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ladylooch · 11 months

Note

What if you and Nico met in NYC through friends in common since you have a very nice job there, and after spending a lot of time together and being flirty Nico asks you to be his gf but you say no, not because you don’t like him but because he is a pro athlete, and that doesn’t mean he’ll cheat but the fact that he’ll have to be away almost all of the time. You can do whatever you like for the end ☺️☺️

You’re Not The One - Nico Hischier

A/N: OHHHH!!!! I LOVE THIS! Also, Nico strikes me as the guy who catches feelings first in a situationship ( did I use that right?? Old.) Also, I kept flipping between I and You while writing this so sorry in advance if there are missed POV edits.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Swearing, angst, implied smut/a little bit of heat, probably POV mistakes because editing is still not my strong point.

It’s a Wednesday night in the middle of winter. Snow is coming down in windy droves outside of your New York City apartment building. The white flakes completely erase your normally spectacular view of the rest of the city.

“It’s getting a little dicey out there.” You murmur to Nico glancing away from where you are sweating out vegetables. They are the very beginning of a spectacular chicken and dumpling soup you had growing up on nights like this. Nico is scratching at the back of his head, mindlessly while watching the Rangers and Carolina play on the TV. He looks out the window to his right.

“Yeah, I might have to stay tonight.” He’s nonchalant about it, but a smirk tilts one side of his mouth up at you.

“Like you weren’t already.” You chuckle, tossing in some more salt and pepper.

“Like you don’t want my warmth in your bed anyway.” He says as he stands, grabbing his empty beer bottle. He tosses it into the recycling, then heads to the fridge to grab himself another. On his way, he grabs the bottle of Josh Pinot Noir open on the counter. He tops your wine glass off, dropping a kiss on your cheek as he shoves the cork back into the bottle. “Can I help?”

“No. It’s your off night. Sit down and relax.”

“Well one of us worked today and one of us didn’t.” His hands go to your hips, sliding in behind your body so your butt brushes against his front.

“Nico.” You warn when he presses his hips a bit further in.

“Shhh.” He murmurs, kissing the back of your neck.

You and Nico have, on occasion, hooked up. The first time was a drunken mistake, the second a lonely one, and the third was last week, but you’re still not quite sure how you would describe it. Not with the way Nico had looked at you the whole time or how soft and slow and perfect it all felt. In general though, you would consider Nico to be a friend… with certain benefits, depending on the day and your mental state.

Nico is great, truly, but he’s not the one.

You have a very specific list of what you want in your partner. It includes safety- physical and emotional, someone who is attentive, spends time investing in the things you enjoy. Someone who won’t just meet your parents, but sit down and get to know them. Someone who asks about your past relationship to understand how you got to be you. A partner you can count on to be there when you need them, no matter the obstacles in the way.

Nico Hischier checks every single box on your list. He’s practically perfect, except one flaw. He’s a professional athlete. The list of cons to that are a mile long. You’d rather not be a part of that world. The drama involved with being a WAG, let alone the captains WAG, feels as though you would be on two strikes before anything even started with Nico.

Plus, you’ve been to his games before. You’ve seen the endless temptations that line the glass and the parking lot exits to get a picture or a chance to speak to him. You’ve seen the social media handles with different versions of Mrs. Nico Hischier. You’ve seen the looks shot in your direction when you’re out and Nico puts a hand on your back to guide you through a crowd. You don’t want to compete with all that. And you don’t want to lay awake, wondering if tonight is the night his guard slipped and he picked someone else for a minute.

You scan Nico’s face. No, you couldn’t bare the thought of losing him in such a way. So, you take what you can get and keep your strings as unattached as possible.

“Neeks, I’m serious. You’re going to make me burn dinner.” His lips continue to assault your neck, pausing and nipping at a few places he knows will turn your legs to gelatin.

“I’m starving for something else.” His hands swim up your rib cage then grope each of your breasts.

“Okay, but fast.” You cave, turning the burner off and allowing him to pick you up.

“This tastes better than last time.” Nico says to you two hours later. You are both naked in bed, slurping soup in content silence.

“I used a different dumpling recipe this time. It’s not as dense.”

“Mmm, it’s not that.” His voice is pointed. You hide your red cheeks behind your soup bowl and watch his spoon disappear into his mouth. The same mouth that just spent 30 minutes worshiping between your legs. “So sweet.” He murmurs so he can watch the pink explode across the rest of your face.

“Salty too.” You quip back, flicking your tongue out. Nico laughs, brown eyes squinting into mischievous glistening slits.

“Are you around tomorrow night? We play Ottawa at 7.” You know he is asking if you need tickets.

“I am working the suite tomorrow.” You adjust the blanket further up your chest, feeling a slight chill creep in from the cold night.

Your job as a Client Relations Manager is how you and Nico know each other in the first place. Your employer, Prudential, is a long-time sponsor of the Devils. You frequently host clients throughout the season and interacted with players for meet and greets and tours. During one of those nights, you and Nico began to talk, realizing you had many friends in common around the greater NYC area. It didn’t take long to set up drinks and establish regular happy hours as a big group. Nico bops in and out depending on his schedule, but it’s been two years of consistent, valuable friendship between you two.

“Nice. I think it’s my turn for the meet and greet.”

“Yeah, I saw you on the schedule earlier today.”

“Cool. We can grab some food after.” Nico’s fingers trail along your arm, your soup bowls forgotten on the nightstands during your conversation.

“We’ll see. I get so tired after suite nights.”

“I know. We can just grab something to-go and head to my place since it’s closer.”

“I have to go to work the next day.”

“Okay, just give me your packed bag before I go to skate tomorrow and you can go to work from my place. It’s closer for you anyway.”

You widen your eyes and look away from him. This is sounding very relationship-y.

“I don’t mind.” He fills in, reading your look.

“I know you don’t and that might be part of the problem.”

Nico looks at the ceiling, pursing his lips together to avoid a laugh. Then he rolls onto his side, bringing his hand to your back to pull you into him. His breath fans across your face with how close he is to you.

“We are so good together.” He begins to kiss along your neck, dipping into the part of your throat that meets your chest. “Let’s do this… for real.”

“This feels pretty real to me.” You murmur, tugging at his locks.

“You know what I mean. Be my girlfriend.” He pulls away to look into your face. He licks his lips, studying your surprised expression.

