls around* this is getting great omg I adore this bit.

"I know he's short I promise he's not a child" akaknsbcwijs amazing

#bluie gets an ask poggers #long post #mumscarian memory loss au

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extravalgant · 1 year

Text

title: crosspaths

summary: You were familiar with Monquistans, seeing as they ran around in Azteca doing whatever they pleased. But this one... you recognized this one.

notes: not much to say about this one... i edited this one about twice? before i thought it seemed good enough to post 👍 may this encourage me to make more switch up au stuffs....

READ ON A03

You think, after all this time, you would forget a name like his – a face like his.

The hustle and bustle of the late-night crowd is loud, but the air is filled with hearty laughs, the ambience of the denizens of this world having a good time; you hear the sounds of drinking glasses clinking together, cutlery sliding along plates, and spoons digging into bowls.

It would be comforting if you weren't running on very little sleep. You can feel your tunic bunch uncomfortably from underneath your coat, feel the itch of the fire insignia still fresh on the back from when you drew it in a rush, eager to get something warm over your body.

You feel as if you look a bit foolish standing there in the entrance to the inn, so you busy yourself with finding an unoccupied table. Regardless of how put together you look at the moment, your mind is still hazy from recent events.

Khrysalis had ended on... a semi-rough note, you reflect. The sting of betrayal is still raw, still twists something in the pit of your stomach if you marinated on it for too long, but you can’t help the wash of embarrassment that rushes over you at the thought of your kindness taken advantage so easily again.

You had gotten too complacent, and that’s why you were here—on the verge of frostbite and too tired to care. You had been too used to the idea that everyone was going to be on your side, that they wouldn’t lie to your face, extend an olive branch, offer any sagely advice that came with being trapped in a shadowy, guard-infested prison for thousands of years—

That train of thought stops very quickly.

The physical symptoms of that particular adventure still lingered within you—you believe it’s because you absorbed so much of Morganthe’s magic after she had fallen to her demise. You figure this may be your body's way of getting used to having the proper amount of magic again.

Perhaps, a little part of your mind speaks up, voice so quiet you almost wanted to ignore it, perhaps it would have been better to die a martyr – you would have liked to see the look on his face had you not decided to be obedient for once, and died with the magic he so craved.

It had initially been a surprise when Merle Ambrose summoned you to his office, with claims of ‘something important’ needing to be discussed with you. You hadn’t noticed the sharp curl of anxiety in your stomach until he presented you with your diploma, managing a quiet laugh at your shocked expression. The tension bled out of your shoulders almost as easily as it appeared, and your vision focused to better examine the document he gave you.

The paper had felt crisp and clean, so unlike the quest paper you bought from the bazaar, and so unlike the thin and flimsy paper you used when you used to turn in your assignments. It had felt warm to the touch, and your eyes narrowed in on the way ink pooled slightly in certain places, as if this certificate had recently been finished.

And then, there had been your name – printed neatly, slanted in Merle Ambrose’s cursive script, sharp and wondrous across the page, with a golden stamp reflecting in the light.

Graduation. You couldn’t help the small grin that overtook your features. It took this long, but I’m finally…

The following graduation ceremony had been… quick. You suppose Wizards hadn’t been much for celebrations, always straight and to the point, but it had been sweet. Try as you might, you could not discreetly wipe away the tears as each of the Ravenwood staff stepped forward to say a few words after the official assembly had ended, giving you their own words of encouragement as you stepped out into the new world.

It wasn’t hard to miss the sudden chill that blanketed the area, and the familiar pit inside you was starting to fester inside you. Bartleby got sick, you knew it had been your fault, in some way or another—and now you were here.

In cold and icy Polaris, tension is thick and heavy. The air is full of things unsaid, but you’re not quite sure what’s being said in the first place. This isn’t helped by the local inspector, who sniffs with disdain and squints disapprovingly at your lack of prepared attire for the weather. He doesn’t seem pleased by the smudged ink displayed almost proudly on your hand, but lets you pass anyway.

The quest was still fresh–you had to write it in a hurry and head to Polaris, after all. You had always been a bit sloppy with quest writing—there’s a bit of an excuse now. You have a time limit.

As long as it's legible, You said to yourself.

(A habit that would never die – a habit that lingered as soon as you learned the practice of quest writing. At the beginning your letters were neat and clean – this habit had stopped during Azteca, until you stopped writing them at all.

…

Spell Writing 101 had always been your favorite class anyways.)

You digress.

Now, you were familiar with Monquistans, seeing as they ran around in Azteca doing whatever they pleased. But you didn’t think you would ever run into one in Polaris of all places. You didn’t think anyone could stand the cold like the Pingouins. But this one... you recognized this Monquistan.

Because as soon as you laid your eyes upon the figure, you blinked, pausing in your descent of the steps.

“...Mister Gandry, is it?" You said, stepping close to the figure's table. He had been nursing a mug of... something. You detected the smell of something vaguely sweet and acidic.

Wine. You think, immediately. Wizard wine exists? Well, wine isn't exactly hard to make, is it? It's just... grapes.

That wasn’t important right now, you think.

He scrutinizes your dress for a moment, in a way that reminds you of the inspector at the world door, but he must have recognized you, with the way his eyes widened slightly at the edges.

"Can it be?" He said, and even his tone brings something like disbelief to the surface. It's almost hard to hear over the thick accent he has, and the sudden loud cheers a nearby table gives, but you nod in reply, breaking into a grin.

"The Wizard we met on the ship! My word, you're looking... a bit worse for wear."

He gestures for you to sit down, waving over the nearest waiter to bring them a drink for you as well. You can't even get a word in edgewise about your lack of drinking before the cup is being slid across the wooden table, red pooling deliciously at the edges.

"Worse for wear is putting it lightly." You say, chuckling a bit. Your hands come up to wrap gingerly around the pint, fingers tapping gently against the aged wood. It smells even sweeter than you thought. "I never thought I'd see you again! Where is, ah...?"

"Boochbeard?" He finishes for you, just as he polishes off the last of his drink. You nod. "Who knows. We got separated a while back."

“Aren’t you worried?” You ask, and he levels you with a stare, brow raised.

“It’d be a miracle if something around here manages to kill him.” He shifts in his seat, giving a lazy look around. “I see Polaris still hasn’t gotten back up on its legs after the war, eh? Figures.”

The words begin to blend together into his accent, but you can hear bits and pieces of what he’s trying to say. Something about the ‘armada,’ something about a ‘pirate.’

“The pirate?” You tilt your head to the side before the memory blooms behind your eyelids. Excitement bursts in the pit of your stomach. Yes, yes—the ship, those people, and most curious of all, that robot. “How are they doing these days?”

He takes a swig of his second drink – when he had ordered that one, you wondered – and shrugs.

“You... don’t know?” You’re dumbfounded. “I figured they were one of yours.”

“An orphan.” He amends, but the tone of his voice dips into something more casual, as if this were par for the course.

“Is that... common? Is this common?”

He nods without saying another word, and the two of you descend into another silence. This didn’t exactly astound you, seeing as Wizard City also housed these types—the city was safe enough as it was (with you there anyways, your brain supplies). You had surmised a while back that Ravenwood functioned more as a boarding school then it did a regular school, so the lack of parental figures wasn’t all that surprising to you.

But regardless, a pirate... you didn’t have any experience with them, minus Taylor Coleridge and the Monquistan in front of you.

“Is being a Pirate fun?” You ask.

His mouth twists thoughtfully before frowning. You think that has more so to do with the taste of his drink than your question. “About as fun as being a Wizard is.”

That was… Hm. You can count how many times you stood there and wondered if being a wizard was worth it. For all that it gave you—whether it was the joy and awe of seeing magic for the first time, or the warmth in your chest as you learn the words to another spell, or even just the fact that each spiral key you required earned you a glimpse into a new world, with new places to explore…

There were also things you… loathed about being a Wizard, no matter how hard you tried. Clearly there were things written in the fine script, but you had been reading that contract with younger, naive eyes.

In Wizard law there are no accidents.

You think your silence stretches on longer than usual – Gandry pauses, peering over the rim of the cup with inquisitive eyes. He puts his cup down.

"Tell me then," he prompts. "Is being a Wizard fun?"

The edge of your own cup reaches your lips. The first and only sip you would have. "...About as fun as being a Pirate is, I suppose."

He says nothing as you tell him your answer, but push your cup to the side and flag down the waiter for a steaming mug of something hot instead—the tea smells earthy and fragrant, warming your frozen fingers as you blow on it with cooling breaths.

"I wonder how they're doing." You muse quietly. You hadn't even gotten a glimpse of their face, or their personality—only gave words of encouragement, coaxed Mister Gandry and Mister Boochbeard into investigating whatever it is that the Maestro and his robotic friend were keen to stop before it started. “The Pirate, that is.”

You had touched upon their life – altered the course of their timeline, without ever seeing them. You think it's almost better this way, but you can't help the twinge in your heart that wants to meet the person they are today.

Did they have any friends? Do they have family? Did they have a favorite food, a favorite color, did they like the way the stars twinkled at night, or how the clouds stretched upon an infinity? Most of all—

Were they alive?

You wonder.

"Running from the armada, probably." Gandry’s dry tone snaps you out of your haze. "I want to say I'm surprised the armada hasn't touched this part of the spiral, but – you're here."

"... I'm here." You repeat softly. Almost fondly. You were here, fighting tooth and nail to prevent the rest of the spiral from falling apart. To give others the chance to do the same. You’re not sure what an ‘armada’ is and have no clue whether or not you’d be able to defend against it, but you recognize that the two of you are on different journeys.

You wonder if you’ll ever cross paths.

The silence stretches on until you stand, pushing your chair backwards as you relay to your companion that you had Wizardly duties to deal with. There's no note of change or expressions on his face, only neutral responses; he nods as he waves you off, and pushes the gold back into your hand when you attempt to repay him back.

"My treat, wizard." Mr. Gandry speaks. This time, there's a grin stretching across his face. "Welcome to Polaris."

#wizard101 #w101 #pirate101 #p101 #its 5 am so ur getting this rot at like 12 pm #also i will being going out . so i wont be on as much tomorrow... o_o!!#wanted to write smth about the pirate easter eggs we get with the arc 3 worlds... and now with novus saying way more pitty stuff #im like we are getting SPOILED #NOT MUCH HERE TO DUMP AS FAR AS. TAG TALKING GOES so . enjoy i guess #i was like wehhh do i tag pirate . yes u do gandry is a pirate character #and the pirate (pc) COMES UP!!! OF COURSE U DO #anywayz. enjoy

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dishtothedeath · 1 year

Text

I Hear the Sound of Someone Else's Problems | Liêm 2.4 | RE: wow there's a lot

The sirens call for his name. Their wailing drowns out all other noise, all other cries, all other accusations. Who is he to deny the lure?

Everything is happening so quickly. It’s too much, in the moment, to focus on himself. Too much, and too underserved. The lighthouse never looks in, never shines upon itself. Instead, it turns its beacon outwards instead, warning sailors of the dangers of the crags as Liêm lifts his eyes.

So much guilt is alight.

He doesn’t move or jump when Fergus makes his move - he barely bats an eye. His gaze locks on the cleaver as it soars through the air, and he’s welcoming it to its mark.

But mercy offers no quarter. Liêm gets to his feet, an automatic lurch as the cleaver bounces back, a shout of surprise hitching stuck in his throat in lieu of a sharp exhale as it returns to sender, signed, stamped, inked in red.

Liêm watches the red drip down Fergus’s face. He sees the beast, thirsting for the hunt. The kill. There’s no fear in his eyes as he watches the blood drip. But there’s no pity, either. He’s been stupefied into nothing at all.

Liêm has never been a smart man. But it speaks to years of wisdom gleaned from saying the wrong thing, expressing an errant concern, that he bites back the urge to ask Fergus if he’s alright. There’s not even a passing concern on his face as his threat booms out, and he’s there to shoulder it. All the hatred you had to offer and then some. Pile it on his back, watch as he bends, buckles, but never breaks.

He can’t think of anything to say that would appease or comfort. It’s the hardest thing to accept that sometimes, there would be nothing he could do. Nothing to say. There’s no apology that can serve.

Anything he could say or do wouldn’t give Fergus the closure he needed, it wouldn’t net back anything from his losses, and though Liêm’s expression is one of carefully crafted emptiness, unreadable, untouchable, a mask of an abyssal void, this hurts.

It hurts, how much he hurt you. He wishes you could have been allowed to hurt him back. If wishes it would have killed him, to avoid what comes next.

So he hopes you’ll keep your word. He turns away with grim finality. He won’t look your way again.

But for the rest he must face, he cannot keep his composure. Death would be a mercy, rather than facing you.

“...M’sorry, Alfie,” Liêm can hardly manage the words. Alfie’s tears hurt, too. It hurts how much he’s hurt you. “If I’d have known…If I’d known. I’m sorry…I never would have…”

He never would have done this? Maybe. But more likely, he never would have reached out in the first place. Never would have practiced his sick, twisted sham of catch and release. Of closing gaps and spanning distances only to realize he had no idea how to follow up. How to be sincere and open and friendly enough to forge anything lasting. He’d have let you be. He never would have let you entertain the possibility that he was the sort of guy you deserved to be friends.

“...I never told you my secret. I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” What a thing to bring up, now, of all times. His smile aches deep as he brings a finger up to his lips, eyes lighting the treacheries in the hollows.

Sailors, be warned.

“My family is very traditional,” he admits, like he’s speaking only to Alfie. “Family honor and pride are our virtues, even if we weren’t…” Wealthy. Impressive. Strong. Or anything admirable, really, in the end. “We were proud, even when we had no reason to be. I told you then, I couldn’t tell you my secret because I didn’t know. There were too many factors. My father, my brother, my aunt, my cousins. They all had a part to play, but they all lead back to one answer. I started providing for my family to earn my way back in after my brother went missing.”

Ostracized from shame. Forced to work to provide. Coming home to be excluded within his own walls for the treacherous blood that runs in his veins. Too like his brother in the ways that counted. Not enough like him in the ways that didn’t.

“Please, don’t worry. My family will be fine without me. If anything, this is the only way they may face society again with their heads held high. This last mercy will alleviate the shame of their relation to me.” They can finally cut him loose with this final transgression. His death will restore some of their missing pride.

“...But as for here. For you.” Here, his face crumbles, falls, and it doesn’t pick itself back up. He falters at the finish line. The line snaps just before he can reel it in. “...I’m sorry. If I’d known how much I’d hurt you, I’d have stayed away. I’d do anything to make this easier. Please…Don’t worry. Don’t worry about what they’ll make of me. I swear, you won’t see me again, if it helps.” He promises, this isn’t worth your tears.

The next surprise is one that rocks him harder than Fergus’ anger, Alfie’s woe, or Bonbon’s forlorn compliment. It’s more dangerous, it’s more fatal, and even though he’d been warning others to stay away, a ship crashes on his rocky shores.

Liêm freezes like prey when arms come to wrap around him. His breathing stutters to a stop. Fergus hadn’t been able to elicit fear from him with his murderous, vindictive wrath, but somehow, Sunako had. All by offering him the exact opposite.

Oh, don’t do this. He’s not used to being treated so gently.

He can feel her shake and sob against him, and it wrenches his heart in two. Why were you crying? Why were you trying to comfort him? Why, when he hadn’t known you at all?

He thought he’d done everything right. He’d stayed away. Kept his distance. He hadn’t tried to impose, never welcomed you in, so what was the point of all this?

Lament stings behind his eyelids. He doesn’t cry, but he blinks, too quick to be natural. He couldn't let this be. He felt cornered in a way that the trial and the vitriol hadn't even come close to managing. Adrenaline sang in his veins.

Gently, with trembling hands he unravels himself from Sunako’s embrace, hands covering hers to delicately pry her away.

Don’t do this. Don’t do this.

“Stop,” he whispers, and he hopes his voice is comforting. He hopes it’s not breaking like he thinks it is. He hopes it’s soothing, calming, not teetering on the precipice of a fatal fall. “Stop. It’s okay.”

You’re okay. You’re okay. Hadn’t you seen what he’d done to a person he hadn’t known at all? You should be afraid of what he’d do to someone who dared get too close. Don’t. Do this. He lowers his voice for her, and he hopes his next words make her feel as unwelcome as he had before, tender, comforting, a final nail in a coffin of his own design, gingerly turning away one of the only lamenting attendants to his wake.

He's so scared to hurt you any more.

“You’ll be alright, okay?”

#submission #ch2 #reaction #liem

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tidesages · 2 years

Text

<<beneath the tidesblood>>

(six tales, for connected moments)

with all the luck you've had, why are your songs so sad? sing from a book you were reading in bed and took to heart

(a tale for brother zander)

“Maybe if you didn’t get so much ink on your robes, they wouldn’t take so long to get back from the laundry halls. The soap elementals can only work so many wonders before all your sleeves are too grey and have to be replaced entirely,” Brother Zander Bowline pointed out crisply. He was busy wrapping small little bandages around the papercuts he’d earned from their newest venture into an untouched corner of the stacks.

Brother Mathwell’s glance up at him was startling, if only because the movement was magnified twenty times in the thick-lensed glasses perched on his nose. When he looked at you, suddenly all you could see was rheumy eyes. “My dear chap, you were the one who pointed out how empty the aumbry was. You know I’m chief scribe. I can’t help having to write for my job.”

It had been nearly two years - because time always flowed oddly between tunnels, pools, and rain, from Matins to Vespers, since the archives had burned, and yet they were still in varying degrees of disarray. The archivists had tried to make some sense of things and restore missing documents, mind you, but they only comprised so much of the Shrine. And with the continued need to teach and pull out pieces for circulation, as well as getting in older pieces, they were struggling.

Zander Bowline had always doubted his fellow brother could actually see him from a few feet away, glasses or not, but he did his best to arrange his features into a more pleasant expression than a scowl. Patience was a virtue, and one he’d always needed more work on. “My apologies, brother. Being understaffed leaves me a little… stressed.”

The watery gaze turned from him, back to the breviary tome he’d pulled from the stacks. “You do not need to apologize to me on that, my lad,” he murmured as his attention was once more pulled toward the written word. “The office of Sacrist is a thankless one, and they do not send any more new fellows to join our ranks any more. Not since the Renault’s passing, at least… no respect for books, these days.”

The hooded heads turned briefly, Mathwell’s to check for sounds while Zander’s checked for movement among the stacks and desks. “The lad, Brannon, wouldn’t have much of a say in how the Shrine is run,” the latter admitted beneath his breath. For all that the elder sage couldn’t see, he had quite the ear for voices. “It’s really Pike and his ilk, and that fellow’s never run anything more complex than a merchant town. Nothing alike.”

“This wouldn’t have been a problem if the old lord had given a child that could hear the tides. He was so focused on… other things… that he forgot his duty to pass on his strength to the valley. This is why we’re inundated with a lack of tradition!” Mathwell’s stamp came down hard on the page of the breviary, with an ink-laden smack.

The younger man’s gaze narrowed. “That’s not what I heard,” he murmured, “though his… fixations led him to pick an option as wouldn’t have him.”

He strode to the aumbry, pulling open its doors and rifling through the books and vessels. He could feel the old sage’s ears on him while he worked, patiently waiting for him to continue. Finally, as he pulled out a pile of loose papers with writing on them, Mathwell’s patience came to an end and he gave a rattling cough. “By the salt embrace, lad, don’t leave me strung out like a sentence.”

At least recounting old gossip was a good respite from the despair of sorting through hymnals. “Sister Taggin,” he recounted with relish, hearing old Mathwell grumble for a few moments as he tried to remember which sage that was. “The coppercurls with the haunted look. Depthsbringer, the one who failed the loyalty rite.”

Mathwell was tearing through the breviary with a bit more vigor than he usually showed, the walnut-like lines of his face glowing by candlelight. “Ah, yes. She always hung out down here, didn’t she? Thought she was bound to become part of the archivists at one point, ‘til she disappeared.”

Between the flipping of pages, he answered, “I heard Renault was hounding her to give up the path and become the Tidewife.” His fellow’s gasp rang out, along with the sound of something dropping, and he flashed an idle smile over to the other sage before continuing. “Turned him down then and there, and fled the Shrine on some hairbrained notion that she was needed elsewhere. Of course, if he hadn’t spent his energy on a woman as didn’t want him, he’d have had time to bring an heir before the Shrine was broken, aye?”

Zander’s gaze was ripped from the pages by the hand that gripped his upper arm, trembling slightly still. He hadn’t heard the limping steps that usually heralded their fellow archivist’s arrival with mead and cheese - when had Theriot arrived? He didn’t have time to wonder, though, at the stricken stare of the k’thir. His brother’s face was a pale, taut lavender behind his spectacles, and the tentacles curled in a way he’d never seen before.

“Aye, one would think he’d have better t-” Mathwell’s voice cut off, aware of the change in the air even if he could barely see the shapes of the sages frozen in the candlelight. He squinted, setting the book down gently on the desk. “...Cecil? Is that you?”

Theriot had always been a polite presence, Zander thought dimly as sage gave his trapped arm a little shake and pulled him deeper between the stacks. One of the few k’thir that were a more easily-seen staple of the Shrine, and one of the most agreeable sages he’d known, he’d become little more than a shadow in the archives afterward. Amber eyes narrowed behind glasses, distinctly inhuman, and for the first time he remembered that his brother had transcended that step long ago. “Where,” the k’thir murmured, his voice low and rasping, “is she?”

His arms were stiff, hackles raised from the interrogation before his brain realized that was occurring. “She?” he echoed, voice rising a little as he tried to pull out of the grip. Theriot’s fingers tightened, beard of tendrips snaking out to grip the unlucky archivist’s collar.

“Taggin. Where did she go?” He could hear the strain in his brother’s voice, too. This conversation had swept like a riptide into dangerous waters.

Zander gulped on air, and his throat bobbed. “She - she failed the test. That’s all I know, Brother, she failed the loyalty test and she’s gone. That’s it. Please don’t hurt me, Brother.” He raised both hands, letting the papers fall from them… his wellbeing was more important than the writings, now.

As if his words had broken a spell, Theriot released him. The elder staggered back a little, tears shining in the dull glow of his eyes, and he shook his head a little wildly. “She couldn’t - no. I don’t know what I want to believe.” He turned, and without even an apology or farewell took uneven steps to disappear behind another shelf. On another row, Zander could see a fallen tray, where mead spilled over the graven stones to disappear into the cracks.

He didn’t move, whether to run after Theriot or to rejoin the wizened sage. Instead, he knelt down to pick up his papers with hands that shook slightly from unused adrenaline. “Brother Bowline?” Mathwell called after him. “What did he want? Are you well, my good lad?”

the sea moves so slowly she holds your heart so closely though the tide leaves so lonely she returns your mind so holy

(a tale for sister clement)

The line drifted lazily across the waters, bobber mostly visible above the waves. Then, barely perceptibly, it vanished. The line tugged at Ira Driftstone’s hands and she sat up a little more in the boat. “Clement, come and help,” she commanded as she began to reel it in.

“I don’t understand why you don’t want to call the fish in with the water.” It wasn’t exactly petulant, or at least Clement wasn’t trying to be. At least it helped the tideguard feel more at use as she carefully knelt in the dinghy’s bottom boards and did the work of reeling while the tidesage angled the rod.

“For the same reason we don’t just pull up the fish for the fishermen, really. It would be a waste of energy, and unfair to the fish.” A sheen of sweat rose on the sage’s forehead, hood lowered to reveal many braids tied back at the nape of her neck. “If you were a fish, wouldn’t you feel awful if someone just plucked you out of the water without a chance to run away? At least this allows them to try to trick me or run away. And I get to eat stupid fish for my supper.”

Now that brought sweat to Clement’s neck, beneath the lip of the helm. She reached up with one hand, keeping the other reeling while she felt lightly at her face to make sure her visage was holding. It wouldn’t do to show her tentacled face on the outside of the Shrine. A jerk from the rod made her start, and she reached back down to help take the rod in both hands.

Ira’s fingers brushed against her knuckles, making her hands tremble slightly as she finally reeled in the fish. The snapper thrashed against the hook, making it sink in deeper, and blood began to slide down on the deck. Clement just dug her heels and held onto the rod while the sage ran her hands down the thin filament to stop its struggling.

“Oh, it’s dying,” came the soft murmur. Everything about Ira was soft, she thought, from her careful voice to her skin and eyes, as dark as the sea at night. Even her Drustvari accent held a nice lilt to it that Clement couldn’t hope to compete with, not with her home-grown northern clip to her words. Not that she wanted to complete with a sage, but it still made her feel inadequate. “Sister Clement, please put it out of its misery.”

“...Right. Aye, Sister!” Dropping the rod, since Ira had it controlled, Clement reached for the sharp knife at her side. She turned the fish over with a gauntleted hand, then pressed the tip of the blade into the top of the head. A quick blow to the pommel made it sink in, instantly killing the fish without pain. The struggling faded, and the snapper lay against the deck as its blood seeped into the wood. There was nothing special about the fish, really - a simple lane snapper with reddened scales, common around the Shrine area, though usually fished up in bigger numbers than this. “We could bring this to the kitchen, have it processed into oil,” she suggested.

Those dark eyes glanced up at Clement briefly, and she could feel a flush rising in the chromatophores on her cheeks. “I think I’d like to grill it,” the sage murmured, not judging, but with enough empathy that the hidden purple skin seemed to burn underneath the helm. “If you can take us back to the shore, and get a fire started, I brought some supplies from the kitchens.”

After thinking about it, the tideguard was starting to realize that the sudden outing was a bit more planned than first realized. Not that this was a bad thing, in the slightest. With a murmur of obedience, she took her place once again at the stern and fumbled with the ropes. The small boat had a single sail, a rudder, and a pair of oars just in case. For now, though, they’d be fine. As she unfurled the sail and started toward the shore of the Shrine’s isle, Ira took up the abandoned blade and began the process of cutting the gills. She dipped the fish into the running water beside the boat, holding on tightly as the current swept the blood away. “Let your soul wash away from its mortal shell,” the sage whispered, her voice carrying on the wind, “and flow into the waters.”

Clement should have been watching the bow of the ship, but her eyes flicked back to the tidesage sitting at the side. The silver wisps of soul from the fish drifted off into the currents, quickly vanishing as they passed onward. Her attention only went back when the hull bumped against the sand, and she stopped herself from cursing. Of course she should be paying more attention, and not mooning over what she couldn’t have!

“You handle that well,” Ira murmured as Clement tied up the sail and dropped onto the beachhead, pulling the boat up further so it wouldn’t be washed out to sea. “Your strength and reactions always amaze me. Like nothing could faze you.”

Pale golden eyes blinked up at Ira - the sage was now standing on the bow and dangling the fish over like some sort of bloody figurehead. “I don’t think I react to things well,” she said, perhaps a trifle blankly, before offering a hand to help the other woman down. “I just bumble along where I can, and look for orders when I can’t.” The boat tipped slightly, and she glanced over her shoulder.

Behind them, a dull purple tentacle as long as two ship lengths played with the rudder of the ship. A large, round, curious eye stared at them from the waters. Ira had staggered slightly, turned, then gave a quiet laugh that made Clement feel warm all over. The sage and leviathan stared for a few moments before the latter flipped a little splash of water at the boat and let go. The tendrils slipped off into the waves and vanished into dark smudges.

“He was probably checking which sage I was,” the sage joked, then took Clement’s hand. With much more grace than she felt, she helped the shorter woman down from the boat and then went back in to check for those supplies.

“Why would he need to check?” There they were, tucked under Ira’s seat where they weren’t immediately evident.

The gentle voice drifted over the side of the boat as Clement hoisted the large bag over her shoulder. “Well, there’s a funny story about that. Put those things out on the sand and I’ll get them set up, then I’ll tell you over the fire.”

Being included by Ira kept that warmth from earlier, only curled up in a tight ball in her chest that refused to go away. She couldn’t help but sneak another glance at the sage as she clambered out of the boat and dumped the bag onto the sand. The robed woman flashed a grateful smile at her, and untied the sack to pull out a grey blanket and even smaller little bags. Even a little metal grate came out of the sack, presumably for the fish still bleeding out at her side.

Right. She was getting distracted again. Trudging off along the sand, Clement picked up pieces of driftwood and collected clumps of seagrass. The shores around the Shrine were worn away somewhat with the currents that swept around the islet, and a past lord had decreed that more plants needed to be added to prevent the stone and sand from being washed away. No gardeners kept these shores beyond the occasional warder wandering with an elemental to trim things up. It ran wild and free, slightly overgrown, much like the sages that she guarded.

Her boots left impressions on the tide-soaked coast as she returned. The grasses went down first, along with a tuft of cotton. Ira leaned over and dug in Clement’s hip pocket, eliciting a startled harrumph from the tideguard before flint and tinder were produced. “Thanks,” Ira added unnecessarily, striking sparks on the cotton with the tools. All Clement could do was give a nod and hope that she didn’t look constipated while her heart beat wildly in her throat.

They worked in silence for a minute more, Clement adding sticks to the fire while Ira gutted and descaled the fish. It would take a while for the flames to die down enough to be cookable, but she wasn’t going to complain. Really, it was enough to be here, working together, and not feel like a shackle for the other woman. Not a burden, or an annoyance. Finally, though, she spoke up. “You mentioned a story behind that little kraken checking who you were?”

Ira never startled. “Ah, I’d almost forgotten.” She gave a little smile, directed toward the flames, that made Clement’s stomach do a flip. “It was Practicals season, early this year when ice was still riming the peaks. It was the very first initiate we were testing for the Trial of the Flame’s Passage.”

At the blink from the tideguard she clarified, “I can’t go into details, but it’s the one where they close out the entirety of the Shrine of Shadows. You know, the one with the inner gate that leads to the outside.”

The tideguard winced. She’d kept guard on the inside of the Shrine of Shadows before, when a visiting C’Thrax had needed a special welcome. The usual tunnels weren’t nearly big enough for brethren of that size, and the hullabaloo had gone on for weeks.

“This initiate was one of the older ones we’ve had, so expectations were already… different,” Ira said delicately. She probably hadn’t noticed the movement from Clement, who covered it with a cough and tossed in a few more sticks. “I think he was personally mentored outside the Shrine? All I know is that I never saw him before the Flame’s Passage. They brought me in to do some of the waterworks and slap him around with some waves.”

At Clement’s amused snort, Ira flashed her a slow and deep smile. Maybe her organs were actually doing somersaults instead of flips. “He was doing better than expected, really,” the sage added, “and my current wasn’t working to drag him away from the next shrine he had to visit. I could see some of my fellow wavespeakers were getting frustrated and were throwing the tides a little harder than they should have been.”

Blinking, she asked, “What happens if the testers go a little overboard?”

“Oh, they usually get a light scolding afterward, but it doesn’t generally throw off the test. We just factor in the added difficulty afterward in our huddle,” she replied breezily. “Anyways, he was getting near the end and didn’t seem to be struggling as much as he should have, apart from being scared out of his wits. Suddenly, Little Levi-“ Clement laughed, and Ira grinned, “pops up in front of the poor sage, having apparently been sleeping at the bottom before we disturbed him. I thought the lad was going to piss his robes. Apparently his first reaction was to brute-force through it, though, because the next thing I knew he’d ripped the entire. Water. Out of our hands.”

“What.”

“Entire. Water.” Ira’s lips thinned in an attempt to be serious, but Clement had watched her enough to know when she was holding back laughter. “He left us flopping around like beached whales! And - and the ENTIRE water, just got thrown against the leviathan like a battering ram!” She gave an indelicate snort, her voice shaking as she continued, “The next thing we see, the doors had been blown open from the pressure, and the leviathan was skipping over the water’s surface like some sort of demented, tentacled rock. The boy dropped the water back into the basin with a bang, and stumbled onto the shrine. And passed!”

The mock-outrage in the sister’s voice was enough to set Clement off into a fit of giggles, rocking back in the sand that clung to her armor and cloak. The flames crackled merrily as Ira leaned over, resting one hand on the silver chestplate and taking off Clement’s helm with the other. There wasn’t enough time for the tideguard to protest, to reapply her visage, before the helmet dropped. Soft fingers brushed through her tentacles and pulled them up a little, and a warm mouth pressed up against her own.

Clement completely forgot what they were talking about, frankly, and tilted her head to accommodate the other woman’s searching kisses. Her own hands reached up to touch Ira’s collar, reverently, and brush braids away from her face.

It was a good thing her sage knew what she wanted, because she had no intention of remembering the fish still on the ground while there were more interesting topics to explore.

and it’s peaceful in the deep ‘cause either way you cannot breathe no need to pray, no need to speak now i am under

(a tale for brother theriot)

Cecil Theriot hadn’t seen this place since his own ritual.

The thought stopped him in his tracks, robes falling about him in a familiar rustle as he peered across the room and past the lectern. It had been many years since he’d been called to serve the Master irrevocably, and he had traversed the length and depths of the Shrine since then, but never come back to this specific chamber.

He’d been a younger man, then, full of fire and zeal for the Master’s purpose. So sure of himself that he’d known that he could make it, even as they’d poured the mixture down his throat and bound him fast.

Now, stepping forward felt as if the stones were attached to his ankles instead. He idly reached up to touch the long-healed scars on either side of his throat. Whoever was slated to guard this chamber wasn’t here… he’d checked, and the name on the roster was some tideguard pulled away on other duties. It wasn’t like this place was used, but the Wakestorm Council didn’t want anyone to perform any sort of ritual, even accidentally, related to the Master.

The memories weren’t fresh enough to make him forget his bones creaking as he stepped into the water, along the shelf that led to the drop-off. He was different now, older, wiser, less likely to worry about what others thought of his conduct. Speaking of which… why was he here?

If Faygia was living, and that was a very big if, she’d likely fled far away from the Shrine with her knowledge of what awaited her. There was no way she’d come back for him, or anything else that could have been. He could go back to the archives, apologize, and pretend nothing could happen. He wouldn’t even be late for dinner.

He had to know. She was worth leaving his doubt behind.

Entering the water feet-first gave him an unhappy twinge from one knee that always hated these sorts of things. Theriot had the presence of mind to reach up with one hand and hold his glasses in place as the water drew him in. The corner of his mind that had once held His gaze was as silent as ever, sleeping eternally with no signs of waking.

His robes hadn’t been bathed in saltwater for years, now, not while he’d languished in the candlelight Archives. It should have been good to return to his roots. This water wasn’t clean, though, and it held a taste that made his tendrils curl uncomfortably. It was at this point that he remembered that these pools hadn’t been cleaned out in over two years. Not since before the raid on the Shrine, before she would have left. If there was a trace of her, then it would still be there.

Dim waters swallowed him whole, even dimmer from beneath, and he was absurdly grateful that his change once more left him able to breathe in the depths. Tentacles swirled idly in the water and he took in a deep lungful, then expelled it to draw him further down. Every sound down here felt both curiously muffled and magnified, from the beat of his heart to the swirl of the current he made to draw him down to the bottom. It was good that he was now cold-blooded, or the icy waters underneath would have sapped his strength and left him helpless.

He’d remembered the corpses that awaited him at the bottom, though nothing could prepare him for the sight a second time. Whatever bodies had been down there when he’d performed the rite had been either shoved back or removed, because the bodies resting on the bottom now were different. The light seemed to make them more greyish, robes fluttering idly in the wake of his movements as what hair they had left wafted gently out of their hoods. Their skin was waxy, bloated, barely recognizable.

Still, this was why he was here, wasn’t it?

While afraid of what he might find, he was more afraid of never knowing. He made his way between the bodies, peering at each face to try to recall who might have been there. Here was Brother Jeremy, his face twisted with fear in a way that contorted the adipocere of his skin and showed his crooked teeth. Over there was Sister Marley, face half-tentacled, the k’thired sections of her face partially rotted over years in the depths. Hullwarden Wade made a large corpse in the back, bloated and nearly blackish. He’d managed to free his hands before he’d finished drowning, and they reached up toward the surface like a silent chorus of applause. Encore.

Surely Faygia would have been noticeable by her hair in the sea of corpses - depths knew he’d looked at it long enough as it tried to escape her hood. Would she be still human, down at the bottom, or half-transformed? Surely the Master would have welcomed her into His eternal arms, no matter how far she’d gotten, and she had always been one of the most sensitive to the all-encompassing will.

Still, as he carefully picked his way through the bodies of his former brethren, sorrow wrapped around his bones in a gentle embrace. Sorrow wound through with a lightning core of panic. She wasn’t there, as a corpse or otherwise. Wherever she was, she hadn’t died down in this hole, tainted with her lifeblood.

Cecil stared unseeingly toward the surface above, tilting his head in an echo of the fallen sages around him. For once, he allowed himself to hope.

some ancient call that i've answered before it lives in my walls and it's under the floor if this was meant for me, why does it hurt so much?

(a tale for brother zander)

It was always a welcome moment when Galecaller Aldry visited the Archives, Zander Bowline decided. The short sage always remained draped in their robes, winds held tight around them to prevent the books from rustling, and they asked the lovely sorts of questions.

Questions like, what sorts of books would you recommend for someone interested in the intricacies of storm rituals? Like, what are the oldest ceremonies for certain liturgies, or do we have any psalms to the Tidemother you like that are in stock? These sorts of questions could send him wandering through the books for a while on a mission, while still talking with Aldry about whatever topics they’d brought to mind for the day.

This conversation wasn’t nearly as intellectually stimulating as usual, and slightly more aggravating.

“They cut through the initiates like a hot knife through butter,” Aldry pointed out, “and left them piled through the Shrine like driftwood. And then of the ones who were left, all of the Depthsbringer ones were dragged to Uldum and the Vale like lamblings driven off a cliff.”

“The ones who are here now aren’t part of the old heresies,” Zander replied, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been given the opportunity to start the Shrine afresh, free from corruption.”

Aldry’s eyes, as grey as a squall, were all too sharp for his liking, and he turned away to continue flipping through books for the one they’d asked for. “We still bear the pollution of the previous Lord’s indiscretions, don’t we? And with our order basically crippled, there’s few in the nation as would want to join, even if they hear the Tidemother’s call. Without a steady flow of initiates, and the ones we have mostly decimated, the only internal solution is a call for sages to pair up. And even then, that would take a generation.”

“Well then, what do we do?” The option of being paired off with some faceless Sister to do his duty sounded intolerable, frankly. Like the whole Tidewives business, only this time it was affecting him. He almost felt sorry for them, come to think of it, and he threw out without thinking, “I dunno, recruit mainlanders?”

When Zander looked up at the silence, the galecaller’s meaningful glance made him set the book down a bit harder than he’d meant to. “Absolutely not,” he answered after the decisive thump. “We’ve already had enough trouble with mainlanders, and you’d want them to come in with their outsider traditions that we can only hope to override?!” He waved dismissively at them.

“If we don’t change with the times, Brother, we will be washed out.” Moving beside him, they carefully sorted through books as well, with a gentleness and grace that would do any archivist proud. “We need new blood, and faster than we can produce children for it. Perhaps not many will come from the mainland, but there’s enough out there that at least a few will be amenable to hearing the call. We can’t afford to be the exclusive and secretive order we were in the past, and we need to…”

Their voice trailed off as someone walked between the stacks near them, with the rustle of scrolls. Zander’s heart briefly leapt into his throat as Brother Theriot walked past. His body hadn’t forgotten that frantic grip, and he tensed as Aldry called out. “Cecil! Where are you off to, in such a hurry?”

He’d barely even noticed that the k’thir had a satchel tucked over an elbow, and his robes were strangely damp. “I’m going out,” Theriot replied shortly. “I’m doing what I should have done before, and finding Taggin.”

“What?” Perhaps it was some fault of his mouth for flying open, but Zander pressed onward. “Why would you find her? She’s not even welcomed by the Shrine, if she’s even alive!” The touch of the galecaller’s hand at his elbow halted him, even as Theriot’s expression darkened.

“I understand.” Perhaps that was Aldry’s flaw, benign too understanding. Still, the shorter sage gave the old scholar a little smile. “I think it’s best that you leave now, and find her. Just… remember to send letters back, okay? You can address them to me, and I’ll make sure that they get to whoever needs them, if you want to talk with someone else.”

“I will. Thank you, Aldry…” With that, trailing off, the k’thir walked once more with purpose. He vanished between the stacks, sounds trailing off while Zander tried to draw himself back into a veneer of composure.

When he glanced over, the smile had receded like low tide. Aldry stared at the empty stacks with a pensiveness usually reserved for the most complex of hypothetical problems. At Zander’s questioning look, they shook their head.

“It’s for the best, Zander. I’m surprised he’s lasted this long in the Archives, but he needed to get out while he still can.”

“What do you -” “Pardon,” came a quiet voice, the sound of footsteps along the flagstones nearly silent. Zander dearly hoped he didn’t get a heart attack from all of the sudden and unexpected guests. Rounding on the newcomer, he nearly stuck his face into a blue Wake tabard.

Two sages stood there, hands tucked into their midnight blue robesleeves. Their robes were strangely thick, embroidered with protective runes in silver thread. Their hoods were so deep that only the feeling of being watched and the hint of their chins showed that people were within the robes. Behind them stood a tall, familiar sage in a pale mask with lenses.

While Zander gaped, Aldry spoke up. “Sister Pyre. Brothers. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” The shortest sage kept their chin lifted, voice perfectly even and polite as the scholar tried to collect himself.

Stepping apart, the two in the front allowed the sister to move forward. Thin, silver-hued chains dangled between them in a loop, one that brushed the front of the woman’s robeskirts. “Aldry. Brother Bowline.” With pleasantries summarily dismissed, Pyre replied, “Where would Theriot’s office happen to be? We need to speak with him.”

Glancing behind the pair, he could see the trail of dampness left by the fleeing tidesage. Unease and the intense feeling that he could not betray his fellow archivist warred with the inherent fear of the two Brothers on either side. Fortunately, it looked like the galecaller had taken up the mantle to answer. “I believe it’s back there, isn’t it, Brother Bowline?” That was enough to spur him to speak.

“Oh. Er, yes. Yes, it’s back there, though it may be locked while he’s studying.” He jerked his thumb behind him, adding, “Just go through the stacks, take the second left, and look for the door with his name on it.” That door was altogether too close to his own study, now that he thought of it. He didn’t smile, as that would be suspicious.

Still, as the two brothers surveyed him, Aldry continued, “Brother Bowline and I were just collaborating on some research. We don’t want to hinder you, Sister.” A surprisingly strong grip pulled him back against the stacks, and book spines dug into his own spine. With an unseen nod, the two brothers moved onward past them and back together, as if of one mind. The gaze behind the octopodean mask lingered on the two, and with a quick exchange of “Aldry,” “Marianne,” the worst had passed. He sagged against the shelves, taking in a shaky breath through his nose and trying not to look after the three.

It was long moments later that Aldry finally relaxed from their poise, their hunch more evocative of a frightened rabbit. “Don’t tell a soul where he went,” the galecaller hissed between their teeth, and he Zander could only nod.

it's never sunny but i don't even need the sun i don't need anything i'll just make something beautiful of all the ugliness I've done

(a tale for sister morgan)

Rolling waves slowed to a softer surf, one that left dark lines in the sand when it receded. The dampness shifted to a paler tan, only for water to once more roll in across the smooth surface and leave nearly imperceptible ripples on the face of the shoreline. Not too far back, the seagrasses waved in the incoming breeze and tapped silently against salt-stained boots.

Mother Edith had brought a stool for Morgan to sit on as they watched the surf, wordlessly carrying it under one arm until it came time to sit. They’d never mention it to her, but the immediate and unasked-for empathy was one of the many reasons they were thankful the older sage had joined them in the Wharf. This was much easier on their spine, and saved them from getting an eternal crick in their neck. Plus, this far out on the beach they were less likely to be stumbled upon by a sailor or townsperson, so they could let their hoods down and breathe a bit.

“Front’s coming in soon,” Edith remarked, tipping her head up to sniff at the air. “We’ll get a sharp drop in temperatures, and should make tomorrow less of a heat wave. It’d be a good day to set out.”

Morgan frowned at the low line of clouds on the horizon. “Your skills in being subtle are lacking,” they pointed out, perhaps a bit bluntly in turn. “Maybe you need to get yourself checked for that.”

Instead of the typical chastening, the former abbess laughed. The sound was far younger than her years, soft and light. “I only need to soften my words when talking to students, Morgan. You’re a grown person who can take a hint.”