Internally, you’re panicking. He’s ruining this. You were supposed to just have fun. You never expected Nico to turn this into something serious. He’s a professional athlete- they usually don’t want that at your age. But as you think, you remember the changes you’ve seen in Nico the last few weeks. Longer goodbye kisses, more time in bed talking rather than fooling around. Then there was the constant insistence that you’re at every Devil’s home game in his seats, not Prudential’s.

He’s leaning in close, lips almost on yours like he already knows your answer. You wince, placing a pausing hand on his chest.

“No.”

Nico’s eyes fly open and he pulls back, staring at you like a wounded puppy, which makes you feel like shit.

“No?” He tests the word in his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue before the word is complete.

“I like the way things are right now.”

“I do too, so why wouldn’t we make this official?” He swallows hard, removing his hand from around your back. He’s no longer touching you at all.

“Why rock the boat? This is good for me.”

“Why not?” He asks, furrowing his eyebrows. You can tell he didn’t see this conversation going this direction and he’s beginning to spiral. You can feel him creating distance with each passing second.

“You know how I feel about the spotlight on me.”

“Yeah, so? I’ll protect you. We’ll keep it off social media and you don’t have to wear anything with my name on it like the other girls.”

“You know that no matter how careful we are, they will find me.”

“Well, at some point, we will want people to know about us. But it doesn’t have to be right now.”

“It all seems like a lot of work for something that isn’t forever.” You mumble, staring at his bare chest rather than his brown eyes filing with hurt. He says nothing, but you can feel his stare boring into your face. You pull in a deep breath, then gather the courage to face him head on. “You’re going to be a professional athlete for a long time, which is great. I’m so happy and proud of you for living your dream. But I don’t want that for my life. You’re great, Nico.” He begins to pull completely away, rolling off the bed and starting to put his clothes back on. “And if you did anything else for a job, I would-“

“Please stop talking.” Nico insists as he pulls his shirt back over his shoulders. “I get it. It’s a lot.”

He grabs his wallet, keys and hat from the dresser.

“Are you leaving?” You whimper.

“Yeah. What the fuck am I supposed to do after that? Stay? Your words were crystal clear about what this is to you, Y/N.” You’re taken aback by both his tone and the swearing. Nico rarely swears in front of you.

“Nico.”

“Thanks for dinner.” Is the last thing he says before he walks out of your room. You can barely breathe as you sit up, clutching your comforter to your bare chest. The sound of the door softly clicking shut barely registers before you collapse back into your pillows.

Regret begins to nag at the back of your mind.

Did you do the right thing?

Or did you just lose everything?

- - -

It’s your night to host clients in the suite at the Devils game. Normally, these are your favorite nights. Not this one. This one includes a locker room tour and a special meet and greet with Devil’s captain, Nico Hischier. And after your fight last night, he’s the last person you want to see. But also, not? Everything is confusing and you wish Nico had never come over last night to begin with.

Everything would still be normal if he hadn’t.

You stand at the top of the suite seating section, off to the side, away from clients and your coworkers. Your arms are crossed tightly over your mid-section as the Devils begin a power play towards the end of OT. Nico wins the face-off back to Dougie Hamilton, him and Jack Hughes play keep away before Dougie unleashes a shot, tipping in off Nico’s stick.

“Yes!” You scream, jumping up and down with the rest of the arena. You clap enthusiastically, hollering a ‘way to go, Neeks’ before sharing in congratulatory high-fives with others in the suite. Your smile hurts your cheeks from how big it is. You’re so proud of Nico’s two goals and first star reward, despite the distance between you now.

“How amazing is it that our clients get to interact with the captain after his game-winning goal? I sense more investments already.” Your boss high-fives you last, then proceeds to boast about how amazing it is to everyone else.

You don’t feel the same. Instead, you feel anxious and want to curl into a ball, avoiding your job and sneaking away into the cold night alone.

When you walk into the locker room a bit later, it has mostly cleared out. Nico is standing at his stall, dressed, with a stocking hat coverings his wet hair. Normally, he lights up when he sees you. Today, his face is neutral. You drop your gaze to the rubber mats, then stay towards the back of the group, letting your boss take control.

Nico is as sweet and gracious as ever, taking time to speak to each person individually. He’s so good at this part, making people feel like he genuinely is enjoying his time with them. It’s because he does. He loves fans and enjoys hearing their stories. He signs numerous things, even extras for someone’s nephew and his friends, who thinks Nico walks on water, literally.

“Please tell Alex and his friends I appreciate his support.” He smiles, handing back a couple signed pictures to the woman.

“Oh, Nico, Thank you. He is going to be so excited.”

“You are welcome. I hope he has a great birthday next week too.” He smiles. You are at the end of the line, so Nico raised his eyes to you once she moves along. “Anyone else?” His tone has changed being directed at you. It’s monotonous and unfamiliar.

“No.” I purse my lips after I speak, hating the way his eyes immediately move away from me to the Devils PR director, Megan. He’s signaling it’s time to wrap it up.

“Okay all, let’s get a quick picture and then Nico needs to head out.” Megan says, ushering the group back together for a quick snap. I stay to the side. My boss thanks Nico again and he begins to move towards the exit.

“Hey.” I call softly to Nico as he tries to pass me. “Can we talk? I hate how we left things.”

“I don’t think there is much more to talk about. Have a good night, Y/N.”

“We are still friends, Nico.” You mutter in annoyance, keeping your voice low so the rest of the group doesn’t hear.

“No, we aren’t. Not anymore.”

Alarms ring in your head at his words. You never expected your friendship to be over along with whatever benefit situation you had before. This is overwhelming. And your brain begins to race to come up with a way to stop him.

The door swinging shut tells you it’s too late. You can’t follow him. Because you don’t have the right credentials and you can’t leave your clients unexpectedly. Plus, you can’t allow for anyone to know about… whatever this was or is and now isn’t. Your lips purse instead as you slowly step back to the group, staying quiet for the remainder of the tour.

You figure Nico is long gone by the time you are done. You turn out of the locker room with the rest of the group and see Nico standing in the hallway talking to a gorgeous female. You recognize her as one of the Swiss models he follows religiously on Instagram. Well, I guess he’s already over whatever this was. And she would fit in great with the other WAGS. She has a sense of fashion, flawless skin and shiny hair. They look good together. Acid burns up your esophagus at the thought of his hands on her.

“Thanks again, Nico.” Your boss extends his hand for another hand shake. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at how obnoxious he is after three bourbons. Nico and you regularly make fun of him after these encounters, sharing a pint of ice cream on your couch. He would swear he’s just coming up for a night pint, then you would wake up tangled together on the couch at 3am. Nico would eventually carry you to bed and you would hold each other there instead.

You crave those moments with him tonight. Instead, Nico doesn’t even give you another glance as you walk by.

Megan directs your group to the exit, You reach into your purse for your keys, cursing when you can’t find them in their usual spot. You dig around, not seeing them anywhere. Then you remember setting them down on the counter when you first got to the arena tonight.

“Shoot. Megan, I left my keys upstairs.”

“No problem, I’ll take you back there.”

You rush back upstairs, finding them right where you left them. Megan heads down the elevator with you, thanking you for another great night of supporting the Devils.

“No problem! We love this partnership.” I assure her.

“Yeah. Will we be seeing you next game?” She asks as the doors open.

“Ah, no it will be the other client rep, Adam.”

“Oh okay. Well maybe I’ll see ya in the family section.” You’ve been in Nico’s seats enough that some of the staff members know you’re friends. “You can head out that door right there and should be right outside your parking space.”

“Great, thank you.” You toss her a wave.

You begin to head towards the door across the way. Nico crosses in front of your path, head tilted down towards his phone as he walks down to where his car is parked. You’ve done that walk with him before. He’s alone and you want to try to speak to him again to make this better.

“Nico!” You call, quickening your stride to catch up with him.

“Hm?” He stares back at you like you couldn’t possibly have anything to discuss with him. It’s unnerving. You don’t really know what to say next. You just gesture to the side with the hand that’s clutching your keys, thinking about his words in the locker room not long ago.

“So, we can’t… even be friends now because I won’t be anything more?” You shake your head, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter at the confrontation with him.

“No, Y/N. Maybe being just friends works for you, but it doesn’t for me. I can’t.”

That hurts, and it shows on your face, which makes Nico shift from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“Why?” You snap at him just like he did to you last night.

“I’m in love with you.” He whispers, shoulders shrugging. “How do you not know that?”

Everything slows in your body. Your blood, your heart rate, your breathing. The world begins to disappear until it’s just you and Nico in the underbelly of the arena. You obviously knew Nico had feelings for you, but you didn’t know it was love. And when he says those words to you, it awakens an awareness of what you feel for him.

Maybe it’s not about all the checked boxes. Maybe its about how you feel with him. And how he treats you like a queen while expecting nothing in return. You know there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you. Maybe being a professional athlete’s girlfriend is hard, but you know he is worth it.

Maybe the list simply begins and ends with Nico Hischier.

“Nico..” You start then trail off. How do you respond? How will you tell him about everything that is coursing through your body at his confession. How will you make it look like you’ve known exactly what this is all along. That it isn’t just to appease him or keep a part of him around. But instead, you are so desperately in love with him, even though it scares the shit out of you. He is immediately put off by your pause and shakes his head in misery. He begins to turn. “Please don’t leave.” Your voice quivers, making him still with his back to you.

Your heels echo with each tentative step forward, you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together so you can pull him to look at you again. Your other hand winds around his hips so you press tightly to the front of his body. When your eyes meet, Nico sees it there.

“Say it.” He whispers.

“I love you.” He devours your mouth the second after the words fall.

“Again.” He begs against your lips.

“I love you, Neeks.” Your hands dash into his hair, tongue teasing against his lips.

“What about this life?” His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed like he’s too afraid of your answer.

“We’ll figure it out… together.”

“I’ll keep you safe. I promise. You’ll always be taken care of. I can’t promise you everything is going to be easy, but we’ll figure it out.”

“I know. Don’t worry about it. I want you. All of you.”

He pulls away to take you in completely.

“Wanna come over? We can eat ice cream and pizza and celebrate my wins tonight.”

“Wins?”

“Yeah, the game and you.” You grin, liking the way he looks at you when he says those words.

“My car is here. I can drive over though.”

“No, we can move your car inside the arena for the night.”

“Um, really? That is allowed?”

“Yeah, baby. You’re dating the captain now. Welcome to your new world.” He chuckles, leaning down to cover your lips with his. “Give me your keys.” You do so, watching as he walks over to the parking attendant. The man nods in understanding, then jogs out the door. Minutes later, the large rolling door slides up and your car comes through, parking beside Nico’s Mercedes.

“I’ll leave the keys with hockey ops. Have a great night.” The attendant salutes us both, then wanders away. You stare at your car, then look at Nico incredulously. He is as unfazed as ever except for the heart eyes beating on his face for you.

“Ready, beautiful?”

“Yeah.” You breathe out, sliding into the passenger seat of his car. The familiar leather hugs your body in luxury. Nico rolls slowly out of the arena, cameras clicking, fans desperate for a peek, calling his name and asking for signatures. “You can stop if you want to.” You say to him, knowing you’ll be seen with him and suddenly finding that not so terrifying with his hand in yours.

“Not tonight.” He brings your hand to his mouth, delicately kissing it. “Tonight is all about us.”

#Nico Hischier x reader #nico hischier fan fic #new jersey devils #my writing #hockey writing #nhl fan fiction #nico hischier #writing request #NHL imagine

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yanderehighschool-confessions · 1 year

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This is really derivative, but I'm bored and I'm just going to ramble about this. To the (possible) minority of you that have actually watched SirCutieYuki's continuation on YHS - Akuma through to Time Leap - some things quite frankly do not add up. Namely, how is c!Yuki's father Karu alive in Moncher High School when he literally got wasted in the latter half of YHS? There's inconsistencies like that scattered throughout the whole thing...and don't even get me started on how the ending of Toyko Soul makes it impossible for any of Yuki's role-play's to even occur in the first place. I believe Yuki themselves have said that her role-play is sort a gray area; it seems to take place after the events of YHS, but also not at the same time.