While the smaller sage immediately froze, face darkening like thunder, Edith continued. “You’re not as settled a sage as you pretend to be. Sitting around as a village sage doesn’t make you happy, even though I know teaching is one of your strong suits.” She removed the furred cloak from around her robes, folding it to rest over her knees.

“Unnecessarily observant,” Morgan retorted. “You know why I stay here, and you have no right to judge me.” Their tone was straying toward acerbic, despite their usual attempt to remain friendly with the other tidesage.

A brow rose slowly. “Do I? You’re no longer wanted for crimes, and you’re no longer pretending to be dead. Worth passed his Practicals, and has gone off to other things. Xue has issues that following the Tidemother can’t help with, and needs to find her own path. You don’t have to pack up and move, and you certainly don’t have to go out for long, but the Wharf won’t fall to pieces if you’re not here.”

She had a point, loath as they were to admit it. Morgan had been ready to start arguing the opposite, but they instead slumped in their seat and sighed. “I enjoy teaching people,” they muttered finally.

“Which baffles me, since you dislike people in general,” Edith commented wryly. At the glower from the gnome she winked. It was easy to forget what she’d been through if one didn’t see the scars that crossed over the occasional wrinkle, and the silvery-grey hair of one who’d followed the storm’s call for many years. Not for the first time did they wonder if the loss of Wavespring Monastery had hardened Edith in the same way, or left a lingering bitterness in her. If it did, it never showed around others. “You are terrific at explaining things, though. Would that I had a teacher like you back in Wavespring. Still…”

As she trailed off, Morgan turned to stare once more at the waves. Each tug back of the water was met with a rolling tide, tumbling over itself to spread out along the sand once more. The water left behind trinkets of affection for its stained shore lover, bits of driftwood and stones and shells, and even the occasional piece of seaglass. The collection Worth had picked up still lined one of the windowsills in the Pelagic house.

“Still, you’ve gotten… a reputation. Not a bad one, exactly, but the Shrine sees you as a sort of workhorse for certain tasks. You take on an unconventional student once, and now you’re the person they send ‘lost causes’ along to, since you worked what they see as a miracle. You’ve shown that you’ll grudgingly accept tasks like guarding artifacts, too. So they’ve been foisting off work to you, along with the occasional student when things don’t work out. And if you fail, what thanks will you get?”

That got a snort. “I didn’t do it for the Shrine,” Morgan answered, resisting the urge to roll their eyes. They carefully unwound one bun that had fallen loose, finger-coming the dark and wavy strands before beginning to wrap it back up. “I did it because when I found them, they looked… lost. They needed help.”

“They did,” Edith agreed quietly. “And you were the best one to give it. They needed someone with your expertise, but also your desire to do what’s best for them. You’ll need to leave anyways at some point, don’t you? You said Xue’s trail leads back to Pandaria.”

With the smaller sage’s nod she added, “Take Ronney with you and make a vacation out of it, but go and visit the Boralus monastery first by yourself. Check on things out there, and respond to that odd message we got. Just, don’t take the poor woman with you for the worst of the work. I always had a feeling I’d have to eventually take over as the Wharf’s sage. …Don’t look at me like that, Morgan, now that my students are gone I can take over all of the duties you’re ambivalent about at best.”

Now they did roll their eyes, while they worked on the other bun. “I don’t like the usual town’s sage duties. But it was nice to be appreciated.” Edith’s stare made them admit after, “And the occasional terrorizing of rude sailors is fun.” The two of them chuckled quietly together, lapsing back into an easy silence.

This time it was the abbess who looked back out to sea, letting the wind curl along her face with the promise of cold air rolling in. Morgan remembered how the other woman’s hair had lost the last of its red strands into grey about a year ago, and how the sage had held the reputation of being a spitfire until practically forced into leadership of the old monastery to the north. It was easy to forget that the gentle galecaller held a core of steel and had dragged her way out of certain death not so many years ago.

Eventually, they whispered, “What will I do, after?” From any other person, it would sound like a plea.

Glancing back, Edith gave a smile. It was the sort of smile Morgan detested, full of compassion and understanding. “You could go back to the Shrine, or anywhere, really. If I ever get around to pulling enough sages together for a second Wavespring, maybe you could teach? It would be a shame to waste your gift, and I’d be sure to give you time off to do as you like.”

The gnome looked down at their hands, lily-white and trembling faintly. The reminder of failure was hidden by the half-gloves, only the hint of a scar peeking out on the back of the right one. “Edith, I always hate when you’re right.” Not that they’d admit it to anyone but the older sage, but it was pleasant to have someone sensible to bounce conversation off of and be told when they were being unreasonable.

A carefree chuckle made the woman’s shoulders shake. “You told me that when you sent Worth off to the Shrine, too. I’ll say it again: you give yourself too little credit.”

shallow, rolling holy water rise and slowly fell swallowing a foreign body, rose red holes to show and tell she was washed away with the tide we saw the water in her eyes

(a tale for sister taggin)

This wasn’t the usual flavor of dream that Faygia preferred. After all, there wasn’t nearly enough screaming involved.

Oh, there certainly was some screaming, but it wasn’t the fun sort that was directed in a frenzy of worship toward the Master Below. This sort of screaming was frantic. Sobbing, pleading for one’s life, and rattles that died out into silence with the sound of hacking flesh.

The familiar walkways of the Shrine found her eyes, with fountains spraying out water faintly tinted red as a wounded initiate lay partly submerged in the water. Their hood rendered them faceless, the only thing registering being the neat robes spattered in dark crimson.

It all was both strangely clear and fuzzy, the way her mind skipped along the familiar details and focused on pieces here and there. A cut belt, discarded in the grass with the torn-apart remains of what had been a large tendril. Splashes of spilled void energy pooled here and there, with craters torn from the ground and columns, with the occasional scorchmark.

She hurried along the stones, avoiding the distant cries for now. There was something she needed to find. Was it people? The Master’s will was deadly silent within her head as she searched. When she tripped over an outstretched arm, sending it rolling, she caught herself painfully on an elbow. The handprint she left on the stones was rusty. She had been injured, though she couldn’t feel the pain for now. All she knew was that she’d been abandoned, and rightly so.

Picking herself back up, Fay could hear the thump of armored footsteps. She ran without a thought toward the nearest entrance, ducking as an arrow shot over her head. Her curls flew out around the edges of her hood, and she skidded down a ramp to plaster herself behind a column.

There was someone she needed to find. In the Archives, wasn’t it? She could hear the small group of people tramping through on the other side. Filthy Stormwindian accents. The shame of failure stung, right along her head, as if a band had squeezed her tight.

“Say, weren’t there more headed this way?” This voice was gruff, low, and male.

“We don’t care about stragglers, as long as they’re not going to hit us from behind.” That sounded Gilnean, and rough. Fay tried to still her breathing, clapping a hand over her mouth. She just knew that if she came out and tried to fight, she wouldn’t be able to even get a shot off, and the knowledge was a heavy stone of dread resting in her gut. “We need to get to Stormsong first, and take care of other things later.”

The name barely made her twitch, only a mental stab through her forehead (a wound, a hole, an eye socket, a rift) giving her a reaction. She gritted her teeth against the sudden pain, shifting a little in place, and the sudden silence on the other side made her heartbeat skyrocket. All she could do was press her back to the column and wait in dizzying fear. Then their steps moved on, leaving her in peace. Until the cries started again, closer.

Faygia ran, in the opposite direction of the steps, ignoring the new wails and sobbing. Any aid she could give was far too late… she’d known this from the start, and all she could hope was that she made it in time for one thing.

The further she ran, the slower she seemed to move… the Shrine’s walls seemed to move past at a crawl, her feet flying and nearly crashing. There was a commotion up ahead, and as she flew into the chamber, a shout echoed along the walls.

They were already here - how had they gotten here so quickly? - and Worth had fallen, one arm raised to shield his face from the helmeted paladin. His begging stuttered and stumbled, not nearly good enough to spare him. “No!” Her voice rose, power gathering at her fingertips, but a blast of arcane ice from the mage made her stick, solid, to the floor. Her hands were coated, energy wrapped around her up to her neck, leaving her free to watch as the Light-blessed sword rose and fell.

When his head fell from his shoulders, she could still see the surprise painting his expression before it slackened. The body crumpled, letting the paladin straighten up with a murmured prayer behind his visor.

She was weeping, she realized too late, and hot tears ran across her face in strange patterns. From anger, guilt, or despair, it was hard to say, as a mainlander dressed in furs and spikes brought forward the next victim. Glasses fell from a tentacled face, and as she waited for the familiar voice to speak -

A knock at the door yanked her from her sleep with a jolt. Fay sat up in her bed begrudgingly, reaching up to rub the damp and tearstained results of the night from her cheeks. “I’m coming,” she snapped toward the door, then allowed herself to sniffle and scrub at her face some more. It was clear she looked like shit anyway, but she might as well look like a nightmare hadn’t ground her beneath its boot.

When she stepped out of her bed, she automatically checked the straps buckled to its slats. They kept the box beneath it bound so it wouldn’t knock over anything else when the Anne rocked, and hid the engraved Blinded Eye from any curious person peeping over her shoulder. Everything was as it should be.

Finally, vaguely surprised she hadn’t heard another knock after the first one, the sage shuffled to the door and opened it. Her apprentice stood there sheepishly, flinching as the door was yanked open.

“What.” It was probably morning, but it was still too early for her to say anything more than a few syllables. Something about seeing Worth alive and awkward in front of her was especially jarring, with the murky haze of her nightmares still swimming through her brain.

This resulted in Worth sticking a letter practically underneath her nose, making her wince as a ripple of pain curled inside of her head. “Sorry! I - I just wanted to give you your mail. This came in for you, and I… sorry, I wanted to make sure you got it.” She was left holding the mail, still blinking, as he fled down the corridor and babbled his goodbyes.

All she could think was, This had better be worth waking me up, as she shut the door once more. The contents of the dream were swiftly forgotten and blurred as she tried to use her higher brain functions to open it. Damn whoever thought it was a good idea to seal this thing so insidiously shut.

When Faygia finally opened the letter, lying back on the bed, she gave a groan at the signature at the bottom. Pelagic. The gnome was probably trying to spite her for the whole ink thing. Only then did she catch the gist of the message, and the rest was suddenly not important.

Standing back up (and wobbling a little), the sage groaned and headed to the dresser to pick up yesterday’s robes. Hopefully Worth had already fixed her coffee…

#fiction #tidesage #warcraft #brother zander #brother theriot #sister clement #sister morgan #sister taggin #sister ira #galecaller aldry #mother edith #sister pyre #since these are all around the same time i figured they needed to be put together just like when originally written

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

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In retrospect, bend over spy - Natasha Romanoff x reader

Masterlist Link

Summary; Natasha is on a mission, however she certainly gets more than she bargained for whilst undercover

Warnings; smut, gxg, rimming, fingering, strap on sex

The redhead slipped out of her panties, dropping the black lace to the ground, as she kicked the well loved material, that was inked with her wetness, from around her ankles. She bunched the material of her dress up she bent her bosom over your desk, slotting her legs open as she grew eager as she heard your approaching footsteps.

Your fingers plucked at her round and full cheeks, spreading them apart so you could gouge a explicit view of her quivering cunt, and the tight ring of her asshole. It’s spiral of tight skin clenched as she felt your penetrating gaze upon the close knitted ring of muscle. Allowing some spit to douse your finger, you rubbed it against her back entrance, stringing a web of a moan from her engorged and swollen mouth.

She was inadvertently biting her lips, gnawing upon her flesh and sufficiently plumping it, as she awaited for you to do something more. The assassin wiggled her ass back, as she felt you drop to your knees, feeling the curl of your tongue prodding at her rim. “Fuck, y/n.”

You moaned as you peeled the straps of your cami top down, shoving the material down to below your breasts as you pinched at your own nipples, tugging out some relief for yourself, as your tongue firmly pressed through the conviction of tight entryway, as your free hand that was failing to milk your breast slithered up to her pussy.

The fingers on your right hand spread her affiliated juices around, as you delved your nose against her crack, pushing your wet and smooth appendage further into her hole, drawing positive sounds of encouragement to continue your administrations out of her lying, scoundrel, avenger lips.

To frustrated her, you pulled back, instigating a whine from her, as you wore a dirty and privileged smirk. You stood, disappointing her, though she remained in her poised position, watching with wild forest eyes as you rounded the dismissal of your reviewing centre, coming to face her, and blessing her with the sight of your nude and stiff pebbled breasts.

“How’d you know my real name, Natalia?” Shit, she was exposed, in more ways than one. She readied to retaliate in her sultry craft of exposition, however, she stilled as you waved your hand in dismissal of her actions. “Come on tell me, and perhaps I’ll let our fun continue, may even tell you whatever you want to know, Black Widow.”

It seemed like a fair trade, for a moment in thought Natasha pursed her lips together, cocking her flushed head as she ran over her options. This was the easiest way to access an answer, and well, if you were to double cross her, then it’d be no hassle to take you out.

“You have hydra files that you recovered from a base, Coulson has been tracking you for some time. He noticed that your company provided export and import, and wanted to ensure that you weren’t spreading the word on the intel that you recovered.”

“Hm.” Crossing your arms over your free breasts, you paid her a due smile, amused by the information that she had been told. “Open the drawer to the right, Romanova, the flash drive is in there.”

Her hands obeyed your suggestion, slipping inside the storage, retaining a red keeper of files from within. Natalia held it to her face, speculating its exterior, seeing the infamous skull symbol that prompted all content the organisation stamped their works with.

“I used to be like you you know, a heroin, though I found it to be a means to an end. There is so much to sacrifice, and in the end, all you have to give is yourself. Over time, I’ve figured it’s better to be alive than dead, there is no use in instigating the title of superhero if one day you are to lose.”

“You mentioned fun after I recovered this from you, this conversation you are elaborating on hardly seems like the type.” The redhead spy spat with a quirk of her scarlet brow, as she peeled the fabric of her midnight dress up and over her head.

“Guess shield agents don’t like speaking about their travels, they used to have no mind back in my day.” Well, that supposed that you had been a traitor, having the folder of files in your possession. “I guess you don’t either considering who you have been.”

“I’m not here to trade pity tales, if you wish to enjoy our last moments together, I suggest you take those slacks off from your legs, and show me how you can possibly make my remaining presence here worthwhile.”

“Oh honey, it’s definitely going to be worth the wait.” You replied, harshly tugging at your belt, as you unravelled the Italian leather from around your waist, unzipping your trousers as they fell down, and to the ground in a figure right around your feet. “Like what you see?”

There was certainly something to see. A harness enveloped your waist, a faux appendage in the shade of lilac hanging from the centre, taunting her with surprise. It wasn’t what she had been expecting, not in the slightest.

“It’s okay.” She shrugged, no longer having to keep up the facade of an interested intern, though her pupils told a different story as they gazed lustfully at the strap. “Guess it’ll do.”

“It will do something widow, and I can prove that.” The two of you both nude, except from the attachment that’s prime purpose was instigate internal pleasure, walked towards each other, you noticed her leave the drive on the desk, but you didn’t allow her to witness your lingering view.

Instead, you ambushed her against the hardwood platform of your desk, teeth biting their way into her mouth, gaining access to slip your sly tongue within the contents of oral communication. A hum escorted out from her lungs, as her hands dug their manicured nails into your shoulders, scratching red lines into the skin, as she awaited for you to enter her.

“Prove it then.”

Well, that predicament was easy, as you bent her to your will, and arched her back against your work desk, sifting the items in the way onto the floor. “I’m glad you said that Natalia.” Her statement only gave you a rush to do exactly as she said, boy was she going to regret letting that mouth of hers run confidently against you.

Her legs spread, allowing you to stand between them, as you ran your fingertips over their tops, your teeth stretching forwards and nipping at her lip. With her hips, she shuffled, rubbing her sodden folds against the toy, she was desperate. The exterior that she portrayed, the cocky one that was here for a mission and nothing more, had been swept away as she urgently wrapped her legs around you, sending you closer to her.

“I knew you weren’t as blunt with your emotions as you are with your words.” You grabbed the base of the toy that was attached to your harness, dragging the tip of the plastic through her slit, as you readily entered her. Once you were situated completely within her, your hands changed position to be on the table, as she adjusted, your hand slid to the drive, flicking it onto the ground by your chair, changing it out for one that was beneath the mouse pad.

She was oblivious to the settlement of underlying mischief prominent in your actions, instead of focusing on your seclusive intentions, she was perused by the seducing revels that you wantonly deposited upon her, as your hips ground ceremoniously against her own, leaving a trail of erotic pecks up the expanse of her neck, as your other hand opposed a grip around the strap.

It felt like power embedded in your hand, as you provided it stability against gravity as you teased her folds with the ludicrous tip, entering the length within her walls as she cowered a mewl at the sensation of penetration, as you nipped down at her pulse point, sliding your competent fingers down to fiddle with her satirised clit, moving it around like a paddle in water. Once she was adjusted to the size of the toy, you began to retract it, only to thrust back into her.

Her head whipped back, exposing her clavicle which you eagerly traced with your tongue. With one moderately ravenous hand, you groped her breast, it filling your palm as you prowled deeper inside her, tracing your hips back and forth to create a sustainable rhythm. A glow brew upon her skin, defining her collarbones with a powerful sheen that gripped her pores wonderfully. Moans rattled huskily out from her throat as she received, as she bent her shape against yours, optimally accepting the rounds of stimulation that you adorned upon her body.

“I’m gonna cum y/n.” Her nose crinkled as she made her statement, and thus, you made your administrations that much more fast, belting into her to appease her a gyration that brought her closer to her orgasm. The last method that had her half screeching through her retrospective high, was a bittersweet pinch to her clit, that had her hurtling over the edge. You continued to move for a few moments, until it became too much for the spy.

As she caught her breath, you gently stroked her nipples, causing her to heave heavier. “Shame you were only here on a mission, that means I have no chance of convincing you to go out on a date with me.” Pulling the fake cock out of her cunt, watching as she whimpered from the notion. She grabbed for her items of clothing, slathering them back into appropriate placement upon her body.

“I don’t do dates.” She thickly stated, making you hum in acknowledgement, Natalia tried to soothe her hair with her hands until it looked presentable enough, going to turn, until you caught her arm, preventing her from doing so. You picked up the hard drive off from the desk, and simply handed it to her. “It was nice meeting you, you definitely made my breach here... interesting.”

“I aim to please.” You brashly shrugged, accepting her grateful smile as you watched the deceived and overplayed spy walk out of the door to your office. You threw your shirt over yourself, removing the harness that hugged your hips, and rolled your panties up your legs. You bent to the ground, retrieving the true aspect of your game. “Well, I guess you can’t have it all.” The real flash drive was pinched between your forefinger and your thumb as you blinked towards it.

You had managed to deceive an avenger, yet the whole cover would only be viable to hold up for so long. Your entire operation would have to move elsewhere if you were to have to avoid that fine fox and her friends. Paging your assistant, you filled her in on the business cards that were currently laid out before yourself.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 years

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Then... "Oya, what a cute bird the wind blow here"

Raven shuddered as familiar voice sound too close to her ear. She sharply turned around and saw Jade in dorm leader clothing. He looked as usual, but she couldn't ignore feeling that he secretly enjoyed that was happening. Her reaction wasn't exception.

"G-Greeting to the new dorm leader of Octavinelle," nevertheless she tried at least pretend to be polite. She didn't think that as soon as Rook would become dorm leader Jade would take this place as well.

It promised to be bothersome.

[You can read the accompanying Miss Raven and dorm leader Rook AU ficlet here! Or follow along with the entire dorm leader AU by browsing the most recent additions to the #AU tag~]

asdjlasfbioyaslIFsoguabiflaiuotfivuagd THE D D DO R M LEADER AU CONTINEUS............ .. . .. .... . . . . .. . . . . .. . . (Okay but 😷 I legit want to write a series where all the vice dorm leaders become dorm leaders... including Ruggie and Ortho, even though they aren’t technically vices~)

The ocean provided an eerie blue backlight to Jade’s figure, his single golden eye glowing in the murk. He stood tall and proud in his uniform—clothes that had once belonged to Azul—shirt tucked in, bowtie done, and jacket buttoned up well. A gentleman dipped in darkness and smoothed out by silvery moonlight... that was what he was.

"Please, please...” Jade called, beckoning with a hand and a sharp smile. His voice was silken and welcoming. “Have a seat, put your feet up. The Mostro Lounge is honored to have such an esteemed guest return to us.”

Raven bristled, chilled by his invitation. “I’m actually here to redeem a stamp card, not for a meal.”

Trade a completed card in for a free consultation, so went their campaign. By the mercy of the Sea Witch, we will hear you out.

“There was a plant I had trouble acquiring for a new ink color, so I was hoping to discuss some tips on how I could home-grow it...” Raven mumbled, averting her gaze from the eel’s. She couldn’t retain it for long before her cheeks started to heat up. “... but since Azul is no longer... erm, occupying his seat, perhaps I should excuse myself.”

She backed away toward the door, and got as far as gripping the handle before a shadow fell over her. A weight pressed on the door, forcing it back shut with an ominous, soft click. Raven gulped and slowly looked up—

—finding Jade looming above her, a hand to the door, and he rest of his body caging her in. Lounge lights swam in his eyes, running the length of his teeth.

Her mouth went dry.

“Nonsense,” Jade purred, clicking his tongue—as though addressing a disobedient child. “I assure you that I am fit to hear you out in place of Azul. After all... it is the duty of the Octavinelle dorm leader to uphold the spirit of benevolence.”

“Wha... I-I don’t want you to hear anything of mine out!! You... You sea rat!!” Raven protested, tugging hard on the handle. It rattled, but did not budge against the pressure Jade placed upon it. “I... I want OUT!!”

“Fufufu. Miss Raven, you’re making such a scene, disturbing our other guests...”

Jade’s gaze cut to the dining area, where waiters drifted with plates of food and drink, and customers passed suspicious looks over their shoulders. Too many prying eyes. Too many potential witnesses.

He returned his attention to Raven and slid a gloves hand on the small of her back. The bird jolted at his delicate touch, and the haunting smile that graced his lips.

“Shall we take this to my office? We will be able to discuss this matter in private there.”

His firm tone implied it was less of an invitation and more of a command.