Of course, she describes it a bit differently, but that is the basic gist of the explanation. For giggles, let's assume that all of Yuki's role-plays take place directly after YHS- how? Well, considering c!Yuki flat-out dies at the end of YHS and somehow manages to come back in Akuma Academy, only offering the very nonchalant line, "I may have hit my head a little on the way down," I'm assuming that it's all a purgatory of sorts. This would largely be due to her actions during YHS. This would explain all of the oddities throughout Yuki's series, namely how Karu is somehow alive, the universe ending events in Tokyo Soul do no affect the role-play, etc.

So, if this is the case and c!Yuki is trapped in purgatory, what exactly is it for- to torture c!Yuki? To an extent, yes. I don't believe it's a coincidence that c!Yuki is constantly going from school-to-school where people, mostly hear dearest friends, die by the hands of a murderous spirit who bares a striking resemblance to herself in YHS. It's ironic, and exactly what she needed. I've noticed a trend with Yuki's role-plays: as c!Yuki progresses as a person, so does the number of deaths decline.

We see the most deaths occur in Akuma Academy, which is closest to the events of YHS, so that checks out. Transitioning to Time Leap, no deaths occur in that series at all. This detail becomes prudent when you realise the entire point of Time Leap is c!Yuki going back in time and making peace with people in her past. I believe that the end of Time Leap is c!Yuki finally moving on from purgatory and finally moving onto whatever comes next. C!Yuki, after years of facing death, despair and heartbreak over and over, is finally at peace.

If this is true, I think it is a beautiful redemption story for c!Yuki. If you ever decide to watch Yuki's role-play again, I recommend doing so with this thought in mind. It really makes me view it differently.

(Sorry for any grammatical or spelling mistakes)

#Yandere High School #Yandere Highschool #YHS #YHS Confession #Samgladiator #SirCutieYuki #Sir Cutie Yuki #C!Yuki #Akuma Academy #Moncher High School #Time Leap #Other Series #CC!Yuki #Yakuza Karu #yukstergm #Long Post #YHS Theory #YHS Headcanon

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voltstone · 24 days

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scav·eng·er | TWDG Retelling | 4

HEARTH pt.1

why can't she feel like she used to?

[9,591] [May.09.2024]

— — —

There's a tag (#twdgscav fic) for if you want to follow this story and not my whole blog.

But, as a swift note before this chapter, while I'll maintain that this fic is unhinged, and shall get progressively more so as it goes on, it's also a crack taken seriously kind of thing.

Meaning, the cannibalism and the reverse-bite(?) is allegorical to a loss of innocence, and it's an exploration of a survivor after the trauma itself. And the psychology behind it. And like. You know. The horror. So turn to this chapter where it's the first that directly addresses it, and Clementine. I know this is dead dove, but I figure I'd preface what this fic gets into since that wasn't something I thought to do initially, but here we are.

Somewhere down the line I'll probably either reorganize these posts, delete them all together (and replace them with one collective post), or something like that. This fic will be posted on Tumblr regardless, though. Rest assured.

Anyway. Hope you enjoy!

— — —

AO3 | FF | Wattpad

[Previous] | [Next (TBW)] | [First Chapter]

A dying man was still clung to her, in nicotine's breath, upon her return to the cabin. Pete still is.

And she stands here, in the kitchen, with an awkward lean against the counter peninsula. Clementine wonders if the stale tobacco is as strong as she thinks, or if it's just how the scent matted her nose, obscured the citric orchards. A wince irks for her face. She swallows it down.

Turns out, a mauled arm isn't something to lean on.

Not now, in company of a man with a voice like his, and the words crafted by a canniness, a wit, suited for nightmare.

He was coming in either way.

He looks like every other man. Heavy brow. Overgrown in both hair and face. Dark on him, and lined by steel. In all, he wasn't someone she'd pay any mind to in the world before—back when the country was thriving, and she wasn't starving.

Until his eyes.

It's always the eyes.

"Bloody arm there. That's a real dark stain, don't you think?"

"Hunting accident."

"You don't say."

Except for when it's the words, suited for nightmare, clothed by a witful generosity.

Clementine knows better now.

Even if that generosity is a nonchalance in this man, she knows.

Her arm is biting when the man decides he's spent his time in the kitchen, and he stalks down into the living room. He remarks a flannel of Carlos'. Murmurs over a chess game in pause.

White's in trouble.

She pangs to know how to get this man away.

Only for a door to close, and for the man to find a polaroid.

Clementine feigns her indifference. It doesn't sway the man. His glower gleams canny.

"You don't know who these people are, do you…?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Let me ask you this, what do they think of your appetite?"

Deadbolt.

She twists from the inside. Squirms in her eyes. It takes everything to stand firm. Clementine doesn't budge. Refuses it.

"Oh, you haven't told them. "They don't know, do they?"

He lingers. Before he parts, and he's down the stairs.

Clementine watches him. Doesn't say a word. She only glares, and when she bites, her jaw aches. An agony finds a blade. It strikes.

When the door closes after him, and he disappears into the woods, there's Sarah beside her. Where Sarah quivers, Clementine hums beneath her skin. It pricks, so she works her jaw. Finds the blade again. Winces.

It takes too long to lumber down the stairs, and onto the couch. Sarah soothes the flannel's sleeve. She absentmindedly toys with one of the black pieces to the board—hers, with whatever game she had with Luke. The piece tips over. She doesn't bother to find it beneath the armchair.

And Clementine sits all the while, as Sarah's vacant onlooker.

Because her thoughts are winding. His voice echoes. Like gravel. Deep in the earth, enough for the cabin's mass grave.

"You have a real nice day now."

. . .

THE HUNGER WAS EVERYTHING

. . .

The dog bite heals swifter than Carlos first estimated.

It doesn't smooth over. Clementine doubts it ever will. Yet, in time, she figures it’ll be a meager blemish and nothing more.

And, she figures the way she's been parched for blood by the hour, and starved for flesh, has everything to do with the dog's lasting remark.

She needs to feed. Her jaw aches as well.

They've been walking for too long. Rebecca is drained. Sarah teeters her weight into Carlos from time to time. There’s wary eyes on Nick, and what he might do now, after Pete.

Clementine burns in her soles, and her eyes are drawling for shade; the sun pricks them until the world numbs, whenever there isn't the shade to find. Every time a noise cleaves her—an odd bark of laughter between Luke and Nick, or gunfire, or a whistle of Carlos' for an all clear—, Clementine feels an agitation rupture down her back. She toys with the hammer whenever it happens. And it is dangerous, given the urge to strike it down on…whoever, really. Whoever's unfortunate enough to be a little too close, and a little too loud.