Only a peep was able to escape Raven. No proper words could be formed.

Jade chuckled, tapping her hanging chin shut with the end of his—Azul’s—magical cane. “I see that I’ve taken your voice away... but alas, as charming as I find your fright to be, I must act as one of my position would and seize control of the situation.”

His hand slid to grip her shoulder like a crushing vicegrip, and he bent down to meet her at eye level. Despite Raven’s best efforts, she was forced to look right at his face—his full lips, the dangerous angles, the hypnotic gold and olive of his irises. She stared at him, even as her body started violently quivering.

Fight or flight? her brain screamed at her.

She could, realistically, do neither.

“This is a trick I’ve picked up from my dear peer and fellow dorm leader, Riddle-san,” Jade murmured, allowing his breath to smother the tiny raven. “When I give an order, your response should be ‘yes, dorm leader’. Do I make myself clear?”

Raven swallowed her courage, and it sank to the very bottom of her. A heavy anchor, cast into the sea an unable to be summoned, to be hauled up.

The air around her was stifling, the light blocked out by Jade’s form. The water pressure could not touch her beyond Octavinelle’s glass walls—but the immense authority, the self-assuredness Jade radiated was even more constrictive.

She fought for her breath, and managed to choke out, “Y-Yes... dorm leader...”

“Fufufu. That’s better. I’m glad to see that you take to following directions so well, Miss Raven.”

His hand returned to her back, giving a slight push. “Now then, let us be off to discuss your important matter. I shall brew you some tea and serve some biscuits to help calm your poor nerves.”

He led her away, deeper and deeper into the depths of his new lair.

Somehow, Raven felt as though she were caught in the jaws of an underwater beast.

#Jade Leech #Jade Leech thirst #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #Raven Crowley #notes from the writing raven #AU #twisted wonderland AU #twst AU

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lustbile · 3 years

Text

The Journal

TenxReader

Word Count: 7.3k+

Summary/Warnings: Smut with plot, semi public, a lot of biting, mentions of supernatural and just general weirdness, and small amount of blood play

Apart of the Club X series: Masterlist (can be read alone or within the series, but unlike others it might just be the slightest amount confusing)

“So that’s what you’re into now,” your best friend’s voice is bored and distant, her task of wiping down the bar that stretched out in front of her taking a majority of her attention away from the babbling you’ve tried to subject her to since you entered the empty restaurant only about 20 minutes before, “weird demon sex clubs?”

—

“Ah ah, I never said they were demons,” you correct quickly, the thought of defending yourself never crossing your mind as you petulantly slap your hands against the polished wood, “I just said it was…. weird.”

“Weird is an understatement,” she scoffs quietly as she turns to dip her dirtied rag back into the bleach water and ring it out, “I mean look, I’ve always been supportive in the witchy stuff you’ve been into but this…. is a bit much.”

“I don’t see how this is any different than any other thing I’ve read into.”

“Oh you don’t see?” you finally manage to pull her attention towards you as she harshly slaps the rag back onto the wood with a stern glare pulled on her pretty features, “you’re talking about vulnerability and abandoned warehouses and public sex. That last one is definitely new.”

You fully expected this type of response, only hoping she’d be busy enough that you would dodge the motherly scolding she liked to give you when you pitched your schemes to her with your eyes wild and wide, but nevertheless, she was completely right.

It came from an old book, tattered and torn from being flipped through one too many times, that you found at your favorite antique store. The store itself was already notorious with your tight inner circle of friends as the creepy shop that was corrupting your brain, a constant taunt being that the little old woman that ran it was the actual devil and she was just waiting for the right time to jump you and eat you whole, but this did nothing to stop you from visiting at least once a week.

But the book, it was different from any other you had found. It was completely handwritten, including amazingly done sketches in a deep unfading ink, and spoke of outlandish things.

Some were easily brushed off, like a murder that happened in the 50’s that was known to stay in the mouths of the older folks, both to them and the book it was widely believed to be the doing of some long tongued and wild eyed creature, until a local sweet old man admitted on his deathbed that it was instead his one crime of passion.

He had been a young soldier that snuck into his lover’s room one night, and upon learning that she was to marry a nice lawyer the day after he was meant to deploy, his mind went blank and his hands were carving out her heart. He luckily escaped any questioning after being shipped off, and once he returned home he captured the heart of a pretty young girl and lived out a long life sitting on top of a horrid truth.

So yeah, stories of those sorts, having been solved in your lifetime, meant very little to you, but the one you were going on about now, meant the world.

The writing looked like it had been put down by a panicked chicken rather than the woman who’s name was written neatly in the front. It lived in some of the pages towards the back of the small book and spoke of a dark club. Club X.

She went on and on about stumbling across the club purely by accident, and meeting another woman with glittering eyes. Graphic details of being taken in the middle of the dance floor with a million eyes looking but not fully seeing her as she fell apart against a dancing and eager tongue made your heart thump lodged in your throat. But the more and more she visited the club, the more incoherent her words became, but towards the end the writing had become stained and obscured by a deep brown stain, before it stopped altogether.

Thankfully, the details of where the building was was completely visible regardless of being the thoughts of a mad woman, and with a lot of thinking and staring at the town map, you’ve come to believe that you knew exactly where the mysterious club stood.

Only a street down from the restaurant you sit in now.

“Listen, I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is, but what’s the problem with just going to check right?” you scramble to pull the delicate book from the bag that sits in the stool beside you as your friend moves closer and closer to where you sit, laying it flat to show her the page you’ve had bookmarked since you read it, “and look at the name she puts, I think it’s the man who ran it and it’s a long shot, but maybe he’s still alive, or if not maybe some family is! Right here, Asm-“

“Don’t say it again,” she’s quick to interrupt, sliding her free hand to hover above the page you’ve glued your eyes to, “I don’t wanna hear any old man names, especially that one it gives me the ick.”

“It’s just a name,” murmur to yourself, but move to put the book away regardless, “but anyways, I have something that most people who were going to the club didn’t, knowledge of what exactly I’m walking into. I can just go and look around, worst things worst its still a freaky sex club and I just go home, but I’m willing to bet this lady was just off the shits and its just an empty building with some funky vintage beer bottles that you can add to your collection.”

You feel like you’ve won an award you weren’t even trying to compete for when she finally breaks out into a soft smile. The huff that leaves her chest is endeared, and you swear your heart began to vibrate when she reached to run a gentle thumb across the swell from your cheekbone.

“Fine, do what you want, but if the bottle isn’t completely intact when you find it I don’t want it.”

“So you’re not coming with me?” your head tilts to the side in confusion as with things of this nature in the past, she’s always followed along to ensure that you didn’t do anything to stupid. You never felt like the company was fully necessary, but it was appreciated regardless.

“Baby, as much as I’ve enjoyed your info dumping you’ve done tonight, the other person that was meant to clean with me had to leave early with a stomach bug so I’m busy pulling a clean up job that’s truly a job for about five people. But you seem to really believe in this little adventure of yours,” she leaves the rag in a damp mass next to the stack of dirty glasses beside you to take your hands in her’s, her slightly wrinkled fingers are still warm and the way they lace with yours makes you feel like nothing in the world could hurt you, “besides, you’re as smart as a whip and I know you have me on speed dial. I trust you.”

——

You no longer love the feeling of being trusted.

When your friend had given you the heartfelt speech only a little over half an hour ago, you felt like you had been put on a nice pedestal before she handed you a cookie with a pat on the head.

Now the “cookie” had turned to rot in your belly and you were faced with your own perfectly dreamed up reality.

It was already late by the time you had walked into the restaurant your friend works at, the sun already setting and the last few customers gathering their things and paying the bills, so once you got her stamp of approval and we’re heading out the door, the only light left was a bright and full moon, and flickering street lights.

You took your time walking in the direction that your book and personal sleuthing had pointed you in, the closer and closer you got to the one warehouse in town that seemed to never be bought back from the city, the knots in your belly pulled tighter and tighter.

But regardless of the almost painful twist in your gut, you surprisingly almost missed the building in its entirety.

It was as if your entire being blocked out the thumping bass that shook the sidewalk and the blinding red light that spilled from beneath the entrance and out the fractured windows. Your brain trying to force itself from entering the building you spent so many weeks trying to locate.

But the way your heart thuds in your chest when you stand in front of the entrance is something you couldn't even pretend you didn’t feel.

Your tongue digs into the side of your jaw, and you're confused at the feeling of warm tears burning at your waterlines. It’s exactly the way the owner of the journal described it in her manic writings, weirdly exact considering the other stories that surrounded it that dated it back far before you were even born.

You want to go in, the shaking steps your legs take is evident to that, but the tense muscles of your shoulders and stomach makes you hesitate and even grumble out into the air.

You almost jump out of your skin when you hear a shuffling to your side, your throat tensing when you look over, and are put slightly at ease when you see two men who you assume are acting as some type of security. You almost expect them to look up and ask you for some type of ID when you’re being very weird and blatant about your presence, but they seem too preoccupied with the dim screens of their phones and the way they lean forward at different times as if they’re waiting for someone.

Your hands are shaking slightly as they scramble down to grab for your bag, desperately looking for something to occupy you to walk by them without being even more weird, and when your fingers wrap around the flaking leather that binds the book, you grab it like a lifeline.

Your fingers flip through the pages with perfect muscle memory as you trip up the few steps that lead to the door, the tabs you carefully placed on the first page mentioning the club not even necessary with the way you could find the page even in your sleep.

You subconsciously hold your breath when you walk past the two men, almost as if the book is instead something wildly illegal and you're trying to sneak past your parents, and your washed with a temporary wave of relief when you pass through the doors without even a glance from the two.

Though the relief is stolen from your bones the second your feet touch the floor of the club.

It’s as if you’ve entered a place you’ve known your whole life, and from the amazing descriptions from the woman in the past, its not a completely surprising feeling.

But another part of you feels like this is the first time you’ve seen human beings in the flesh.

You can't help but to feel like you must look like an absolute nerd as you pull the book up to your face as you start to survey the club, but thankfully the book told at least one truth, and many of the club goers are too busy grouping and grinding against one another to even acknowledge your existence.

More truths come to light as you flick your eyes between the pages and the walls.

The bar is still tucked in the same far corner as she described, the flittering red and blue lights making it feel like a beacon of calm regardless of it being surrounded by drunken forms and its intimidatingly pretty bartender.

The dj is just a stoic and unimpressed looking as the one from so many years ago as he subconsciously bobs to the beat that he creates as he messes with the nobs and switches in front of him. He’s actually so similar, you wonder if you were right and the owner did have family floating around, and maybe the dj is one of them.

You stumble further into the room as you pick out small details she wrote about so lovingly. Your legs carry you to the back of the building as you smile at the sight of the wine stain the writer claimed to have created when her lover shocked her with a playful bite to the neck.

You almost feel like the universe is gifting you everything you could have possibly asked for when you see the loose board that she said a friend of hers would always trip over, and electricity zips up your spine in excitement when you spots the large painting that still hangs over the booth she claimed as her favorite, and she meticulously sketched out next to a paragraph about what she thought the artist was feeling.

All these things though, lead to the things that make your jaw hang slightly open.

The large balcony above you is larger than you ever imagined. The hundreds of bright red carnations she loved to sketch drip from the golden bars like water, and the black velvet curtains that hang over the room it leads to look heavy enough that they suffocate someone if they fell.

She seemed so intensely in love with the place you stand in, and the woman she met there, and those emotions were more than evident from the way the recreated the energy of the club with her words and art. Which only tips you towards the part that caught your attention perhaps the most.

It was exactly where it was meant to be. Just below the balcony that hangs high on the wall, gaping wide and dark like the mouth of a hungry monster coaxing you to enter its throat. The only issue that you can see being the hanging rope that blocks you from entering, but with only shining bright clasps holding it onto hooks on the walls, you don’t think you're above sneaking past it with little guilt.

The hall was the one thing that taunted you the most about the story the woman spun in the little worn book. The empty and dark vass space being something that coaxed her as well, but unfortunately for you, and maybe her as well, the parts of her journal that began the tale of her passing the temping rope, was the exact spot that was stained with bleeding ink and a suspicious brown color.

You survey the space around you, looking for anyone that could possibly be a worker or just a stickler for the rules, but seeing as everyone in your range of vision was attached by the mouth on someone’s neck or sloppy lips, you figured you were in the clear.

You drop the book gently back into your bag before you step slowly forward. Your heart feels like a wild animal trying to break out of the cavity of your chest, and it feels like your intestines have been successfully replaced with writhing worms that are desperately trying to reach your gut. You feel heat traveling up your chest and neck, and as you get within a few feet of what feels like the end of your life, your body begins to shake.

If you had the ability, you would have screamed, and if you had the strength, you would have fought back. But right when you're about to reach the threshold of the hall, and right when you feel like your legs are about to collapse from underneath you, strong fingers clasp over your trembling mouth, and an arm wraps tightly around your waist.

You’re turned faster than you can blink, the sudden motion making your brain swirl in your skull and making you go lightheaded and dizzy. And while keeping their hand clasped tightly over your mouth, the person that cages you in slams your back into the cold wall and knocks the air from your lungs.

The eyes that meet you are cat-like and dancing wildly, the grin the man you're faced with now smiles at you wickedly, and when your hands dart up until your nails dig harshly into the skin of his forearms, his smile only widens.

“Now,” he starts, the remains of a chuckle shaking his chest and his words slightly, “what exactly are you up to?”

You wait for a moment for him to release you from his hold, and when after a minute or so he still hasn’t budged, all you can offer in response is an annoyed arched brow.

“What?” he has the audacity to ask with taunting sincerity, “you thought you were smart enough to go wandering around, so you should be smart enough to figure out a way to talk around my hand right?”

It’s with immense irritation that you realize the two possibilities you’re faced with.

From the book you know about the weird concept of soul mates or whatever they were meant to be. The woman and the mysterious dancing girl she met so many years ago, and similar stories from the friends she met during her many visits to the club who had almost identical tales that she had to recount.

So with that information you know the possibility of this grinning man being your person is high, but your person or not, he was lighting a fire in your chest regardless.

You don’t think or even weigh the negatives before you send him a hard glare, and you show very little hesitation when you push forward to sink your teeth into the first finger you can catch.

His yelp is covered by the blaring music, but you hear it loud and clear before he reaches his free hand up to pinch at the bridge of your nose to pull you off like a rabid kitten.

“You know what I’m up to,” you huff petulantly as you lean back into the wall with your arms folding over your chest, “or at least I’d assume you’d be smart enough to use your context clues right?”

His lip curls when he glances back up to you as he pets at his now bruising finger, but even with the thin veil of irritation on his pretty features, you can tell he enjoys the sarcastic tone you’ve adopted.

“Yeah you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he bites back as he steps closer, crowding your personal space and pushing his chest tightly against yours, “you’re lucky I’m who caught you and not boss man.”

“Boss man?” you ask, trying not to show you excitement over him spilling the treasured information about the club that you want so desperately.

He doesn’t answer you verbally, and the sly wink he throws at you shocks you more than you would like to admit, but when he tilts his head back quickly you don’t hesitate to follow his line of sight to the edge of the balcony.

If it weren’t for the thin wires of light that create hatching over his eyes and mouth, you probably would have missed the masked figure that leers at you from over the railing. His hands and shoulders are covered by the masses of flowers, and the hollow black where he hides his eyes stares down at you two with a look that you assume is annoyance and possible curiosity.

The moment you two look up, the figure jerks back. Your eyes flick quickly between him and the man in front of you, and from the bratty grin he wears as he looks up, you feel as if the masked man didn’t have any intention at being caught.

You get lost slightly in staring at the man pressed against you, his teeth that look sharper in the red lighting and his eyes twinkle in mischief, and even with the obnoxious start to your interaction, you’d be lying to say you don’t find him beautiful.

It takes you a second to regain your senses, tearing your eyes away from the fascinating side profile of the man, but when you glance back up to the balcony, the mask man has retreated back.

“He doesn’t like much when we take people back there before they’re ready,” he attempts at an explanation as he turns back to you, and seems unfazed when he misses the mark and just confuses you further, “he let the two goons outside have a little exception, but that's because they don’t know how to go easy y‘know.”

“No,” you shake your head at him with a quiet scoff, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you know more than you think,” his voice drops as he speaks now, and as he speaks he reaches out his hand to hold himself propped against the wall next to your head while his other hand moves to run gently up the side of your neck, “I mean, you know who I am at least right?”

“I have an idea,” you admit with a huff, but you also admit to yourself that this probably means you won't be getting into the hall. You do mentally jot that down as a loss, but decide to take the man pressed against you as a win and you reach to grab at his shirt in retaliation, “but you could at least give me a name to work with.”

“Hm, I didn’t expect you to be one for such formalities,” his head tilts in amusement at his own words, and the action nudges the tip of his nose into yours and makes your heart flutter up into your throat, “but you might as well know the name of the man you’ll be destined to fall in love with.”

You roll your eyes hard enough for them to start to ache, and he quietly laughs and moves to press his nose into the soft flesh of your cheek as he feeds off your annoyance.

“Ten,” he answers quietly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he moves to whisper the syllable in your ear, and you never thought that with just one word he’d have a shiver rushing up your spine.

You respond quietly with your name, but the word comes out strained and rushed when he begins to nibble on the lobe of your ear and pushes his knee harshly between your thighs.

Both your hands now hold tightly onto the sides of his shirt, and when his lips move to trail against the side of your neck that isn't enveloped by his hand, you tug roughly at the fabric and your back arches slightly away from the wall.

His tongue is hot when he lays it flat on the center of your throat, and when he swipes it up until it flicks against the end of your chin, you can't help but cringe slightly at the feeling regardless of the way it makes heat pool in between your thighs.

The wicked grin on his face never falters, it only grows wider and more hungry when your eyes meet again, and with his staring so deep that you fear he may be collecting every ounce of your soul, you two have a silent agreement on the unnatural waves of electricity that connect you.

When his lips finally land on yours, it's the roughest and clumsiest kiss you’ve experienced. Both of you fight each other with hungry and eager tongues and the way your teeth gently knock together has your skull rattling in a way that, if you weren’t so hell bent of devouring each other whole, you’d probably have to take a breather.

Your hands reluctantly release the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, and in a desperate attempt to stay occupied, they shoot up the tangle tightly into his hair. You admit, you probably tug harsher on the strands than you probably should, but the groans he pours into your mouth, and the way his hips rock roughly into yours, has you tugging again and again.

He presses you further and further into the wall, and without thinking your hips begin to kick and tilt down until you're grinding harshly and sloppily against his tense thigh.

You let out a quiet whine that's muffled and garbled by his moving at the feeling of him pressing his thumb gently into the dip beneath your jaw, and pressing into your jugular. The sound is followed almost immediately by a small yelp when he latches his teeth to your bottom lip and gives you a stinging bite.

You’re frustrated almost immediately with the lack of friction you can feel from the layers of clothing between you, and now the slight shooting pain from the tensing skin between his teeth, you can feel the impatience in your belly crawling up and invading your chest and throat.

He’s quick to pull away when you retaliate with your own nipping bite to his top lip, your teeth still sinking down when he does and making his sting probably just as much as yours. And when he eyes you as his eyelids droop down into an accusatory squint, you assume he’s not used to getting a taste of his own medicine.

He mutters something to himself about your feistiness, and a sly comment about how he shouldn’t be surprised as he was expecting to get a handful, but he gives you no time to make a snide comment or even question about any of the words, before his fingers are closing firmly but loosely around your neck.

He keeps you rooted in the spot that you stand, the only change in your posture he allows is pulling you slightly away from the wall, just wide enough for him to slink behind you and tug you roughly back into his chest.

“You like poking around into business that isn’t yours?” he asks rhetorically as his free hand reaches around your shoulder to push past the neckline of your shirt, and right as he pressed down the center of your chest and his fingers brush the bottom of your rib cage, his fingers curl and he starts to drag his blunt nails up your sternum as he continues, “need to know and see every single little thing right? So… what’s the harm of being on the other side of it for once?”

“What are you on about?” you as sharply as you try to turn your face towards him the best you can, but his hand tilts under the bottom of your chin until your head is forced to lean on his shoulder and he’s nothing but thrilled at the way it makes you struggle.

“To be seen, or not?” he presses his lips back against the shell of your ear, and the way he whispers roughly makes you shiver again as your thighs press tightly together, “you know what I mean, and you know the answer I want, but its all up to you in the end.”

The electric and slightly humiliating buzz of being seen in a mass of bodies committing the same sins as you was something the woman in the book went on about frequently. She mentioned that there were a few times where she and her lover snuck off to get alone time of course, but the almost blinding pleasure that came from being worshiped by not only one person, but the eyes of an entire room, was addictive. And you wanted just a taste.

You grumble in response, the idea of admitting to the already confident man that you did indeed wanted the same amount of attention as he did made your chest burn even more than it already was, and you’d rather take your chance with his terrifying looking boss than to give him the satisfaction of your verbal confession.

He seems unaffected by your nonverbal confirmation, the way you press into him as his hand wraps around your waist again and creeps down to the button of your shorts, and your own hand grabbing onto the sleeve of his rolled up long sleeve shirt to guide him to undo the clasp or just dip below the waistband, is enough of an answer for him to know.

He chooses to pop the button, and once he has the zipper pulled down enough that he can work with, he begins to shove the worn denim down your hips along with your underwear until they are wrapped around your knees and he can push his fingers roughly between your thighs.

You try to clear the fog that he creates in your mind from his teasing fingers long enough to reach your free hand back to give the same treatment to the dark jeans that wrap tightly around his hips and thighs in a way that had you mentally drooling from the moment you got to get a full look at him, after he ambushed you of course.

You’re not sure how he undid your shorts so quickly without being able to see, but as you fumble and scratch your nails against the sensitive skin of his hip, you give yourself the benefit of the doubt seeing as your trying to work while his middle and ring fingers tease over your entrance and the heel of his hand presses clumsily into your neglected clit.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t give you any benefit of the doubt. He at least has the decency to press his lips across your cheekbone and temple to muffle his quiet laughs, but to make your task even more difficult, his fingers shallowly curl up into you just enough to make you twist and curl.

Once the button of his jeans finally releases, you instinctively let out a huff and sink your shoulders back into his chest as you reach past the fabric to wrap your hand around his stiff length and pull it from the confines until you can press it against his lower belly. And you get just one tally on your side of the boards you’ve created in your mind when his amused laughs devolves into pleased grunts and tilting hips.