It's as if there's a nail lodged through her ear, or a needle. Whatever it is, everyone has nudged it at least once, and its pike has seized her mind.

Everything whirls for a moment.

She's grown a habit to snap her eyes at whoever's laughing, or with the smoking gun, or Carlos and that damn whistle.

She bites her tongue often. Buries her nails through her jeans and their denim.

And toys with the hammer.

Gnaws on its handle, even. Until the seizing stops, and the world is what it once was again.

Clementine needs to eat.

She can't stomach their rations anymore. There's granola, and beans, and the last of what Pete hunted.

Yet here she is, around the…third fire, is it? The fourth or fifth? Clementine's lost track. Every day, there's at least one. With Rebecca, and her unborn son, maybe two. They're tired. They're panicked as well.

Rebecca above them all. Clementine sees the way she glances at her, and there’s a burden in her eyes. Alvin seems to be her anchor; he’s a good husband. Still, there’s a trace of… Not fear. It’s not quite that, though she does wear a shade of it too. Just…not in her eyes. Not really. Instead, it’s a nervousness—cold and bitter to Clementine’s nose. She suffocates in it, whenever Rebecca decides to stray over and talk to her. Make amends. For being a close breath away from shooting Clementine herself. Then, for the shed.

And then dinner. Where Rebecca apparently cussed her out while she was face-deep in soup, without a damn to give.

There’s no knowing, no understanding, when and how time escapes her like this. Nor every last thing around her because she has, and will, watch the trees drown, and the earth beneath her shoes fade. Her ears swarm. There’s a fog to trudge through. Words refuse to bile.

Clementine knows her mind is slipping between her fingers. She’s well aware, in fact. She just hates how her very mind likens itself to sand leaking from one glass into another. Grain by grain.

She doesn’t have the patience for this.

Not that she has the say. Clementine’s found herself drifting towards the woodland on occasion. With her absent mind, she doesn't mean to. Honest. She really doesn’t.

She still scares them though. Luke paws her shoulder to snap her back, or it’s Nick who does. Or Alvin. Or Rebecca.

Just about everyone, actually, the more Clementine thinks.

It's after they ask her to climb something, or help lug a log out of the way. They've realized she's strong for her size. Impressively so. Because they are all same: nervous, burdened, and outright strange in ways she’s never been. However, she nods along. Tries to fix on a smile, or something like it. All while swallowing down this…temptation. A trepidation. It reeks all around Clementine. When she warns them of the walker struggling low to the ground, they chuckle, compliment her prowess, when it's really just that temptation trying to guide her teeth.

She just wants to rest. For an hour. Long enough to slip away.

It's getting difficult. Her hands fidget before she realizes. And Clementine's snapped at Carlos twice now, then Nick. Even Sarah. Not with her eyes, but her words.

She leaves the woman and her baby alone.

Doesn't understand how she knows the baby is a boy.

Clementine keeps that quiet though.

Now when—? When…did this fire go out…?

Is she the only one left awake?

Clementine salivated at the last walker. A couple days ago, she did. They had to pass it on their trail, and it was one Nick had the aim to shoot. The walker was waterlogged. She may have not cared in the moment, about the waterlog. Because Clementine would've taken anything in that hour. Even a scrap. A lone finger. And she still is salivating. She's empty. Her stomach churns, and it teethes at all other organs. So she salivates, and it's to that walker's mere memory. Clementine smells rain now. It's enough to recall the lakewater and moss dripping off the thing…

She staggers from the rock she sat herself beside, when the sun was still crisp above the horizon. The fire now isn't out entirely. There's still a few embers going. But, the smoke is gone.

Enough of them are snug in their tents—aside for Nick, who's taken to watching the stars, blank in the face.

Her feet drag at first, before she stalks across their modest camp in the night. Someone else is pacing. She’s not alone. It’s Luke, if she has to guess; he does it whenever he's on watch. Clementine takes note. Has enough of a mind to avoid him best she can. Her eyes scour. They blitz across the woodland.

Her jaw aches. Anytime she tries to rock its pain, it throbs. The pain is sharp.

Sometimes she'll massage it in whatever reflection she comes across. The water likes to tell her the most about her eyes.

The color in them is vibrant. More than they should be. And she's been paling a bit too.

Clementine. Needs. To eat.

There's a groaning somewhere. A lone orchard's rot. She's called to it. To the camp's outskirt. It's a rough murmur between the trees, and she echoes it, to herself. Feels it harrow up her throat. There's a congestion to this. Tastes like… Like all the meals she's had, except it's sludging, and it's not from her stomach. It's— This is her, and only her.

Her voice gravels.

Sarah…

Clementine hears her. Sees her shadow lurch close. Sarah screams. It isn’t loud. There’s no true voice to her. None, because she’s out of breath. Can hear her heart. It thrashes. Stumbling now— Sarah’s flailing. Trips over something. In the dark, the shadows are painterly, and the dirt billows off their heels.

She’s lunging. There is a violent blur of momentum, and Clementine’s lunging.

Because this is Sarah, and Sarah's a friend. She is. And she sounds pained. Clementine will help her. Has to. She's a friend, so that's what they do.

They’re friends. Sarah said so.

Clementine knows only hunger, however.

Despite the shadows, Clementine finds where her nose guides her, and where her eyes acclimate. There’s a rotting hand. It swipes violently after Sarah. Doesn’t have the time to twist itself around—bite Clementine instead. She hurtles. Its groan is a winded snarl. Hers has more weight; it barrels from dearth's basin. And they're rattling down a decline, together. Her and this dead, with the live behind. It's not far. Hurts though. She grabs one of the rocks she's shouldered into, and Clementine bludgeons. It takes a few swings. Brainmatter flecks. The smell revolts her. It's nothing like the marmalade. Instead, it’s too much. The acid. The citrus. It’s too much.

Behind her, Sarah fights for her breath. She whimpers something like a name.

And Clementine does not hear her. She’s scraping at its stomach, before the chest. This is made difficult without a knife. She doesn't have the hammer, nor its claw.

"Cl-Clementine, what are you—?!"

"Come … the fuck on already…"

She's seething. The sludge in her words, it's coarse. Clementine can only scratch so deep.

This one's fresh. God, it's fresh.