“Please,” you start quietly, trying to rock more against the parts of his hand that press against you while running your palm up and down the length of him and smearing him with his own pre come, “I can tell you’re just as impatient as me.”

He swears in your ear, using his hold on you with both hands to shift your hips up and pull you closer before he clears his throat to speak, “well could you imagine, looks like we are a match made in heaven.”

“More like hell,” you retaliate, digging the heel of your own palm into the skin just below the tip of him to egg him on even further, “but either way, that's the point isn't it?”

“I should have expected you to be just a little bit of a smart ass,” he mutters a half hearted complaint, but he only contradicts his own words when he pushes your hips away enough for you to guide him between your thighs and to glide against the arousal that spilled from your body and his hands spread messy along any available inch of skin.

He thrusts smoothly against your back a few times, bringing his arm down to guide him towards your entrance painfully slow, but when you let out a gravely moan of his name, he cant deny himself for any longer, and he’s sinking into you until your eyes start to gently flutter.

Once he’s seated inside you, his hand tenses slightly tighter around your neck, and when you both start pushing towards each other to meet in the middle of your thrusts, his other hand takes the opportunity to map any inch of you he can reach.

He gropes almost painfully at your chest, traveling over your stomach and up your shirt to dig his fingers into your skin until you swear he’s tattooed his finger prints onto you, all while nipping and lapping at the skin of your jaw and neck.

No one immediately in front of you is watching, they’re all in their own worlds of flesh and saliva, but you can still feel eyes of someone on you. His first and foremost as they burn holes into the side of your skull and glance to watch where you push back against him desperately, but there’s another feeling you get of being seen and studied thats so intense that you’re a little shocked when you chance a glance up and see that whoever the masked person was from earlier wasn’t there at all.

So no, you have no idea who, or what is watching you right now, but you can feel the unusual heat it stirs in you as your body flutters around him as he fucks you sloppily. You feel a deeper relation to the woman that owned the book that still rests in the bag that feel unceremoniously from your shoulder when he first put his hands on you, and you hope that maybe you’ll eventually slip into the life of bliss that she meticulously wrote about and possibly learn what happened that demolished the stories that lived in the back of the journal.

You could feel the pleasure crawling up your spine like a monster out creature, your panting breaths tipping the man that works you over off to this even though you’re sure he was already aware before you were, and you think your legs are back to the edge of collapsing when his creeping fingers dance along the expanse of your stomach to find their place back between your thighs.

Your back stiffens at the first touch of his rolling finger on your clit, and your head tilts even farther back onto his shoulder than he already had it. He doesn’t seem interested in coaxing you to your finish slowly, at a pace that would have mercy on your melting mind and shaking form, but he instead abuses your clit until your whimpering out and stumbling and stepping slightly on his toes.

You feel like you’re waiting out the suspense of a horror film that’s score is too obvious to the incoming jump scare. You tilt your neck in a way that seems normal to him, but in reality your trying to feel the many rings that decorate his fingers with the delicate skin of your throat to test if any of them could possibly be sharp enough to cut you and draw blood. You know what blood means to him, and you know it's something he’ll have to do soon if he truly can feel how close you are to the edge.

You feel like you’re floundering a bit, confused from the possible deviation from the story you’ve committed to memory. Was there any chance in this world that this wasn’t your person?

You push this thought away as soon as your panicked mind can construct it though, because there’s no way the spell that it feels has been placed on you would be there if that was the truth, and your body is heated almost like a furnace, but you suddenly love the idea of being burned by him.

You pull in a gasping breath of air that pierces through the music and grunting that rattles in your ears, the taste of your orgasms dancing on the back of your tongue and your back arching so harshly you fear that one of your muscles might seize up and cramp. And right when you feel his hips start to stutter in tandem with yours, and when you’re only seconds from blabbering out mixed syllables that you could only hope would come out as a coherent question, you feel it.

His teeth latch onto you again, his canines not sharp enough to make a clean cut as they dig into the muscle of your shoulder, but his determination is strong enough.

It burns painfully, and makes hot tears well up in your eyes, but almost embarrassingly, is the exact thing that pushes you scrambling over the edge.

You feel like it hurts to breathe, your lungs so focused on letting out puffs of air and broken moans that they can't seem to remember how to bring oxygen in, and your eyes roll for a completely new reason for the man and much more painfully.

It’s when you feel him start to suck the rushing blood from your newly christened wound that you also feel the rumble of his groans against your skin and feel him start to come inside of you. His fist tightens again around your neck as he pushes aftershocks through your nerves with his own orgasm, and with flying hands you grab at both of his wrists, not to ask in any way for him to ease up, but from a sudden wash and need to hold onto him possibly until you die.

He lets you collapse to the floor once he pulls out, but he follows your sinking form and sits alongside you and partially underneath you as you both try to catch your breath.

The club scene in front of you is now blurs of flashing lights and abstract writhing forms, and if it wasn’t for the zaps of energy you feel from every brush of his finger tips, your brain would probably be too muddled to register him fixing both your clothes and his.

You become just slightly more aware when he shifts your body against him enough to grab at the strap of your bag with the heel of his shoe, and you try to sit up faster than necessary and give yourself a small head rush when he pulls it to himself and flips it open.

“You seemed a little weirdly unaffected by the whole,” he flails his hands in front of you for a second as he speaks, and your lagging mind takes a second to catch up with his attempts at implication, “not the fucking part clearly,” he teases, “but the leading up to it. The meeting part and all.”

“I know what this place is,” you admit, and if your legs had gained just a bit more strength you probably would have stood and requested a glass of water just from how gravely your voice had become, “I knew I was probably going to run into you.”

“But you weren’t looking for me,” he tries, and fails, at hiding the slight edge of offense his voice shows, “if you knew I was here why didn’t you look for me?”

“I didn’t worry about it,” you say, warming up a bit again in the fear that it may have come off slightly rude, “or, like, I mean I knew you’d be able to find me easier than I could find you. I was more interested in finding answers.”

“Answers to what? You said you knew this place, or at least what it is?”

“Well I only know the basics,” you shift in his hold, knocking his hands away as they sift through your bag, and grabbing blindly until you can pull out the book, “I found this journal and it-“

“A journal?” he asks in a volume that could have been obnoxiously loud if it weren’t for the thumping bass that shook the floor beneath you, and pulls the small book from your hands.

“It was written by a woman who came here a long time ago,” you explain, deciding to not take offense to his rough and grabbing hands, “I found it and tracked the club down, I needed to see if it was real.”

“Oh it's real alright,” he laughs as he starts to flip through the pages, stopping for a moment to smile at a simple sketch she had done of a cat that she said lived in the back alley, “hey wait I think I know this name, and these people.”

“What are you on about?” you ask with a scoff as you tug the book from his grubby fingers, “you can’t possibly know these people, this was written in like the fifties. Stop pulling my leg.”

“Oh I see,” he smacks your thigh playfully as he leans over your shoulder to glance at the first page that mentioned anything about the date, the ink clear enough to read 1953 in the swirling handwriting, “you think you know everything.”

“I do know everything, fuck you,” you glare playfully at him over your shoulder, “or I would know, if you’d let me go into that weirdo hall.”

“No hall, for now at least,” he sighs, the gears in his head turning as he thinks of the next thing to say, “but you know, time doesn’t exist the same way here, the woman who wrote this probably didn’t know that at the time, so I’m not surprised you don’t either.”

“What do you mean time doesn’t exist?” you look at him as if he’s grown a second head, but do you really have the nerve to question him like that? Considering that entire concept of the club you are very aware of its existence now, a time situation shouldn’t be the most shocking should it?

“Well, it's hard to explai-“

“Then don’t explain it,” you almost jump fully out of his lap at the deep voice that rattles above you, and both him and you look up at the figure that looms over you now.

The man is tall, his black hoodie looking weird in contrast to the clothes of the other club goers, and with a squinting observation and a familiar and annoyed sigh from the man seated behind you, you realize you’re being stared down by the mysterious entity that is the DJ, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket in annoyance.

“Huh?” Ten lets out more in the form of a noise than a word, as his arms wind tightly around your form.

“I said don’t explain shit,” the man begins to tap his foot in irritation as he speaks, and you wonder if he’s aware that he’s in rhythm with the song that surrounds you, “you need to chill out with the loose tongue, its bad enough we have the big mouths outside.”

“I wasn’t gonna go that far,” Ten sounds reminiscent of a scolded toddler, and considering the man is hindering you from getting information that you wanted so badly, you can feel yourself mirroring the pout he wears, “I know what I’m doing alright man? Why are you over here anyways, shouldn’t you be at your little booth minding your business.”

“No one minds their business over at that booth, and you should know that better than anyone pervert,” the words are sharp, but the curl to his lips and the underlying playfulness to his tone tells you the likeliness of them being friends is high, “anyways, I know we don’t follow any regulations or anything here, but I’m still gonna take a fuckin’ break or two.”

“Well breaks over,” Ten reaches out a hand to playfully swat the man away, “I didn’t wait this long for you to just interrupt my bonding time with my person alright?”

“Alright, alright,” he finally starts to shuffle away, throwing one last comment about Ten being bitter his person showed up first over his shoulder with a grin.

“What a loser,” Ten starts, looking at you playfully and rolling his eyes, “too bad he’s like my best friend or whatever.”

“You seem to have a lot of fun around here don’t you?” you take a shot at voicing your observations, your heart fluttering in a completely new way at the warm smile he shoots you.

“Just wait a see, my love. Just wait and see.”

#nct smut #ten smut #chittaphon smut #nct imagine #nct series #nct fic #ten imagines #ten oneshot #nct oneshot #kpop smut #wayv smut #wayv imagine #wayv oneshot

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

Text

wonderland, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: The curious thing about adventure is that you never know when it starts. For Jeon Jungkook, it starts on a train, staring at a woman with exposed shoulders, eventually leading to his lips on her wrists, his tongue dancing over the words, eat me, drink me.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; graphic descriptions of fantasized sexual acts (fem reader, slight ink kink, biting / marking, dry humping, m and f-receiving oral, cowgirl, a ridiculous amount of sexual tension); non-idol!BTS; Alice Adventures in Wonderland themed; strangers-to-lovers; (purple-haired) Jungkook's POV; based on this

"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.”

excerpt from alice's adventures in wonderland by lewis carroll

He swallowed hard.

He shouldn’t be staring.

But he was.

She turned her head and looked right at him.

He quickly jerked his eyes away, zoning in on a screw bolted to the floor as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He should not be gawking at some random woman on the train. That was creepy, no matter how attractive she was. Her outfit was eye-catching, that was all. He had noticed her because of the off-the-shoulder, v-neckline of her black-and-white tartan top that exposed her shapely collarbones and shoulders. The floaty bishop sleeves ended with delicate hands that were elegantly poised on her bare knees, complete with a flared black skirt that revealed most of her juicy thighs because of her crossed legs. And those calves. Fuck. All that and it unexpectedly ended with chunky, ribbon-laced black boots.

Beside her was a black leather purse that was shaped like a coffin.

It rested against her hip.

The train screeched to a stop and people began to move, shoes appearing in his line of vision. She didn’t notice, right? No. Of course not. He just… zoned out. He wasn’t staring at her collarbones and shoulders, imagining planting kisses over that skin, running his teeth over them and leaving bright red marks.

Shit, what the hell was wrong with him?

Someone sat down on the seat next to him. He scooted closer to the window, away from whoever it was. There were plenty of seats on the train. Something hit the outside of his thigh, flat and oddly-shaped.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the coffin purse against his black jeans.

He jumped, snapping his head up.

“Sorry about that.”

His eyes shifted and she was looking right at him.

Expression unreadable.

His heart exploded, frightfully fluttering like a trapped bird in his ribcage.

“I-It’s okay.”

She lifted the purse and placed it in her lap. Then she tapped her right ear.

“It’s the earring, isn’t it? You’re curious what it says.”

His eyes darted to the earrings gleaming on said ear. She had three piercings, all silver, two on the lobe and one on the cartilage. The cartilage was a ram skull whose horns curved around the outside of the ear. The two lobe piercings were a hoop with an embedded black stone and a large script earring that dangled down, swinging every time she moved her head.

It read, eat me, drink me.

“It matches these.”

She lifted her hands and turned them around, pulling down the bishop sleeves and exposing her wrists to him. One had a tattoo of a small, square-shaped cake with text printed in the center – eat me. The other was a bulbous, potion-shaped bottle with a vintage-looking tag on it in the same font – drink me.

“Alice in Wonderland,” he breathed.

She smiled at him and he swore his heartbeat multiplied into seven birds feverishly flapping in his ribcage.

She turned her wrists inward, resting them on her purse. “I don’t see many people with exposed tattoos,” she commented, ticking her head to his right hand.

“A-ah… yeah,” he stuttered, covering the back of his hand with his left, leaving only the sheepish emoji tattoo on his upper middle knuckle exposed. “My mom hates them. Well, not hate, but she doesn’t like that I got so many at once.”

“Your mom ever told you that staring is impolite?”

His cheeks burned hot. “S-Sorry!” He bowed his head downward in guilt, gulping nervously. From this position, he could see her hands.

The left was tipped up, exposing the eat me tattoo on her inner wrist.

“Whoa, no need to apologize like that. I was only teasing you.”

He lifted his head slowly and her wrist turned back inward, now simply the back of her hand. His eyes flickered up and she was looking right at him. He almost jerked his head away in embarrassment, but tried to maintain eye contact.

Don’t be a creep.

Her gaze was unwavering, unreadable.

“You think I’m weird, huh?” she said with an amused smile.

He blinked rapidly. “No. No, I don’t. I thought… your purse was pretty unique,” he offered, pointing to it. It made him look down to make sure he was pointing at the right thing.

Her right wrist was exposed to him, the drink me tattoo stark and enticing.

He had a brief, obscene image of his lips attached to it, running his tongue up and down the inked skin, catching a bit of it in between his teeth and releasing it, moan on the tip of his tongue.

He yanked himself out of the moment of jamais vu, quickly switching to her face, his peripheral vision noticing her wrist turned back inward, pressing against the leather. Her lips curved into a coy smirk.

“I get questions about that too, on the regular. I saw it in a shop and liked it, so I purchased it.”

A lock of purple hair fell into his vision, somehow dislodged from his ear, but he couldn’t look away. Something about her tone made it seem like she was going to say more, so he sat there, frozen, captured by those alluring eyes that called to him.

“That and if I’m single or not.”

He felt his eyes widen a little, breath catching in his throat, the birds in his ribcage smashing against their confines, anxiety and anticipation roused from deep within him. Fear wasn’t the right word. It was more like seeing something from the corner of your eye that makes you do a double take, a mix of curiosity and interest, invested in what you might see.

“I am, if you’re curious.”

“O-oh. I… see…”

Her smirk grew into sly delight. She lifted her right hand and placed her palm on her chin, lips against her closed fingers, elbow resting on the coffin purse. Movement slow, deliberate. His lips parted, more violet hair falling around his face. His normal nervousness would have him looking away and pushing it back, but he somehow couldn’t. At least there was safety in this veiled curtain of purple surrounding the edges of his vision. Her hand turned, fingers cupping the left side of her face. Lips sliding down, emphasizing the plushness of them, and he could almost feel the warm inhale on his skin, but there was no way he could – he wasn’t that close and she wasn’t breathing that hard, but that was the feeling he got. Goosebumps prickled on the back of his neck.

He held his breath.

Her lips pressed to her tattoo, the faintest flicker of tongue against the ink.

There was no way anyone would notice unless they were looking very closely to her mouth.

His lower lip trembled, shudder shaking his shoulders.

The train screeched to a stop and the intercom called nonsensically, mumbles as stamping feet rushed out. No one seemed to notice the impossible electricity of this moment, shrinking it to just him, those lips, and that tattoo, the drink me text right there between her lips, an image that he had already seen, except it was his lips on that skin, and that image was imaginary because it only existed in his head.

She pulled her lips away and looked out the window, past him.

“I have to get off at the next stop.”

He was the stop after the next.

“May I…?”

Her eyes drifted back to him. “Hm?”

His eyes flickered down to her right hand, her inner wrist resting on black leather.

“Have a closer look at your tattoo?”

He wasn’t looking at her face. He was staring at the back of her unmoving hand.

“I mean, if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable–”

But before he could finish his sentence, the wrist was turning, lifting, placed right in front of his hungry eyes. Her forearm slid down the leather, grazing her skirt, suspended in the air for the briefest of moments, and then it brushed against his thigh, his left hand turning, and her graceful wrist rested on the pad of his palm, black ink standing out against that skin.

He was touching it.

Holding it.

Her presence neared. His eyes widened.

Goosebumps prickling, her warm inhale feathering right on his curve of neck to shoulder. His white sweatshirt was several sizes too big so the neckline was also oversized, revealing the tops of his own collarbones.

“It doesn’t bother me. Take a look.”

The train rushed into a tunnel, deafening all sound, and then it was only her voice and his gaze on that potion bottle, mesmerized. His hand rose, lifting her arm close to his face, his breathing shallowing. What was he doing? This was crazy. Absolutely crazy.

“If you want, you can bring it even closer. It's quite detailed.”

Insane.

He was lifting her hand, curiouser and curiouser, closer and closer, the script getting bigger and bigger, expanding, taking over his vision. His eyes following the elegant and prominent outline, drink me, the slightly dashed lines that emphasized the roundness of the bottle, the added etched fraying of the edges of the tag, drink me, the way the liquid was drawn to look like it was sloshing a little, as if it was really moving, drink me. He thought it was all in his head.

Her whisper, like sultry smoke, swaying the dangling earrings on his left ear.

“Drink me.”

He pressed his lips to the drink me script and moaned, so soft that she probably couldn’t hear it, but she could feel it on her wrist, vibrating her skin and his tongue tracing the lines, kissing softly, the taste somehow sweet, or was it just his imagination? Was it just a dream or was her body really a wonderland?

The edge of desire, on the cusp of something unknown.

He hadn’t even realized his eyes had closed and he opened them, seeing her looking directly at him, amusement sparkling in those mysterious orbs. He whimpered quietly, realizing how strange this was, how unbelievably weird, and this wasn’t him, this wasn’t something he ever thought he would do, or even something he ever imagined he would ever be in the position to do, kissing the wrist of a stranger on the train, but she pressed her wrist to his lips, her own parting in a faint Cheshire Cat smile.

“Don’t be afraid. I like it.”

He should let go and apologize for his odd behavior. His lips moved on her skin and there was nothing but her taste lingering on his lips, lost in images his head had conjured, tumbling, tumbling.

"Me too," he whispered, looking up into her eyes, silently saying, I don't know why.

Her smile was all he could see.

"You're very handsome...?" She tilted her head, inquiring.

The subway tunnel made the train roar around them.

"Jeon Jungkook."

The smile widened. She lifted her left wrist.

"Would you like to, Jungkook?"

His eyes flickered to it. The little square-shaped cake, eat me. Then back to her, heart racing, lowering her right and her left neared, his fingers slowly encircling her wrist, his eyes following the detail of the small crumbles, eat me, the added line shading to make the cake seem fluffed and appetizing, despite having no frosting or other decorations, eat me, the letters that looked almost stamped on her skin, eat me, and then he attached his lips to it, lightly nicking with his teeth, a nibble that flooded his senses with rushing pleasure.

He looked at her through his lashes, licking at her wrist, and she breathed out, unmistakable desire, her fingertips ghosting his cheek.

There was a sudden bloom of light as the train exited the tunnel, rays of overhead lights expanding through the windows, and he pulled back, gasping, holding her hand tightly, suddenly aware of the world around him, people getting up, sound crackling through the intercom, her hand in his and his thigh pressed against hers, the corner of her coffin bag digging into him because he was so close, so close to this stranger with beautiful tattoos and sweet-tasting skin.

The doors opened.

His eyes darted from her to their joined hands, then back to that faint grin playing on her lips, somehow the only thing he seemed to see.

"Coming?"

His other hand closed around his backpack.

They walked out together, hand in hand.

No one paid any attention to them.

Why would they? They had their own lives, hurrying home, pushing past each other, late for something, early for others. Time tick, tick, ticking, frowning at their wristwatches and wondering where the time had gone, an absurd thought, because time was made to provide linear reason to a nonexistent plane that flowed in every direction and preceded all other things, and so you were always late.

Always.

Jungkook stared at the back of her exposed shoulders, her hair pushed to the left, script earring dangling of her right ear, following on her light steps, all while holding her left hand and watching those muscles flex and relax, spellbound by the movement. She weaved through the crowd, slinking in spaces where he didn't think there was space, stopping for a moment to let someone pass, and Jungkook bumped into her back, his body flush to hers. Because of her tall shoes, the height difference was lessened and those long legs meant her ass and his crotch matched up is perfectly when otherwise they wouldn't.

His breath caught in his throat at the contact of softness to his hardness.

"Thank you for waiting."

The old woman smiled gratefully and the younger bowed her head, letting the elder take careful strides to the escalators.

She rolled her hips into Jungkook's jeans and his unbearable, stiff erection slid down his right pant leg, trapped against his inner thigh and layers of fabric, hot and pulsing.

He swallowed hard, releasing his backpack to grip her shoulder, turning his head so his long purple hair shadowed his eyes and cheek, smelling the tea-like scent of her hair. His inked hand stood out against the nakedness of her shoulder. She turned her head and the long earring bumped against his cheek, icy cold to flushed skin.

The images crept into his mind, them sitting on the train and her in his lap, his left hand pressing her head forward, her hair spilling down, neck and shoulders exposed to his waiting mouth, lips to delectable skin, kissing, sucking, biting, his hands sliding down the curves, pushing her legs apart, spreading them wide, his nails sinking into her inner thighs, her ass on his crotch, grinding down. Marks on those shoulders and neck, her mouth open and soft cries tickling his ears, her hands finding his, eat me on top of his left wrist, drink me above his right wrist, his hands sliding down to wet heat, fingertips pressing into drenched, slick fabric.

What was wrong with him?

"Let's walk a little, hm?"

Jungkook had been holding her left with his left. He let go of her shoulder and readjusted his backpack on his, standing behind her, not quite shy, but still shadowing the path she laid for him, his steps in her steps, his breath on her neck as he spoke in this moment.

"I'm not like this, normally."

He wasn't like this, ever.

"Isn't it alright to fall into abnormality to discover what is wild and new?"

His lips brushed the ram earring on her cartilage, gasping lightly as her hips swayed against the front of his pants, instant, hot, radiating friction.

Her fingers that were laced with his stroked the back of his hand.

This train stop connected to an underground mall, still alive with people and open shops. The scent of restaurants cooking away at this busy time made the air heavy and thick, wafting around the crowd, inciting customers to fill their bellies.

"Does it bother you?" she asked, walking through the crowd with feline grace, but there was a playfulness to her movement. She turned back to look at him, smile dancing on her lips.

"Uh... I... I don't know," he admitted truthfully, staring at those lips, feeling them ghosting his inner thigh, long tongue extending and licking his hard, throbbing length from tip to base before pushing it up, making him gasp, tongue swirling around the bottom, wrapping around his balls, soaking them with saliva, her eyes on him, watching, her wrist pressed to the red, aching, leaking head of his cock, pre-cum smearing all over the words, drink me.

"That's odd, Jungkook. Usually people know if they're bothered by something."

His eyes drifted up from her lips to her eyes, little lights that glimmered or maybe it was simply the sparkly lighting of the whimsical shops around them, crammed full of knickknacks and cute things. Something caught his eye in one of the windows – a writing desk, covered in pastel stationery, set up with pens and half-written notes, as if the busy student had just left the desk.

An obsidian raven plush was perched at the corner of the desk, looking down at the mess left behind by an imaginary child dreamt up by sales associates.

He looked back to her right in front of him. Her head was tilted, her body twisted because he was still holding her left hand. In her right, she held her coffin purse.

"It's not you I'm bothered by," he said slowly, realizing that it was the truth as he said it. Despite this woman being completely unfamiliar to him, a riddling enigma, she had done nothing but present him with things to consider.

"I don't understand what's going on in my head."

He let go of her hand.

Underneath these lights and surrounded by passerby that walked around them without a second thought, Jungkook stared into the eyes of the stranger of his memory.

His hand tentatively touched her waist, waiting for her to step back. She stepped forward, into his warmth. His fingers closed, resting snugly on tartan fabric and the waistband of her skirt, the slimmest sliver of skin in between the two articles of clothing.

She smiled.

"You're a little curious, aren't you?"

His middle finger pushed the hem upward, the pad of his finger directly on her skin.

Her lips parted.

Her left hand raised, touching his chest lightly, elegant fingers barely on the fabric, but he felt more, felt those fingers dig into his sweatshirt and clutch it tightly, pulling it up and over his head, his own left hand pressing her chest down, grabbing the bottom of that off-the-shoulder tartan top, his lips on her stomach, hungry kisses, his hands on her skirt, forcing her to hold it up, dragging her panties down as he looked up at her on his knees before leaning to hot, wet nectar, letting it fill his tongue and mouth, the viscous juices sticking to his lips, his cheeks, sweet and tart, so delicious, and he wanted it all, his hands gripping her ass, fingers of her left hand tangling in his hair, pushing him closer, not letting him go until she was satisfied, her wrist surrounded by dark purple stands curling around the words, eat me.

"You have beautiful eyes, Jungkook."

He blinked, the image gone, feeling his neck heat. "R-Really?"

Her hand lifted off his chest and reached up, nearing his face. Her fingers traced the air, hovering.

"The shape. The way it raises in the center and curves down like this," she whispered to his chin, sounding awed. "The inner corner, so sharp and defined. And the color, like freshly brewed black tea cradled in a delicate teacup."

It was the most bizarre love letter to his eyes that he had ever received and, yet, it suited her and tore his heart asunder, beating wildly in his chest, the anxious birds trapped in his ribcage suddenly released, the stinging air of his rushed exhale making him feel strangely detached, as if his head was no longer part of his body.

"Touch me," Jungkook whispered.

Her fingers millimeters from his face, the eat me cake tattoo and his own purple hair shrouding his peripheral vision.

Fingertips pressed to his right cheekbone, caressing it gently.

He started at her lips and he could feel it, her hand encircling his head, lips to lips, heated, all-encompassing kisses that consumed him, his hands on her waist, pulling her on top of him, his hardness pressed to her softness, sliding in between soaked folds, her gasp on his tongue, gripped by her tight walls wrapped around his stiff length as he pushed deeper, his eyes rolling back as he bottomed out, her tongue tracing his open mouth, her teeth nipping on his lower lip, whispering his name in burning ecstasy, rocking her hips to his, surreal pleasure enveloping him, her hands in his hair, moaning onto his chin as she held onto him, his hands clutching her hips, lost in the heat, the softness, the tightness, the sweetness, thrusting up into her pussy, his cock drenched with her, their dragged-out pants echoing as he took her wrists, one by one, pressing eat me, drink me to his lips, his tongue tracing a circle around the words, staring into her eyes, a wonderland he had yet to discover, all in a golden afternoon.

"Jungkook, may I kiss you?"

He blinked, realizing his gaze had landed on her collarbones and shoulders. He raised his head, a smile forming in his lips.

"Please."

She leaned in and he met her halfway, lips to lips, her wispy, contented sigh as they connected, warm and inviting. His hands around her waist, holding her to him, and her hand cupped his jaw, fingers sliding back to tangle in his purple hair, pressing her chest and thighs to his body, tongue flitting against tongue, teasing, and he wasn't like this normally, truly, all of this was absurd on many levels, but the kiss was like being shaken awake, comforting him from head to toe, the sounds of people swirling around them. Laughter, conversation, footsteps going forward.

The kiss broke. She pulled away with a smile, her lips flushed from the contact.

"What's your name?" he asked breathlessly.

She laughed, leaning against him, her fingers playing with his long violet hair.

Her name, formed by her lips and then by his, the beginning of an adventure.

What a curious, curious happening for Jeon Jungkook.

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

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isolemnlyswear · 3 years

Note

can i request sirius x readers where they fight? something like “youre just obsessed to fix me” but with a fluff ending? thank you so much, have a great day❤️

fix me

young!sirius x fem!reader

a/n : thank you for the request my love!! i hate angst but this turned out okay ! if ur reading this please follow me on @mullthingsoverinthehotwater i’m one away from 500 :P

warnings : smoking, swearing, angst, fluff!!

taglist : @oldschoolkiddo @amourtentiaa @anchoeritic @faeinorbit @tomriddleswifey @inks-and-jinx @jxsperhxle @punkrific @the-gazette-of-tea @krasivayadarling @orifortheweeknd @fallin-4-ya @incxndio @daisyyy2516 @hoe4cedricdiggory (dm or send me an ask to be added or removed!

---

“Sirius, you have to stop doing that, my love.” You sigh, not looking up from your book.

He scoffs, exhaling so that a thin ring of smoke leaves his mouth, hovering in front of him for but a moment until it wisps away into the evening air of the black lake.

“No.” He takes another whiff of his cigarette - from where he procured, you're unsure - and looks at you in defiance.

At that, you look up from your book, shutting it and turning to the boy.

“I'm only trying to help you, Sirius, they're really-”

“What, they're really bad for me? As if I haven't been told that before.” He runs his left hand through his raven hair, rolling his eyes just barely.

“Well, they are-” you begin, but he scoffs again, cutting you off.

“I'm aware, Y/N.” His use of your full name, rather than a nickname or a pet name, alarms you, and you furrow your brows.

“What is going on, Sirius, why are you being such a-”

“A git?” he interrupts you again, cocking his head as if in petty amusement, and you take in an irritated breath.

“Why do you keep interrupting me?” you ask calmly, desperate not to lose your temper on the boy you love.

“Why do you keep trying to fucking fix me? It's like your obsession, like you can't refrain from trying to ‘help me.’” His voice is raised now, and he's glaring at you angrily. Your voice constricts in your throat, words of retaliation dying on your tongue.

Tears are welling in your eyes, and he looks perfectly composed except for the anger that boils behind his silver irises.

“Spoiler alert, you wannabe martyr, I don't need to be fixed. Nor do I fucking want to be,” he practically spits, and you blink to try to hold back the tears pooling at your waterline.

“I'm fucking sorry that I want the man I love to be the best he can be, alright? I don't know what the fuck you even want from me, Sirius Black.” You get up from where you're sitting, leaving the clearing just as tears start to fall uncontrollably down your face.

You run as fast as you can, attempting to wipe the tears from your eyes as you go the only place you can think to - the common room.

You stumble through the porthole after sobbing out the password, receiving a judgemental look from the painting. As usual, Remus and James are lounged across the red velvet couch, discussing Merlin knows what, when they see you walk in.

Remus rushes to your side, leading you with a hand placed tentatively on your elbow so that you can sit down.

“What happened?” James asks apprehensively, and you attempt to steady your breath, rather unsuccessfully, in order to speak.

“S-Sirius-” is all you can choke out, and Remus’s face hardens as he makes the connection.

“What did he say, Y/N?” the lycanthrope asks, teeth clenched. He loves his best friend dearly, but man, can he be a royal asshole.

“He s-said that I w-was a wanna-wannabe m-martyr, ob-obsessed with fixing h-him.” You're fully sobbing now, unable to restrain the cries that choke between your words.

“That fucker,” James curses under his breath, rubbing your back soothingly.

“‘M j-just trying to help him, h-he said he didn't want t’be fixed,” you wail, and Remus shushes you comfortingly.

“S’okay, s’okay, he's just being an arse, alright? He isn't used to letting people in, he's scared, Y/N. It's not your fault, okay?” Remus says softly, and you nod, tears falling into your lap.

James ushers you upstairs to take a shower, and Remus, meanwhile, sets out to find Sirius.

Sirius is still sitting by the black lake, gazing off into the distance, still smoking his cigarette.

“Sirius Orion Black, what the fuck did you do?” Remus says, jaw clenched, and Sirius raises his eyebrows at the boy.

“Did Y/N fucking-” he says after a beat, cursing under his breath.

“Wannabe martyr? Really, Black? You had to stoop that low?” Remus glares at the raven-haired boy, who takes in a deep breath.

“She told me again that I need to stop smoking, I don't know why she can't just let me be-”

“Let you be? Sirius, she's your fucking girlfriend! You still love her, do you not?”

“Of course I do, but she just-”

“No fucking buts, Black. You love her. And you see how much she loves you, correct?”

“Yeah, she'd do anything for me-”

“Exactly! Are you daft? Can't you see that she'd do anything to make you happy, to make you thrive, to give you a better fucking life so that you can live it with her?” Remus is practically yelling, now, and Sirius looks down at his feet.

“I didn't look at it like that,” he says quietly, running a hand through his raven hair.

“Apologize, and tell her you love her. For the love of Merlin, that girl is incredible, and you need to show her that what you said was a fucking lie.” Remus demands, shaking his head.

Sirius nods, getting up from his seat on the grass and summoning his ashtray, stamping the cigarette into it firmly.

“Thank you, Moony,” he says, nodding curtly before leaving to find you.

You've just gotten out of the shower, brushing up with some makeup and clean clothes in the mirror.

You walk out in one of Sirius’s jumpers to find the owner of such stumbling into your dorm room. You purse your lips, turning away from him and walking to your desk, blinking back the tears that threaten to return.

“Y/N, please-”

“Please what?” you snap, turning to face him.

“Please forgive me, angel.” Sirius’s lip is trembling, and he's looking at you with pleading eyes.

“Sirius, I-” you cut yourself off, breath hitching in your throat. He doesn't interrupt you, rather, gulps as he holds your gaze.

“I'm sorry, I really, really fucking am. I know I can't just take it back, but I didn't- I didn't mean it, love, I didn't. You're incredible, and beneficent, and I truly love you. It's alright if you need some time, I was a dick, but please let me make it up to you. All I want from you is you.”

Tears are rolling down your cheeks, and you throw yourself onto the boy, burying your head in his neck. Although what he said hurt you, it's not hard to tell how much the boy completely and fully loves you.

“Tu es mon tout et plus encore, ma chérie. Pour toujours, nous le serons.”

translation, courtesy of my mediocre french and google translate : you are my everything and more, my darling. forever we will be.

#sirius black x reader #sirius black imagines #sirius black smut #sirius black fic

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lunaastoir · 3 years

Text

cute things i think the genshin characters would do

characters included: diluc, kaeya, venti, and albedo

****minor lore spoilers for diluc!****

an: i’m thinking of making this into a series bc this was such an adorable concept to write so lmk if you’re interested 👀 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

diluc

sorry kind of starting off with something a little sad

i think diluc would have a habit of rubbing his vision

ok seems kinda dumb at first but let me elaborate:

after the death of his father, diluc was quite obviously devastated

he basically withdrew into himself after letting all the grief, pain, and rage flood his senses

i think during this time of grieving, he would’ve developed this habit of running the pads of his fingers across his vision to calm himself down

(v similar to katara from atla)

since his father had always been proud of diluc’s vision, the thought of touching something that reminded him of his father has always been able to bring him some sort of relief no matter how short lived

it serves as a constant memory of his dad and i think being able to have that kind of connection - no matter how small would hold a significance to him

stressed? you’ll see his fingers dance across his vision as the crease between his eyebrows gradually loosens

ok here’s a bonus habit (bc the previous one was sad)

whenever he’s bartending at angel’s share, he always flips the bottles in this cool bartending way before pouring the drinks

like the whole shabang - flips in the air, shakes it in a way that the drink foams just right

people are usually v surprised when they see this bc woah mans has got some sKILLS

but also bc he’s known for being pretty serious and reserved so seeing a “trick” is kind of breaking the stoic image they have of him

after he’s done pouring the drinks he’s also really precise about closing the bottles

he makes sure that the caps are on tightly and that nothing is leaking (which ig is another reason why he does flips with them so he can make sure that the bottles are tightly closed)

yes he’s rich but he also wants to make sure the drinks don’t go bad bc 1) kind of a loss if they do and 2) his customers deserve the best

sweet man pls protect him <3

kaeya

when he’s sitting down at his desk, he brings his legs up so he can sit on his chair criss- cross applesauce

since he’s in his office and the only other person who’s in there with him is jean, he feels like he can drop the suave, charming cavalry captain facade he puts on when he’s in public and just dial it down slightly to who he really is in that moment

jean doesn’t say a word the entire time even tho she quite obviously notices

don’t get me wrong, he’s still the smooth talking kaeya but just,,, more relaxed and comfortable?? if that makes sense

so since he’s a lot more comfortable in his office, he usually folds his legs into his chair bc damn they hurt from walking around all day

this is kinda dumb but i also think he has a lot of ink stains on his hands from writing so whenever he sees a fresh one he just likes to stamp it onto a piece of paper

usually that piece of paper ends up being an unimportant report that goes to jean

dw he also has a bunch of pretty small towels in his bottom drawer that he uses to wipe his hands on bc the public can’t see the pretty cavalry captain w ink stains!! the world would end!!

oH kind of a side note but i also think he would keep a small folded up picture of something klee drew him in his pocket

he thinks it’s very sweet and he periodically takes it out just to look at it soft for this man

last one for kaeya but since he wears boots that have the little lip on the bottom (not really a heel but enough to make some noise) he makes sure to always try his best to walk quietly around the streets of mondstadt at night

if anyone catches him doing it he’ll wave it off and say something like “oh me? i’m just practicing my stealth - it comes in handy when you have to sneak up on enemies you know?” but in reality that’s just bs

he really just doesn’t wanna risk waking people up <3

venti

this adorable man is obviously notorious for drinking

he loves alcohol!! i mean he’s the anemo archon of the city of wine and freedom so is anyone really surprised 💀

anyways venti always jokes abt not having any mora (he really doesn’t he’s not wrong) but he always makes sure to pay his tab at angel’s share

the only reason diluc lets him drink sm is because at the end of the day, venti always comes through w the mora

he really is a talented bard so everything he makes in singing and composing music for other people to listen to always goes straight to angel’s share (debatable if that’s for the best or not but i’ll leave that one to you)

so yeah <3 basically venti pays back his tabs even tho he’s an archon since he doesn’t want people to experience a loss bc of him

it’s the archon nature coming out but also the venti nature bc he’s a sweet boy

anyways getting onto the actual habit 🕺

he has a tendency to skip/hop regardless of wherever he’s going

he uses his anemo elemental skill a lot while doing this just he can feel a light breeze whenever he skips around

i also think he carries around extra bard strings in his hat bc he thinks it’s a cool party trick to take them out and be like tada i have extra strings no need to worry!!!

people are usually not that amused but he does it anyway

also yeah uh those strings sometimes fall out when he’s skipping 💀

he’ll be hopping and suddenly bOOM they fall out, he loses them, a kitten by the name of prince takes them, and he has to ask for help to find his strings (i believe this is exactly how venti lost his strings to prince during the windblume festival and no i will not take any criticism and if venti says something different he is lying 🔪)

also has a habit of putting his hair into a bun sometimes!!!

he loves his pigtails but he finds that he gets bored of them occasionally and his hair needs a break from its wavy tresses so he just plops it into a bun instead

so so cute 10/10 hairstyle he can do my hair

anyways love this man thanks for coming home <3

albedo

i had a feeling i would kind of have a hard time w albedo since he is a little hard to read so i hope this is ok LMFAO

he has paint stains. everywhere. no you cannot change my mind.

they are subtle tho i will give him that

you can’t notice that anything is amiss until you really pay attention and then you’ll start to see the pretty pastels and greens of the sunset he was painting up on dragonspine softly smeared across his clothes

very rarely you’ll see a cute swipe of paint across his cheek or neck and it’s honestly adorable

he was probably pushing his hair out of his face while he was painting and some excess paint on his finger landed on his cheek :,)

he doesn’t really care tbh he thinks it’s just a part of him and it really isn’t that noticeable so he just leaves it

also!!! since he is a big alchemist and he’s constantly working on labs and experiments i think he would accidentally misplace a lot of his written work

he seems very organized but w someone as intellectual as him w his brain running miles a minute, i’m sure he has definitely forgotten where he’s put stuff away

so!! in order to help him remember, he has little notes across his lab detailing where everything is

if he was working on something and he immediately has to put it on hold bc something came up (klee came in demanding attention or sucrose needs help) then he’ll quickly jot down a note and stick it to his desk so he’ll remember when he comes back just in case he forgets

sucrose as a result has noticed A LOT of notes across the lab and it’s simultaneously funny and endearing

“started experiment with sweet flowers to try and turn them into a youth elixir: papers --> on the desk right next to klee’s photo”

final point: he lets klee braid his hair sometimes if she wants to

she doesn’t really know how given how young she is so she ends up messing up but albedo always walks her patiently through the steps again

always makes time for klee no matter what bc he really does care a lot abt her :,)

i love him sm pls

#diluc #kaeya #venti #albedo #genshin imagines #genshin scenarios #genshin headcanons #genshin impact #genshin diluc #genshin kaeya #genshin venti #genshin albedo #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact fluff #genshin fluff #diluc ragnvindr #kaeya alberich

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abbatoirablaze · 2 years

Text

Teller Morrow Tragedy, The Prequel, Chapter 6

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: underage drinking, underage tattoo, sexual situations/sexual tension.

JAX'S POV

"I can't believe you did that," I laughed. She smiled, and pulled me to herself, kissing me roughly. I smirked into the kiss and pulled her back against my body.

"I know!" she exclaimed, pulling away from me. She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the street, "come on."

"Where are we going?" I laughed.

She kept pulling me along until we'd reached a tattoo shop, "I know it's five, and you would much rather do anything but be in a sho-"

"Let's go," I grinned, partially already knowing what she wanted to do. She smiled and pulled me into the shop. The guys at the counter looked bored, like they wanted to go home.

"Sorry guys, we're closing up early for the night."

"I'll pay you a grand," Tara said. She pulled out her fake ID, and her bank card, "I want a crow on the small of my back."

The two guys looked at one another. The one guy shook his head, "I'm going home. We were only supposed to be here til 4. Should have come in earlier."

Tara turned her attention to the other guy, "Can you, do it? I'll give you a grand. You can run my card right now and everything."

The guy bit his lip and nodded slightly, "I'll do it if it goes through."

"It will," she smiled. She took my hand and we watched as the guy ran her card and nodded.

"I'll catch ya later man," the first artist said, heading out the door. The second guy led Tara back and had her fill out some forms while he prepped the ink and he did a quick sketch. I heard the needle start up about half an hour later, and I walked to the front of the shop. Tara was getting a crow tramp stamped on her, and it kind of turned me on.

Yeah, I wasn't patched in yet, but this was something her and I argued over all the time. She told me that she didn't want me to be part of the Sons. Told me that it was a waste of both of our time. But lately, she’d been falling in line. She’d come on rides with me and had even shown up to the clubhouse a few times for the holiday parties. Guess she changed her mind.

"I'm your old lady now," she smiled a few hours later, admiring the work in the mirror. The guy patched her up and ushered us out of the shop so that he could go home. She smiled and kissed me, but winced when my hands went to wrap around her, “shit…super sore, Jax.”

"You realized you were my girlfriend before that, right?" I joked.

She stuck her tongue out at me, "yeah, but before...you know, Alicia had the crow because of you. Now I do."

I took it in stride but sucked in my cheeks. She seemed oblivious to my reaction as she didn't notice. I tried to smile it off as we made our way back to TM for the new year's eve party.

Did she only get it because of Alicia?

Did she really accept what I am, or did she do it because she's jealous? I hadn’t been allowed much time with Mikey ever since her and I had gotten together, and I knew that it pissed both Alicia and Tara off to no-end.

“Mikey is your daughter too,” she hissed, “Alicia is just being a bitch by not letting you see her.”

“I mean we live in the same house,” I shrugged, “I see Mikey all the time.”

“But she doesn’t let you take her out and do things with her,” she said quickly in response, “she doesn’t let you take her out when we do things.”

“Mikey doesn’t really know you, Tara,” I replied with another shrug of my shoulders, “you know how wary she is of new people.”

“She’s around bikers all the time,” Tara sneered, “she just doesn’t trust women other than Alicia and Gemma.”

“If I was a baby girl I wouldn’t trust the guys in my family around crow eaters either,” I laughed, trying to make a joke of it. Tara frowned and I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, “aww, come on, sweetheart, what did I say?”

"Jax," she squealed, making her way back to me. I don't know how far ahead she'd gotten, but she started coming back for me. She took my hand, "come on."