"Cl-em…?!"

It's fucking infuriating how fresh it is—

She just wants. To eat. One fucking full meal.

For. Fucking. Once.

Clementine clasps her hands together. Her teeth are bared. Agitation seethes between them. She socks both fists into the walker—aims for the ribcage. Twice. Feels bone snap the first time. Break through the second.

She's smiling.

It hurts how much she is.

Her fingers dig for the shards, and she uses them, leverages them—pulls the walker's chest apart. (Someone screams without air.) Skin frays with muscle, but that's not quite what she's after. Clementine brings some to her mouth anyway. Her hand closes around the chest's marrow. The center of it all. Clementine pulls. (That someone is whimpering now.) Her shoulder burns from the ferocity. When the vessels snap, and the tendons rubberband, she tears the heart free. (Hysterically. Silent, but hysterically.)

It's a pound of blood, and muscle, and fat. All in her one hand.

(She can hear Sarah's heart rocket up the girl's neck and pommel behind her ears.)

Clementine bites.

If a granola bar could be a dream, this is yearning reaped like pure treasure.

The meat to a heart tastes raw, and like iron. It's firm from the years of flexion. Rich in blood. So, so unbelievably rich in blood. The clots molt to her tongue. Its muscle begins to fray the more she works through. Her hands tear it apart. She will eat this. Clementine will devour this organ in its entirety.

Her breaths are rabid.

Her own heart—alive, or not—, it thrashes behind her ears.

Does so to the muse of this meal splitting in her hands, the leakage as well, and does so in harmony to those rabid breaths as they fog. It's cold enough tonight—for those breaths, and for the lukewarm meal to scald her.

She will sleep well.

Clementine will evade nightmare, not quite dream though. Her stomach shall anchor her to the earth.

A rifle tilts.

The safety is pulled, and the barrel finds company with the air right behind her neck, then her head.

Clementine may have just been a bit dramatic with this meal. Or this is just how it is, blossoming in the grey between bitten child to bitten adolescence.

She cranes a glare over her shoulder. Looks Luke dead in his eyes while he…tries to hold her dead to rights. To…this. Whatever this is. Luke visibly struggles to understand why, precisely, a kid has half a walker heart in her hands, and the other half swallowed. Then a corpse eviscerated at her feet. A corpse that was just walking, mind. And truth be told, Clementine can hardly blame him. She doesn't really know either, won’t ever know, just that it is vile. This is degenerate.

Somewhere down the line, she doesn't quite know when, she's stopped questioning it.

This…was something to welcome.

Because once there was a time when the dead didn’t walk either, and Clementine as a monstrosity is reality’s mere, feeble mirror. At least, that’s what she’s decided for herself. She decides a lot of things this way.

…losing Christa, it might've done something. Clementine hasn’t really acknowledged the void left behind, how it’s in the shape of her.

Their last attempt at a dinner was lousy. And the rabbit she caught, strung above the fire, thought the same. Reminded her too that it was no walker. It would've never satisfied her like what pounds in her hands now.

Not that night, where she fell off cliffside, found a river to drown in—only to not, because damn humanity.

Clementine was able to bite back the taste for it, a mere week ago. Or however many days it has been.

For Christa's sake.

She can't now.

With much of her life, she doesn't understand.

"I know. I get it. This is really bad."

She doesn't understand.

She will still try to brush it aside, however, because she just can't swallow the urge anymore.

Not tonight.

She—

Clementine needs this.

Sarah has gone rigid. She's huddled by a trunk, with the tree’s roots swarmed around her. And her doe eyes are strained to the ground. Her mouth’s skewed shut.

Scared again. Sarah’s scared—horrified, even—, except this isn’t Clementine wandering off. This isn’t Clementine with a likewise fragile mind. Or, it is fragile, yet rather than collapse, her mind splits like glass. It shards whoever offers their hand. Nobody likes the reality; they’d rather not learn what it is they find. Omid died to it. Christa deteriorated right with her.

And now Sarah…

She’s horrified of her. Clementine’s done the one thing nothing else has: rattle her to an absolute silence. She doesn’t even rock herself.

Her doe eyes are not to the ground either. Not anymore. They’re watchful. She doesn’t allow Clementine to sink away, out of sight.

Luke as well. He stares, wildly, with the rifle poised. On him, however, Clementine doesn’t know what it is that locks her in place, ebbs some of the euphoria. There’s fear. There’s also confusion. He wears the one with a pale face. But he…festers in the other—the confusion. Which plagues him. Refuses to leave him.

He wears confusion like his body has failed him, and there’s nothing to do but walk into the night. Without a rifle. Without his blade strapped across his back.

"Wh-What— What are you doing…?!"

"Just let me have this… Please, Luke. I've been starving. "I need it. I-I need this."

The flesh wilts in her hand, then it throbs. Clementine's grip is ironclad.

So as her heart begins to pound through her palm, it almost gives the thing a new life.

And that new life dwells in her hand like slaughter. It cries in blood.

"You… You eat them?!"

"Y— Yeah…"

He sounds as desperate as she feels. Rather than desolation, however, Luke strains denial. He still sees a little girl. The same he plucked off the forest floor; a little girl weary with a walker loomed over her. Or, the one in the shed, backed into a corner—eyes ignited, because she can take care of herself after all.

Clementine nods. Slowly. Ignores the disgust as it sinches down his nose. Tries to. Can’t, really. Climbs to her feet though.

The heart stays in her hand.

"Yeah. When they're dead like that, yeah."

She wonders if he’s realizing what happened that night. Why the walker was splayed the way it was, and why she backed away from it—the farthest she could. This may be the paranoia, however. Logic isn’t the kind to sprint through moments like these. It likes to fall behind and wait for revulsion's spire to bolt down a backbone.

Clementine eyes the barrel. Wishes, again, that it shot her.

Before she finds Luke. He’s soft. The rifle sinks in his hands. It mouths into the earth.

"I was bit, Luke. Just … a long time ago. H-Honest, I'm not lying. "It did something to me. I can't— I can't control it anymore."

He believes her.

Whether it be her words, or the fact that this is the most coherent she’s likely been, it doesn’t matter. Luke believes her. The sky, the ground, and the trees between begin to warble. A bleary haze, now. She doesn’t hear the words he murmurs, barely sees the hand that reaches out. Because her skin is teeming. Her wet mouth pounds for her to return to the body and feast again.

Clementine blinks the blear away.

Revulsion does loiter, and in his eyes, there’s still the body at her feet. He doesn’t have his hand offered anymore. Luke doesn’t know what to say.

Leaves bristle, and branches snap. Moonlight glimmers before Sarah nudges her glasses by their frame.

"Y-Your mouth…"

"You're bleeding, Clem."

Blood is pooling on her tongue.

Clementine swallows thickly. She’s dumbstruck as her tongue massages, before a hand feels instead.

A gap. A hole in her mouth.

Clementine just lost a tooth. Luke is guiding her away. The heart is dropped, somewhere. Clementine still thumbs where the blood leaks. Her jaw croons, and it’s numbing. The pain doesn’t think itself a knife. The serration is lost.

She just—

Just lost a tooth. And Sarah is still rattling, but she’s almost smiling. Chirps weakly about this…milestone. Luke pales the more he hears about a tooth fairy because now is not the time, yet it is, because Sarah’s rattling, almost smiling, and… And Clementine knows how often his eyes snag on her skin—how it’s entrenched by blood. Not red, aside for what’s twined from her mouth. Black. Almost an oil.

He’s about to vomit. Can smell it on his breath.

Sarah too. Yet, somehow…, she finds a way to bite it down. She’s instead brimmed by a fairy, and milestone, and— And something… Something about a— A-A hero. Rattling. It’s all she can do.

When Clementine doesn’t answer her, and instead stalls to thumb along her teeth again, Luke mutters about money, and how they’d need the tooth anyway. Looks like he just about dies when he says it. The words crawl before they croak.

It’s not the time. It isn’t. This tooth fairy died with the country. Supposed to stay rotting.

Half of Clementine is standing beside the walker. Begging for Luke to understand. She really…, really wants to go back to that walker now. Dig around for the heart. Brush away the mulch. She draws the line with dirt; a rotting human is one thing, dirt is… Is another…

She’s walking away. Luke’s practically herding her. But no. No, half of her is—?!

Clementine was hardly done. She’s still…

Still hungry. It’s never enough. Her mouth is a pain, but it’s numbing, yet it’s bleeding.

What.

The actual fuck.

Nick is the first to ask why the hell they’re all so twisted around for.

Clementine doesn't answer. Doesn't dare unveil the rot bathed in her mouth, though perhaps the fresh blood is enough to charm her way out of—

Well. No. There isn't charming her way out of cannibalism. It's a thought spurned by losing… Losing a tooth. Her canine. On the right, her canine.

That shouldn't be. She—

Clementine has already lost this one…

Sarah exclaims about a walker, a tackle, then the stupid fucking tooth.

Luke just vomits horror. He also cries.

And she never thought she’d see the day.

When Carlos nudges past Nick, Clementine is thankful. There’s words to eat. She’s thankful to hear his voice, and to watch as his eyes dart between the three. He doesn’t think to chastise Sarah. Luke is hurling the rest of his stomach—enough for the doctor to grimace.

So he finds Clementine’s bloodied mouth.

Can’t answer.

Sarah does instead.

Goes on about a hero again. Like in a comic book, the one Sarah wishes she had the chance to read back at the cabin.

Clementine only thinks of the river. How this is the same. Plunging off a cliffside, straight into water—the half of her who lingered by the corpse, it has found her again. And down her hand is static. The blood is cracking where it’s dried. She’s been wrenched from a freefall, a euphoria, right into a frigid current.

Her eyes dart. There’s whiplash. Her mouth doesn’t feel like her own anymore. Lost something… She lost—

Why is he looking at her like that?!

Carlos watches her. He isn’t a man of words, come to find. At least, not with anyone aside for his daughter. He saves them for Sarah to savor, and Sarah to cling for.

He doesn’t smile at Clementine. Instead, Carlos squeezes her shoulder. The bite itches. That’s all.

She…just did something. Clementine did good.

A tenderness finds her. It’s warm—mouths like praise. Except this muses to Clementine something she already did learn. Once, in a time forever ago. It was already ingrained. The warmth is a haunting that shouldn’t be. Whatever this is she basks within, it should’ve come to her like an old friend. Not this. Clementine doesn’t know its name. Doesn’t know when it was lost, just that…it died, somewhere. In nightmare. And it still rots.

Yet it flails now. Like the dead around her.

And herself, if only Clementine would find the time to be honest with herself.

There is no nightmare. She doesn’t sleep for any to find her. That hour alone was nightmare enough. She doesn’t need the slaughter within haybale. Nor does she want to be slug around again, to the whims of her life’s malice evermore.

Instead, Clementine stares at the stars. She decides Nick has the right idea.

Her tongue grazes along her foreign mouth. There is no cease.

Maybe she is dead after all, and her body is what remains. This body.

Citrus is a mellow blanket from whatever lurks in the dark. There is no warmth, because all it does is whisper to her. And it whispers that the walkers have it better. The people they once were, they are not who stay behind.

None know the mute agony of fading away, only for their body to brew a vigor like nothing else.

Clementine does, for she’s been left behind to rot within this body of hers. Her heart has been silent. It’s caged by her very bones, and she’s mindless in her yearning. All she wanted was to feel a heart. It wasn’t her own, but it was enough. It bled, at least. She still tastes the scrap of what she once felt lurch within her by every passing day…

And her body bleeds beneath those stars. Enough to choke her. Like it finds this funny. The way her frenzy lost Clementine a tooth already matured—already the most human it can be—, it’s funny. Apparently.

Or it's not at all, nobody thinks that, and Clementine has just lost another thing she once had.

She doesn't understand.

Clementine doesn't. It becomes a mantra. And she never does find that musing's name.

"A pinky swear is forever."

Just an echo to a night's rain, and the promise therein.

The rest find the walker when morning comes.

Alvin is the first to comment. He’s the one who drops his flask by accident, and watches it topple down to the walker’s feet. And it’s a joke that comes to his mind first, something about having to watch for a worse thing than one of them.

Before he stalls. Looks at the crater in its chest, then abdomen. Realizes the skin stuck to his flask. And, with a sheen across his glasses, he scoffs and whistles at the gore left behind. It carpets the dirt. Because the body…is not a good spectacle. Not as it is, in this light.