I nodded along, following her as she practically ran to the clubhouse. Mom was there, sitting on Clay's lap. Bobby's wife, precious Ryan had taken the night off and were there as well. Off in the corner I saw how Happy had come down from Tacoma yet again and was talking to Alicia. It kind of pissed me off, for the past few months I would catch her on the phone with him. He would come down and visit when he passed through and visited his mom. Even Mikey had started taking a liking to him.

I walked over to the bar and nodded to a crow eater. She handed me and Tara beers. My mom pulled them away from us before we could take sips, "what in the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Aww come on," Clay laughed, ruffling my hair, "it's new year's eve Gem, give em a break."

"You two going to stay at the clubhouse tonight?"

I nodded, lying to her. She gave me a stern look and I smiled at her, "of course we are, mom."

Mom narrowed her eyes at me before looking to Tara, "and you?"

Tara nodded her head, "of course, Gemma."

I smiled as mom gave us the beers back. I nodded over to the corner Alicia was in, "what's with SAMTAC being here so much?"

"He's trying to make her his old lady," mom laughed, leaning against the bar, "she had a date with Happy ass over there a few months ago and ever since then he’s been coming by every couple of weeks."

I nodded, taking a swig of my beer, "thanks mom."

We started walking off to the table where Chibs and Tig were playing cards with Piney, "Jacky boy."

I smirked as Chibs got out of his chair and hugged me. I looked over to Piney, "Ope coming by tonight?"

He shook his head, "Mary took the keys to his bike. He snuck out to go see Donna."

I laughed and sat down in the chair, pulling Tara onto my lap. Tig nodded at my beer, "your mom say that was alright?"

"And Clay," I added in. Tig shook his head, and they dealt the next hand. We bullshit with everyone for a while, until our beers were empty. Tara took my empty and went over to the bar to exchange them.

"She changed er tune quick, huh, Jacky boy?"

I shook my head, "I don't know. I'm just going with it. She dragged me to a tattoo shop today and got a crow tattooed on the small of her back."

"Your 16-year-old girlfriend got a tramp stamp?"

I nodded at Tig, "Yeah."

He shook his head, "Oh I'd kill Dawn and Fawn if they did that."

I chuckled as Tara came back. I sat for a few more hands before Chibs got himself out. I saw him walk over to the pool table where Alicia now stood with Bobby Elvis and his wife. I looked around and couldn't see Happy or any other SAMTAC guys.

"Clay pulled em about twenty minutes ago."

"What?" I asked, turning to Tig.

"It's quarter til 12. Clay grabbed them so they could help with the fireworks. That reminds me," he said. He turned around to the crow eater at the bar, "go wake up Missy. Gemma told me to make sure she's awake for the fireworks. She's sleeping in Clay's room."

The crow eater nodded and went to wake up my little sister. I looked back to the pool table, "wanna play pool?"

Tara nodded, "Sure."

We excused ourselves from the cards and made our way over to the pool table. Precious Ryan and Bobby had left, and it was just Chibs and Alicia, "need another pair?"

"No," Alicia laughed, "I don't even know what I'm doing. We aren't playing a game. Chibs just said he’d show me a few things."

"Awwwww, come on," Chibs urged, playfully pushing her shoulder, "Come on Alli cat, I know we could beat Jacky boy."

She smiled, "I doubt it, Chibsy. You know I’ve never bothered learning to play."

"Come on," Tara urged very tipsy, "It will be fun."

I smiled, "come on Leesh."

She nodded, "Alright, but I'm terrible. Don’t be mad at me when we lose, Filip."

"It's all in good fun," I smirked. Tara nodded and kissed me. I saw her rack em up, and Chibs broke it.

A crow eater brought the table a round of beers and Chibs thanked her before turning his attention back to the game.

“Wait,” Alicia called as the crow eater turned around. She gave him a look and pulled his beer from him, “he prefers Jameson! Go get him that.”

The crow eater shot her a look but said nothing as she turned and went back to the bar, “you didn’t ‘ave to do tha’ lass.”

“She’s a crow eater. She should know what you drink, Chibsy.”

He smiled and playfully smacked her ass, “alright lass, yer up.”

“Help me,” she giggled, giving him doe eyes. He helped Alicia line up her shot and I felt a small pang in my chest as she kissed him on the cheek in thanks, “you’re the best, Filip.”

Chapter 7

#jax teller #soa jax #soa #sons of anarchy #motorcycle clubs #motorcycle

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bau-baby · 3 years

Text

the ultimate loss. 2/?

aaron hotchner x gn!reader

Summary: While you and Aaron are grieving the loss of Haley, an untimely realization comes up on your part after a night of consolation. Will anything come of it?

word count: 3k

warnings: grief, loss

A/N: Holy cannoli I am so sorry for how long this second installment took me!! Also the ending seems kind of rushed and it’s not the greatest, sorry! Now, onward with the story!

read part one here

It has only been a few months since Haley’s service, and you have been at a loss. Ever since the time you and Aaron had together on that patio, something changed. Something that you couldn’t really put a finger on. Neither of you addressed it for fear of messing with things you weren’t ready to face. So you both did what you do best: ignore it.

You’ve filled your time with hours on the job, Aaron has been doing the same. You both merely dance around one another, not allowing your colleagues to pinpoint or figure out what happened. And if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t either. Hell, you weren’t sure Aaron knew what was going on, and he is one of the best profilers you have the pleasure of knowing.

It’s another late night, early morning at Quantico. You’re burning the candle at both ends, losing sleep by the day. You blame it wholly on losing a friend, and sure that was the big, main reason, but you also know it’s a ploy to throw whatever it is that’s happening with you and Aaron out the window for a time.

After-action reports fill your time as the coffee keeps getting brewed and your pen isn’t running out of ink anytime soon. And you always love to think that this is your time away from Aaron, when in reality he’s right up the stairs, hunched over his desk just as you are. You saved your glances for when your hand got cramped or you needed a refill on coffee. What you don’t see was the glances he’d send your way while you were engrossed in the paperwork.

You normally end up staying late at the office since you have a tendency to take some of the extra files from Aaron as well as the team so they could get home quicker.

You finish up a majority of your reports just before midnight, opting to take the unfinished ones home. You gather your finished files, making the short walk up to Aaron’s office before knocking. You hear him faintly say “It’s open,” and open the door.

“Hey Aaron, just wanted to drop these files off before heading home for the night. If you-” Your words die in your throat as you finally look at Aaron much closer. His eye bags were getting worse, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Are the nightmares still happening, Aaron?”

He knows there’s no use in lying, especially to you. He nods as he presses his pointer and middle finger to his temple, trying to alleviate the dull headache that hasn’t left him in so long. It was one of the only constant things in his life, outside of Jack and you. With the headaches and the nightmares saddled on top of the grief, he hasn’t had true peace in months.

You tentatively take a seat at his desk and wait him out. You know that once he feels like talking, he will. He takes his time, twiddling his pen in between his thumb and pointer finger.

“I miss her. I left her at home with Jack almost every day, I was never there for his appointments or for his big milestones. I forced her to be a single mom when I could have easily just been there. I-” He stops, and you can see his eyes are brimmed with tears. You swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“Aaron, she loved you-” He scoffs, “-No, she really loved you. It tore her to pieces when she left, she just reached a point where she had to put Jack’s needs first. She still cared for you. The call I got the day you were admitted into the hospital told me enough,” You look down at your hands, trying to find the words, “You’re a great dad, Aaron. You do your best and right now that’s all anyone can ask for.”

Aaron lets out a huff of breath and leans back in his chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to lessen the pulsing headache still fully present. You only hope that your words made a difference, and you start to get up to leave.

“Wait. Please don’t go. I- I can’t stand being alone here anymore,” The admission makes your heart swell while simultaneously hurting for the broken man, and you settle back into your seat. Maybe finishing up the rest of your reports in the company of a friend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

-----

The late nights you and Aaron were pulling to keep each other company quickly transitioned to going home early to see Jack, still keeping each other’s grief at bay. Didn’t help that Jack was the sweetest kid on the planet, and one you definitely couldn’t say no to.

There were days where Aaron would just break down away from the watchful eyes of his son. He wanted to remain strong and not worry the young boy, but he knew Jack was hurting too, just as you were. Even if he was vulnerable with you at times, he still kept some walls up and held some feelings to his chest.

And Aaron would never tell you, but some days it was hard to even be in that apartment. The wall has been long since repaired, the bloodstains lifted from the carpet. But that didn’t remove the nightmares that haunted him every time he came home.

He could never forget the acrid smell of Foyet’s breath as he continuously taunted him, the knife driving into his abdomen. He couldn’t forget the fleeting memories that he surrounded himself with, a hopeful yet useless distraction as he was bleeding out on his apartment floor.

He couldn’t forget Foyet’s smile, his laugh that haunted Aaron’s deepest nightmares.

Foyet’s words would come to him in flashes, always coming back to remind him of everything he lost.

“Do you know how much you have to study the human body to stab yourself repeatedly and not die? I don’t want to brag but I’m somewhat of an expert.”

The humor Foyet found in what he was saying was not ever lost on Aaron.

He always felt the ghost of the knife, cold metal gracing his abdomen that was slowly losing heat due to the blood blossoming around his still body.

“Do you wanna see my scars?”

The image of Foyet’s mangled abdomen was stamped into his brain, a fateful image that spoiled his sleep every night.

“Yours are gonna look just the same.”

And that they did. Aaron hated the scars that riddled his chest, the raised, gnarled skin always a reminder of his failure. He not only failed Haley, but his son that he swore to protect and give a good life. He ripped the life away from both of them. Haley would never see what Jack would become, and Jack would never remember the woman who gave her life to protect him.

No matter how much he trusted you, there was still that wall that held him back from telling you all of this. His rational brain told him that you’d help him work through it, but his trauma-riddled brain told him that he’d end up overwhelming you, even though you both lost the same person, she just had different emotional ties to both of you.

That call that you listened in on while racing to Fairfax was imprinted in your brain. You’d continually tried to tell yourself that you couldn’t change anything that happened, that you couldn’t save Haley. You couldn’t give Jack his mom back, and you couldn’t bring back Aaron’s closest friend.

You knew it wasn’t right to blame yourself. You knew that Foyet had fooled all of you. That didn’t stop you from taking the blame, forcing yourself to relive the worst moment in your career, just to subject yourself to something you felt you could have prevented.

Jack wouldn’t have any memories of his own mother. You would just plant four years’ worth of stories as he grew up, telling him tales of how strong his mother was, and how she was the best thing that happened to his father.

Maybe these similar trains of thought are what led you to be knocking on Aaron’s door late at night. And maybe, that’s what led him to answer.

“Y/N? It’s so late, what’re you doing here?” The opened door revealed a distraught yet cozy Aaron, floppy hair and eye bags in all.

“Can I, uh, can I come in?” You remain composed, trying to regulate your breathing before you possibly could fly off the handle.

“Yeah, of course. Are you alright?”

Now isn’t that the question of the hour, Aaron Hotchner? You aren’t really sure what you feel, so instead of answering, you walk over to his couch and sit.

Aaron trails in behind you, two cups of coffee in his hand. You accept the cup, the ceramic mug already bringing life back into your hands. Aaron sits on the other side of the couch assuming the same position you are: a blank, grief-filled stare aimed at the table in front of you. The only sign of either of you being cognizant is your periodic sniffles. You don’t even realize you’re crying.

“I just miss her, you know?” The sentence comes through a wavered tone, and you hiccup through the tears.

Aaron’s in a similar state, his red-rimmed eyes giving way to a tear-filled, “I know. I miss her too,”

A watery laugh leaves you, “Y’know, one time when I visited Haley, told me about how you two used to be. Before Jack, before…”

Before the divorce. Before she died.

“-just, before. She even gave me a little insight on your stint as Pirate #4 in Pirates of the Penzance,” A watery smile makes its way onto your face, and you hear Aaron huff out a sad laugh, shaking his head as he does so.

“I swore her to secrecy on that. She liked you, honestly. She loved how you were with Jack, and I can’t say that I don’t either. You being here, for us, is something we’ll always be grateful for. Thank you,” The sentence makes your heart swell, as more tears fall down your face. They’re full of grief, sadness, and a love you don’t catch onto right away, but when you do, you force that back down to whatever depths it came from.

You hear the feet padding across the floor before you see him.

“Y/N? Why are you crying?” Jack asks as he clambers up next to you and into your arms.

“Hey, bud, what’re you doing up? Your dad and I were just talking about your mom, and how much we miss her,” You say, rocking the boy as you hold him.

“I miss my mom too. Do you think we could talk to her?” He asks. You could hear how tired he is, and you look at Aaron.

Go ahead, his look says, and you stand up with Jack still in your arms. You pick up the candle and lighter on the way.

You lay Jack back in his bed, grabbing the picture of Haley off his dresser. You light the candle and hand it to him.

“Hi, momma. Y/N is here, and I miss you. I love you,” You continue to listen to the boy, but you can feel the tears pressing at the back of your eyes again. You can’t imagine what this four-year-old boy is going through, trying to understand why his mom isn’t coming home anymore.

You feel a certain pair of eyes on you from the doorway of Jack’s room, and you see Aaron watching you and Jack. He’s got this soft, sullen smile on his face as he hears Jack recount his days since he’s last talked to Haley. Soon enough, the four-year-old runs out of steam and says goodbye, blowing out the candle. You reach over, tucking the covers up to his chin, and tell him goodnight.

You walk out to see Aaron sitting on the couch again, his elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his face. You sit with him until the early morning light washes over the DC skyline, sunlight peeking into the windows. You both laugh, cry, and sit in silence as you talk about whatever, but the topic keeps coming back to Haley.

“Well, if I want to make it to the building on time, I better go back to my apartment and change,” You say as you get up to grab your shoes that have long since been forgotten, as well as your keys and such. “Oh, I didn’t even notice the time. See you at work,” He says, getting up off the couch too.

“Bye, Aaron. See you at work,” You give him a soft smile, and make your exit.

Aaron doesn’t make light of this, but seeing you leave after the night he spent commiserating with you, made him miss it more than he thought he would. The freshness of it all, the connection you shared with mutual grief, was something he never thought he’d get out of his job.

-----

When you step into the bullpen, you’re the first one there for once. Fresh clothes and a rejuvenated heart puts a small pep in your step, even on no sleep. After the night of vulnerability you shared with Aaron, you felt refreshed, if only a little tired.

For the sake of making sure you actually stay awake, you make two cups of coffee. Made one cup just how you like it, leaving the other one black. You set your cup down at your desk, climbing the stairs up to Aaron’s dark office. You turn on his desk lamp, setting the coffee down. You knew he wasn’t too far behind you when coming to the office, it was only a matter of time before he walked out of the elevator.

When Aaron finally makes it to the bullpen, he sees you already cutting into the reports he left on everyone’s desks the night before. He practically floats to his office, his lack of sleep starting to catch up to him. When he opens the door, he sees the coffee mug at his desk, a sticky note attached to it. Very familiar handwriting fills the note.

Thought we could both use some coffee after our late night.

You know where I am if you need anything, old man.

Sincerely,

A very concerned friend :)

Aaron just shakes his head at the note, a smile he’s not used to filling his face. He looks through the window out into the bullpen to find you with an equally facetious smile on your face.

That’s when it all comes crumbling down for you. The realization hits you as you turn back to your work, and you have to slow your breathing so as to not worry anyone else making their way to their desks.

Fuck.

You’re in love with your boss.

You’re in love with Aaron Hotchner.

You could not have worse timing, you realize. He just lost his wife, you just lost a friend. Neither of you should be open to dating. He isn’t open to dating, and you’d be damned if you were too.

You were never known for your timeliness, but this is a whole other level of bad.

What are you supposed to do? There’s no handbook, nothing to tell you what you’re supposed to fall in love with your divorced boss who just lost his ex-wife. And there shouldn’t be, you’re being careless.

It’s normal for people in grief to come together, and after a loss people make strides to fill that gap. That’s all you're doing. You don’t actually feel this way about him.

That’s what your profiling tells you, but you don’t try to reason with it. No amount of reasoning can fix this. You’re screwed, and you know it.

That’s why you make a vow to yourself- right there in the bullpen.

You are not going to let this get too far too fast, and you are not going to scare this man away. He is your boss first, friend second, and lover will never make that list if you keep up this fast train of realizations and possible confessions.

You get saved from your rabbit hole as you hear Reid and Morgan walk into the bullpen, talking about whatever those two can talk about at 8 AM. You just shake your head at their antics.

Those two really are like brothers.

Slowly, the rest of the team trickles in, and you’re expected for a day of paperwork when JJ flashes a file at you. Seems like you won’t your day of reprieve, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’re glad.

On top of the Aaron Revelations™, It’s been really hard these past few weeks without Haley. You usually went over to see Jack and her often, talking and laughing over some glasses of wine. Now, you just... don’t have that.

But, all that aside, you have a case.

So you put the pieces of yourself back together, compose yourself, and take a breath.

You can do this.

-----

You can’t do this.

You did fine on the case, and you know that. You remained composed, and kept your head on straight. That doesn’t change your realization, nor does it settle your feelings. Professionalism is at the forefront of your mind as you settle into your seat on the jet. Aaron sits next to you like always, and you school your expression for most of the flight, but that didn’t stop your brain from going faster than light.

You lean your head against the window, and hope against hope that everything- every feeling, every thought- would just leave you. They didn’t, but you welcome the sleep that comes like an unknown force.

When you wake, you smell Aaron’s cologne. You’re groggy, and it takes you a minute to realize that his suit jacket rests across your upper body.

“You looked cold, just thought I’d help,” Aaron says, not looking up from his file.

That man never stops working.

“Thanks, Hotch,” You say, sleep still laced through your words. You get lost in the moment, the familiarity of it all sinking into your bones. You smile blissfully, sleep consuming your conscious again

You just miss the small smile Aaron gives you after your eyes close, sleep taking your body again.

#the ultimate loss #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader fluff #aaron hotchner angst #soft hotch #it’s a sad fic #but it’s also cute

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aquaticstyles · 4 years

Text

the five senses

hello everyone! while a separate 13k fic is in the works, as promised, here is a lil 2k piece i miraculously came up with at midnight. as always, feedback is happily welcomed!!! happy reading lovies x

it's been five months since it ended.

you should hate him. you should utterly and fascinatingly despise him. you should hate the way he looked, the way he felt, the way he tasted, the way he smelled, and the way the sounded. you should forget him—rip every page, crumple him up, and strike a match.

key word: should.

but you don't hate him. you couldn't if you tried. you are utterly and fascinatingly still wrapped around his perfect, ring-encircled fingers. you love the way he looked, the way he felt, the way he tasted, the way he smelled, the way he sounded. you can't forget him, no matter how much you want to. his ink is still scattered in the novels of your memories, proving to be permanent and stubborn as you try desperately to put fire to its pools.

you are still utterly and fascinatingly not over him.

and you suppose that is why your mind has chosen to drift off to candy land, marshmallow puff trees and gooey caramel lakes, visions of him swimming around, around, and around.

and you also suppose that you shouldn't be thinking of him while another man touches your skin.

key word: shouldn't.

but you can't help it. not when you're reminded of just how differently harry captured your senses and locked them away in the thumping of his chest, throwing away the key.

sight

you can still see him.

his dimples popping, inviting you to curl up inside one of them for just a moment, bunny teeth displayed in an ear to ear grin when he sees you, his lover, his everything, finally in 3D again, because boy oh boy pixelated facetime does not do you justice.

those two endless forests of green paired with wispy eyelashes, billboards for his every emotion, reeling you in and casting you back over and over and over again.

that body of his that makes you positively drool—fresh out of the shower, a towel hanging dangerously low on his hips, those ferns that if you had it your way, would never be covered, tempting your eyes to what's below, other markings of ink scattered across a toned bicep, chest, thigh, an endless coloring book for you and only you to paint with your lips, diamond water droplets clinging onto tanned, sun-kissed skin, mimicking your fingers as they slide down the tight muscles, ridges and valleys, of his back, the velvet, rose scrunchie of yours that he has claimed as his own cozying up around those stubborn, chestnut curls atop his head, the ones that cause eyes to roll and skin to furrow between his brows because "they're always in my fuckin' way."

the way he looks when he's napping in the summer heat after taking a refreshing dip in the pool—cheek smushed against a lawn chair, causing his bubble-gum pink lips to pucker unintentionally, begging for a slow, lazy, warm kiss, a van gogh masterpiece of bright blues, oranges, yellows, reds, whites, greens, browns, swirling together in his canvas, those green forests peacefully hidden as his pure, innocent relaxation melts into a scene of serenity before you (you're guilty of laying directly on top of him one too many times, pressing your cheek against the warm expanse of his back and sneaking in a cat nap as well).

how he looks when he enters a room, especially those rooms with a stage and thousands of fans bubbling over with excitement, confidence and swagger exuding from his pores as the spotlights hit him in all the right places, bouncing off the numerous gems and glitter of that night's glamorous get-up. then later the way he looks as his face twists in pleasure during a post-show-adrenaline-rush-dressing-room-quickie.

his reflection in the mirror of your vanity as you do your makeup, broad shoulders leant up against the doorframe, watching you as you carefully add sparkles here and powder there, the glint of curiosity and pure infatuation in his eye, his fingers toying with the smirk on his lips when you meticulously swipe on your favorite his favorite red lipstick, knowing good and well that once he's finished with you there won't be a single trace of crimson left on your lips.

you can see all of him, from the tufts of hair you love to tug and pull and sink your hands into, to the perfect slope of his nose, the sharp pinch of his jawline, his cute ears you poke fun at much to his annoyance, his tongue darting out to wet his perfect, perfect lips, his neck that always seems readily accessible to leave bites and red stains along, the ship stamped on his bicep, his abdomen that isn't too tight or too soft under your touch, just right, the happy trails leading to that one part of him that leaves you aching for days, his thighs, all the way down to his toe permanently labeled "Big."

touch

you can still feel him.

the tips of his calloused fingers tracing down your spine, a valley of goosebumps following in their tracks, a sea of comfort washing over you. fingers intertwined between yours, squeezing your palm, fresh autumn air and central park and new coats and steaming, black coffee. fingers fanned out across your thigh, splashes of pastel purple polish on cuticles and knuckles (he was shaking too much from laughing at something on twitter like an avocado in a top hat or a dog in gucci loafers). fingers following directions on a well-traveled map, tracing over the outline of your chapped lips, up to the apples of your rosy cheeks, to your temples, and entangling into long locks of tangled hair, braiding, massaging and scratching when you've had a tough day, exhausted, hypnotized, harry.

lips against your ear, hushed whispers meant for only you in the midst of a thundering crowd (one too many neat tequilas and risky texts), cold rings sneaking underneath your shirt and spanning out against a piping hot back, the vibrations from the bass thumping beneath you joined by the organ in your chest, sweaty palms and shaky knees as rivers of suggestions flood from his earth to yours, promises that will be proven true later in seductive, blue moonlight.

his sudsy chest cuddled snugly behind your back, sinking beneath bubbles of lavender and rose because he couldn't just pick one scent, your missing puzzle piece, pruny fingers tracing shapes onto your knee beneath the water, vibrations from his giggles when you mistakenly guessed the shape as a dinosaur (it was a banana), warm puffs of breath against your neck, sopping scrunchies stacked on the ledge next to a half empty bottle of red, lips painting across your shoulder down your arm to your fingertips coating you in bright yellow, affection, admiration, addiction.

the prickles of the new addition to his face scratching up against you in the most agonizingly amazing way as his face buries between your thighs, the magic of that mouth of his, pixie dust, an arched back, an eager tongue accompanied by glistening, cherry lips, pleadings of "never shave again."

him buried inside you in the early hours of the morning, legs anchored around his waist, miles and miles of his soft, tanned skin washing against your own, nails digging into the toned ridges of his back, chestnut locks falling onto a sweaty forehead, scorching lips dancing over every inch of you over and over until he reaches that one spot, moans and exhales and crumpled sheets, your temple resting on a swallow, fingertips tracing a lone butterfly, clutching onto the cold metal of a cross, lazy smiles, bed head, halfway closed eyelids, a tranced daze basking in fresh, crisp sunlight.

taste

you can still taste him.

the bitter taste of whiskey coating his tongue as it encircles your own in the back of a taxi, wrinkled suit jackets and bunched up satin, fingers toying with buttons and zippers, giggles when his nose bumps against yours carelessly, a clouded drunken haze of city lights and sparkling sequins.

minty toothpaste covered lips smushing against yours because he just "couldn't wait," spearmint, foamy smiles wiped away on plush towels.

juice from a ripe watermelon dribbling down his chin and leaving a sugary path along his exposed neck and chest, glistening in the afternoon, summer heat, lapped up teasingly by your tongue, causing widened eyes and a harsh gulp, the reflection of heart shaped sunglasses rippling in a crystal clear pool.

a warm cup of coffee sitting on your bedside table, placed there by your lover before he leaves for a run, waiting for you in the early morning glow of your bedroom, the scent from a fresh pot still lingering in the air, the steaming liquid slowly cascading down your throat during his absence.

coconut chapstick coating his lips, stolen from your side of the vanity, even though he has countless of tubes himself he claims using yours "is more moisturizing" when in reality he just likes keeping a part of you with him at all times.

saltwater droplets clinging onto his skin, coating your lips as you leave trails of kisses along his chest and sunburnt cheeks, awaking him from his nap in the shade, waves crashing behind you, seagulls chirping and trying to steal crisps, low grumblings of "what's this fo?" accompanied by a dimple and a smirk ("just cause").

smell

you can still smell him.

the candle burning in his dressing room on tour, the one you bought him that you immediately recognize when you visit him for the first time since he left, a warm batch of butterflies brewing in your tummy when you notice the almost completely burnt through wick, apples and cinnamon.

his detergent, leaving your clothes coated in a fresh linen scent because "no way yeh leaving mine with laundry to do, love" a pair of his boxers that he knows you love to wear folded neatly on top of the rest of your belongings and sent off with a pillowy peck to your lips and promises of "see you tomorrow."

his body wash and hair product duplicates in your shower, dancing with daisies in the steam surrounding him, persisting in the small, tiled space for most of the week, even in his vacancy. sometimes you'll accidentally on purpose grab his bottle of shampoo with your eyes closed, using more than intended (harry goes through shampoo much quicker now).

the diffuser in his bedroom, spewing out vapors of a eucalyptus blend he ordered online after extensive research ("it helps with clear breathin' and relaxation"), another scent that can only be described as pure harry, later encompassing your abode as well due to your incessant claims of how much you love it (one night you came home from work to a perfectly wrapped package on the foot of your bed, a diffuser and the same eucalyptus blend hidden inside).

his cologne perched on your dresser, tom ford, tobacco vanille, harry in a bottle, sneakily spritzed on your sweatshirt when he's not looking (he notices every time), lingering on your pillow case, his purple robe hanging next to yours, and your hand towels, tokens of him dolloped throughout your apartment, a tornado of familiarity swirling you into his galaxy. the same scent filling your nose as it buries into his neck, arms wrapped around him in an ages-long bear hug, his cheek resting against the top of your head, the soft fibers of his sweater tickling your skin.

sound

you can still hear him.

the warm drip of his honey voice in the early hours of the morning, raspy and deep from his slumber, pooling in the pit of your stomach growing thick and heavy until releasing with moans and whispers lost in the rising sun.

that laugh of his that doesn't bubble up often, the one you cause more than anyone else, buckets of giggles that leaves behind tears, crinkled eyes, and hands over tummies.

his thick accent that repolishes itself after he's made a trip to london, mumbles of "bugger," "oi love," "rubbish," and your favorite, "absobloodylutely" leaving his cherry lips more often than he realizes.

his moans. your favorite kind is when you're riding him, locked in a sweaty, pulsating embrace—twisting here and turning there and doing the things you know drive him absolutely mad—those moans that erupt from deep inside him and uncharacteristically replace his typical, filthy language because you're doing him so good that he's left speechless in a heap of tangled limbs and panting breaths.

his voice as it echoes in the acoustics of the shower, the soft patter of the water serving as his own orchestra, notes belonging to rock anthems of the 70s or sometimes his own verses that have been freshly inked in his worn-in journal (occasionally you'll record him singing the new ones—unbeknownst to him—to listen to when he's away for too long).

the clinking of his rings together when he's in full-on discussion mode—using his hands as he elaborately details a story of his childhood or a conversation he had with jeff today or why he thinks salsa shouldn't go in the fridge or the reason behind this lyric and that chord progression.

his keys clanking against the ceramic dish by the door, the sweetest symphony to your ears because he's home.

and finally, the sound of those three words—smooth as butter rolling off his tongue effortlessly, a hurricane crashing and splashing against you, three strings lifting you off your feet and soaring into the clouds, green eyes and rosy cheeks pulling your heart strings, sweet sugar crystals floating from his lips to yours—"i love you."

physically, he's gone, probably off writing another album, undoubtedly doing much better than you are. maybe he's even moved on, cuddled up into another woman's side, whispering things in her ear, tangled up in her sheets.

but in every other way imaginable, he's still with you.

five senses, five million memories.

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malachi-walker · 3 years

Note

Happy birthday, Mal! I love your fics, they evoke so much emotion in me and have made me cry many a time. I don't often reread fics, but i've reread multiple chapters of Rhythm and Blues because they're stuck with me so much. You capture the emotional pain of their trauma and the catharsis that comes with their growth so beautifully. You also write some brilliant meta and just consistently post some fantastic thoughts. Also your love for swords is very appreciated. <3 have a lovely day!

First of all, my apologies for not replying sooner. I was making my mind up about something that would definitely require the use of a read more and thus necessitate dragging myself to desktop (which I hate because my laptop predates the dinosaurs.)

But seriously. Thank you so much. This is honestly one of the sweetest comments I've ever gotten and definitely made my already pretty sweet bday even better.

So about that read more. In honor of you, @metalesbo, my friends @n7punk and @jem-jarrett and everyone else who sent me well wishes or just really loves my work... Here's the opening section of the next chapter of R&B. Enjoy. It's a long one.

Adora Eternia is about two months shy of her fourteenth birthday when she first realizes she's in love with her best friend.

Though--if asked--she would hasten to explain that it wasn't when she fell in love. But trying to pinpoint the exact moment is an exercise in catching mist: the more she tries to grasp it in her hands the more it spreads out and covers everything. It just is: pure and simple and very, very complicated.

It's the beginning of December and the whole town is covered in a thick blanket of snow. Winterfest will be here in a few weeks, so to help out the kids who want to get gifts for their friends the Right Zone administration has shuffled around the groups that usually take their monthly trips on the third and fourth Sundays of the month to double up with the other two. As part of group three, she and Catra got the first week (the other three members of their crew are week two folks anyway and thus outside the reorganization.)

It's still kinda weird to think that: their crew. For so long, it was just Catra and Adora. Adora and Catra. One unit bound together, just them against the world. But there's also something nice about being part of a small cluster, their "scrappy little lone wolf pack" as Catra had once put it with a wry grin before Lonnie shoved her over with an, "Excuse you, I'm a great people person when I'm not busy making sure you idiots haven't set yourselves on fire!"

They all got a good laugh out of that one.

But regardless, the holidays are coming up and this is the first year that any of their group has felt like actually doing anything for it, aside from wrangling together a sleepover and seeing if they can convince the kitchen staff to slip them some leftover eggnog.

They made each other promise not to go too extravagant and keep each person's gift to ten dollars or lower. Even though their quarterly stipend has increased from three hundred to four hundred to match with inflation over the past eight years, it still isn't a whole lot for three month's worth of expenses, especially when they also have to budget regularly for clothes to keep up with the seemingly endless growth spurts.

There's also the usual budgetary concern of keeping her and Catra's first aid kit well supplied...

Adora shakes her head to dislodge the intrusive thought and continues marching onward through the snow. This trip is a good thing. She won't let all the awful realities of their life taint it.

With so many kids running around and wanting to shop on their own to surprise their giftees, Right Zone had to negotiate with both the local police and whatever other civic authorities they could get ahold of to come out en masse and keep an eye on them all. The kids had still come with their usual teachers, of course, but doubling the load and also splitting up was a logistical nightmare. Which is just a convoluted way to say the town is positively crawling with uniformed officers, off duty members of the fire brigade, emergency personnel, and other such authority figures quietly keeping watch and making sure no one tries anything.

Adora knows that somewhere in the press of bodies, Grizzlor's busy wrangling two new "brats" (seven and nine, respectively, and definitely not friends.) Somewhere, a certain Magicat is probably grumbling over the indignity of being forced to wear shoes and kicking every snowpile she can, like she can send a direct message to whatever cosmic force is responsible for her current frustration.

On an ordinary month she and Catra--being old enough to be allowed a bit more freedom to do what they want--would buddy up to watch each other's backs while they did their shopping. But this isn't an ordinary month, so once they'd each gotten gifts for the other three they'd split up on opposite ends of Main Street with an agreement to move clockwise to avoid running into each other. Afterwards, the entire group would rendezvous at the small clock tower in the park a block over before heading back to Right Zone.

Ten dollars wasn't a lot to work with, but Adora had done her best: a new stress ball for Kyle, some moisturizing oil for Rogelio since the early winter shed had wiped out his supply and he'd been too busy to pick up some more, a twelve pound kettle weight for Lonnie now that their shared exercise routine was getting a bit too easy for her... Utilitarian choices, to be sure, but she's been paying attention and that has to count for something.

Catra's the difficult one, of course. Partly because Adora doesn't want to just get her something practical, but also because they share nearly everything between them already. About the only thing that is definitively off limits is Catra's guitar, and she's told Adora enough about her time with Tao over the years that Adora wouldn't even ask. Beyond that... Well, there's a reason why most of Adora's day off hoodies have small strands of orange fur stuck to them.

Still. I want to get her something that's hers. Something she'll like. Something she doesn't have to share with anyone, not even me.

In the end, she nearly walks past it. In one of the artisanal shops that dot small towns like liver spots, she finds a display of hand stamped necklace pendants, with a design sheet beside it. There are a lot of the usual nature designs and such, but the one that catches her eye is a treble clef with the five staff lines bleeding out from it. They ring the edge of the pendant in a half circle, and scattered haphazardly along the lines are the other music notes.

The lack of proper order would drive Adora insane. She understands that it's just meant to look pretty, not be an accurate representation of musical notation, but still... She knows her own (broken) brain well enough to know that.

It suits Catra, though.

"Hey," Mismatched eyes looked down at Adora as her head draped backwards over the back of their desk chair, the throbbing behind her left eye threatening to escalate into a migraine. "Guess I don't have to ask how the composing's going."

"It sucks," Adora groused back, sitting up and gesturing Catra over. She jabbed at two particular spots with the half chewed off eraser end of her pencil, two hard jabs each, like she was filing a complaint. "Most of it is just what I'm going for, but these two places here... They aren't sounding right. I've been going back and forth over structure all afternoon, but nothing I do helps."

"Hmmm..." Catra stroked her chin and nudged Adora over so she could sit on the arm of the chair (they'd never gotten around to requesting a second, mostly because Adora didn't want to risk Shadow Weaver suspecting they were getting too chummy.) "Got any scratch paper?"

Adora pointed to the pile of half crumpled notebook paper she used when making adjustments and Catra snorted. "Ok, dumb question. Just let me see here..."

Grabbing a pen, she quickly inked a fresh set of staff lines and copied the notes Adora had already put down, making sure to leave space to work. Glancing between the two, she drummed her fingers on the desk, playing along in her head.

"Hmm..." Catra murmured, worrying at her lower lip with a fang in a manner that was... Oddly distracting. "Ok, how 'bout this?"

Adora jolted, tearing her gaze from Catra's face to look at the sequence of notes scribbled onto the scratch paper. She paused, brow furrowing as she played them over in her mind's eye. It was a little unorthodox, veering away from the path she had carefully laid out... But also blending well with the next part. Almost like the notes took a quick detour and then lead the listener back to where she wanted them.

"Yeah..." Adora replied thoughtfully, the tension all over her body starting to smooth out. "Yeah, that could work."

"Awesome. Let's take a look at the next part."

They ultimately ended up spending several hours going over the entire piece, sussing out every place where Adora was having even the slightest niggle of unease. She didn't accept all of Catra's changes and Catra didn't push the matter, but the ones she did...

They felt right. More right than they had ever felt when it was just Adora running circles around herself.

When they finally finished up she looked over at Catra, tail waving sedately in that way it got when she was simultaneously engaged but relaxed, and asked, "Umm... Do you want to learn with me? I like doing this."

'I like making music with you.'

Catra paused, looking over at Adora searchingly, almost like she couldn't believe the question had come up. No matter how many years had passed between them, that look never really went away, and every time she saw it Adora's chest ached in a way that was hard for her to process.

"I'd like that."

Catra's composing style is very different from Adora's. More wild, more willing to bend and break the rules if it means maintaining audience engagement, but there's always an underlying order to the chaos. To her surprise and pleasure, Adora found herself learning just as much from Catra as Catra was learning from her. Their styles brought out the best in each other.

The jingle of a bell kicks her out of the memory. Mind made up even though it's nearly double her budget, Adora scans the stand of necklaces for the one with the treble clef pattern.

It isn't there. Adora swallows down the disappointment, though she can't help the sigh. Of course. The town was well aware of the large population of music students a short drive away and catered to them accordingly. But there are also dozens of kids out on the street tonight. It isn't that big of a surprise that the design sold out.

Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless.

She's just begun to turn away when a voice calls from the back. "Hang on a sec there, little miss."

Adora jumps, but remains where she is as a large Taurian man with a massive snow white beard trundles out from a door behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "Was there a particular design you were interested in?"

Adora points at the treble clef, hope rising. "This one. But it looks like it's already sold out."

"Hmm..." The man scratchs at his chin. "Well with Winterfest coming up, I'm out of blank pendants-"

Adora's shoulders slump.

"-But," The man continues with a smile. "I can double stamp it onto the back of another. Ordinarily I'd charge extra for that, but it's my fault for not ordering enough blanks. Rookie move. Besides, it's the holidays. Now would that be all right by you?"

Nodding frantically in case he changes his mind, Adora scans the other designs, quickly alighting on one in particular. "That one!"

"The claw marks? Bit of an odd combination, but the customer is always right," The old man winked as he reached out to take the necklace from her. "My jig and press is in the corner over here if you wanna watch."

Adora was glad he specified, because as nice as the man seemed there was no way in hell she was going into a back room with a stranger. But she stood next to the window beside a display of miscellaneous knick knacks and puzzles, watching him carefully place the pendant in a cushioned stand to avoid damaging the already printed side and tighten it into place before moving beside the machine.

"You're gonna want to cover your ears," He tells her, patting the machine with one massive hand. "Had to switch to a steam press when the arthritis caught up to me. Used to do it all by hammer. This boy's okay, but he gets loud."

Adora nods, glad for the warning when he bellows "Clear!" and the machine's hammer comes down once, twice, three times with a sound like the ringing of an enormous bell. Once the machine is stopped and carefully turned off, the old man removes the pendant from the press and hands it over to Adora for inspection. "What do you think? Does it pass muster?"

Adora runs her fingertips over the impressions in the metal, memorizing the feel of it, the leftover warmth of the impact. "Perfect."

"Good. Now let's get you rung up."

Counting the five dollars she attempted to surreptitiously slip into the tip jar (the old man winked as he turned back around, so stealth fail) Adora went very over budget, but the others would have to put a gun to her head for her to admit it.

Besides, it's Catra. They already know she's the sole exception to all of Adora's carefully maintained rules.

With everything finished, she continues trudging through the snow toward the park, breathing a sign of relief as she moves away from the shopping district and the people thin out; no one wanting to go to the park in the middle of such bleak weather. Angling around a clustered group of bare trees, she spots the small clock tower in the distance, as well as the figure already standing beside it. Grinning, Adora picks up the pace a bit until she can see Catra clearly and--

Her breath catches.

Since her only experience with this kind of thing has been through books, Adora always expected this moment would be more dramatic. Like back to back in the middle of a fight, or eyes locking from up on stage. Something spectacular, like fireworks, lime explosions, like the feeling of playing a song without a single mistake for the first time. It's always seemed like such a big deal in the stories, and in a way, it is.

Because there's Catra, lost in her own world as she gazes up at the streetlight that's just come on, her left hand extended to let the snowflakes fall into her palm and the light catches the orange of her fur just right to make a blaze of color against the black of her coat. She looks so small, standing in that space all alone on a cold winter's night, but Adora knows deep down that she could never be that small, not when she's Catra, not when she means so much...

Pretty much everything about the past hour--about her entire life since they met if she's being honest--snaps into crystal clear focus.

Oh. I get it now. I'm in love with you.

It's a bad idea. Adora knows that. Shadow Weaver is enough of a menace while believing Catra is simply her roommate, her sometime tool--and Catra had ended up being all too right about the torture not stopping, even after years of Adora trying to direct Weaver's attentions away from her. If the evil old bitch figures out Adora's feelings run deeper, so much deeper...

Her heart beats double time. This whole thing is an unmitigated disaster.

But it's still the best worst thing that's ever happened to her.

She must make a noise, because Catra's ear twitches in her direction, snapping her out of that distant contemplation. She turns her head and looks at Adora, lips curling in a lopsided grin. "Hey, Adora. Wow, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Adora blinks, coming back to herself and mumbling the first excuse that springs to mind. "... Just cold."

"Well no shit. C'mere."

When she closes the distance Catra glances around warily, making sure they're the only ones around, before reaching up and retying the scarf around Adora's neck, patting it once when she's done. "There. I know I make it look good, but you don't have the advantage of fur like me."

Adora looks down at the thin AC/DC t-shirt that Catra's wearing beneath her half open coat, the line of her collarbones and neck, and makes a snap decision. "Is it okay if I give you your present now?"

Catra blinks, a little thrown by the non sequitur. "I mean... Sure? Do you want me to give you yours?"

"I'm good with either," Adora shrugs, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating, how much she wants to do this before this moment slips away. "I just want to."

There's a long moment of silence as they each examine the other, equally searching. What Catra's looking for, Adora doesn't know. She isn't sure she wants to know.

"Okay."

Breathing deep, Adora reaches into her pocket and pulls out the necklace on its leather cord. Careful to keep the pendant hidden in her hand, she passes it over, fingertips sparking as it's taken. Catra brings it close to her face, running her fingers over the four parallel slashes on the side facing her.

"Why the claw marks?"

Adora laughs, nervous butterflies positively rioting in her stomach. "Because you're a badass. Duh."

"True," Catra smirks, flipping it over and squinting at the other side. "And this?"

"Badass, loves music with all your heart. Not mutually exclusive concepts," Adora says, trying not to give away how much she thinks about this, how much she wants to take that hand in hers. She settles for a playful shoulder bump instead. "Plus we all know you're secretly a big softie."

"Excuse you, I am all sharp edges," Catra giggles, lightly elbowing her before transitioning into a soft little smile. "... Just not with everyone."

Oh God oh God oh God. That smile will absolutely be the death of her.

Swallowing past her horrible awareness of that softness, Adora asks, "So you like it?"

"I love it. Good luck ever getting me to take it off," Catra laughs, then frowns, flexing her fingers. "Hands have gone a little numb, though. Help me put it on?"

Adora.exe promptly crashes to desktop. But she still somehow manages to move, helping Catra hold back her mane so she can slip the leather cord over her head and tuck it beneath her hair. If she hesitates a moment too long in letting go, at least Catra only shoots her an amused glance. "How's it look?"

"Great," Adora manages to croak out, trying to swallow past the sudden dryness in her throat. "You look great. Umm... Happy early Winterfest, I guess?"

"Well, I'm gonna hold onto yours a little longer," Catra laughs, playfully sticking out her tongue before reaching out. "C'mere, you big dork."

Adora shuffles closer, mind and heart both screaming as Catra draws her into a hug, nuzzling her head against the side of her neck. A little whisper. "Thank you."

Adora swallows again, even harder. "You're welcome."

Between them, the necklace rests, the music side pressed right up against Catra's heart.

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Fun fact: the shopkeep is based off a cool old dude selling machine pressed necklaces I ran into at a Scottish festival when I was 13, and he made such an impression I never forgot him. Anyway, happy Valentine's! Have a Big Gay Realization!

#answers #rhythm & blues #the catradora rockstar au #featuring adora's big gay realization #and also fantasy christmas

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