Rebecca murmurs about a bear. Nick palms down the rifle.

Luke and Sarah are dead silent, and they keep themselves on the road they’ve been following down. Neither dare to witness.

Clementine plays onlooker. She watches Alvin hold Rebecca, who’s mildly curious despite it all, Nick with the rifle, pacing…

Then Carlos. Who surveys the body, just to assure Rebecca that, no, the bears are not what hunts them now. Another man is, and true to his name, he has a way in carving his eyes to memory.

They're a dark shade of hazel, as though the sun could rot before her eyes, and fester within the dirt to a fresh grave.

Clementine tries to bury his voice, and those eyes, and the words he snaked to her. She had been exhausted. A dying man was still clung to her, in better memory, upon her return to the cabin.

He is the reason why they walk. He’s the reason why they talk in hushed, nervous breaths, and why Rebecca dwells to herself more often than not.

The man gave rise to something within her… Ignited a fire, and it was the very same that she evoked from Luke with a walker’s heart at hand, and blood on her words.

The very same that struck Clementine, the moment she was bit. Because that man with the radio…

He had the same kind of eyes too. Except they were…pale. A weak, erratic shade of yellow.

And it is the same now, the longer Carlos studies the body. His brows are furrowed deep. He is far too engrossed to hear Rebecca, and the questions she asks of him. There's many questions. They don't so much as fall as they do plummet onto deaf ears. Carlos digs for something. Clementine sees a precision in his hands, and they're strung by a fervent loyalty to his eyes.

He digs through the chest in particular. Massages down the patterns of— Of teeth gouged into the skin and meat.

She feels cold. It burrows down her spine. It claims her throat, and it gifts her the worst knot to swallow.

Fear.

It is fear which crawls beneath her skin now. It was fear she evoked from Luke, fear in those pale yellow eyes…

And there is William Carver.

He pries from them all the same, except where they’re nervous, and they’re burdened, Clementine grows a famine. There is only her mouth now, and her stomach.

…she doesn't understand. She can't. Except that Clementine may have lied to herself, or her mind has refused to tell all.

The dog bite has gnawed at her to eat, and to replenish.

His dark, hazel eyes, and his snaked words—they've gnashed at her, for Clementine to devour.

Carlos snaps his own. Lands them on her.

He knows.

She rolls her tongue over the gap in her mouth. Watches him, and then one hand as it closes, because he's captured something. And she jolts. Tastes blood.

Fumes from her tongue. Hurts.

Clementine may have been more polite with her teeth than the dog had been.

Because Carlos knows her bite now. He knows.

. . .

HE SAID OTHERWISE

. . .

"What's the most important thing in this world?"

"Food."

"Listen, what's the one thing a guy would walk hundreds of miles to get back? Something you can't just find."

She's the cleanest she has been in a few days, and it's only now when Luke decides to pull her aside, away from the rest, to…have a talk. On the way to a bridge. And he continues to be cautious of her. Even now, when he… After he’s pulled her aside. For this. A talk.

It feels like he's urging her. He's desperate for Clementine to tell him the right answer—which there is one, apparently.

Clementine doesn't know it, though. She's the cleanest she's been, all to keep his eyes from being struck by this fear.She doesn't want that fear. Doesn't, but she's hungry. Needs to heal. She smells the citrus all around. Sweet. There's plenty of fresh ones roaming in the trees, just out of arm's reach…

The rations they have are enough. For the time being.

They just…don't sit as well as they could. And her tongue rolling where her tooth had once been doesn’t help.

"Come on. Clem, it's family."

"It's a tough world out there without people you can trust."

There's a stray hint of disappointment in his words. Yet, at the same time, a knowing, and then a caution. Because this had been a test, a gage, and Clementine has failed bombastically, but she'll still maintain that it is food, in fact, with every morsel she comes across. She longs for a mouth that waters like it used to, she does. She wants to perk to the sound of a crisp can, or the sweet aroma to Mom’s baking, or a homely dinner. Sometimes she does that too. To the cans or dinner—like the warm bowl, in fact. Yet. It's not the same. Not when blood soothes her skin the way it does, and flesh pulls apart to her mouth's desire.

Walkers have this tang… A tang that animals don't have. In their hearts, and their stomachs, their muscle—the muscle especially. Her mouth only waters to that tang now. Truly waters, because…it's the only ounce of satiation she can find.

And, quite honestly, family rings sour now.

Her bite was in a family's name.

It's what brought her to this. It's what brought a man to bite a child.

And family… That's what led her blindly to him in the first place.

Clementine will answer food, however. She will. No matter the lesson Luke intends.

It's easier to think it is. Finding a home requires an odyssey. It requires a gambit to embark, and its trial to writhe through.

And she knows, deep in her gut, that these people will not be that for her.

. . .

YET THERE A BREATHING MEMORY WAS

. . .

Nick just killed a man. The bullet threw his body over a bridge. There are lights in these woods; they're the eyes of who follows. There's a lodge too. A ski-lift.

It all…sloughs away, however. It takes one held breath, and the deck to whirl beneath her feet.

Sarah grazes her arm. Murmurs anxiety.

Clementine shrugs through Luke and Nick anyway.

She rolls her tongue again. Gashes another line, and the heartbeat bled is ruin. Half of her is still above the land, lingering in a breath shy from clouds. And the landscape is there as a canvas to forge behind her eyes. The pine vista. A sheer drop to water. A red bridge.

It begins to decay, however…

Clementine sees him. And only him. There's the trucker's hat, the same beaded necklace, then the brown of his eyes. He blears to focus.

Doesn't know what to say. Neither do, but she— She really doesn't. Doesn't know what to do either, aside for a careful step, and another, to the man.

Kenny.

And he wipes a tear.

He kneels, looks at her with a smile like no other, and it's for her. Only for her.

She may mirror him. She may not. If there is a smile, it's cracked across her numbing face. He's a comfort. And another one in life's comedy. Kenny should be dead, yet he's not. Looks very much alive. Breathes that way in what fogs in this cold.

His words are cradled by hearthfire. There's a homely timbre, and it doesn't crackle as much as it should to her ears, despite teary eyes. There is only flame. A warm bask in yellow.

Clementine strays away with him. Kenny leads them all—her and the cabin, him and the lodge—around the corner.

There's no words between them. A giddiness, or disbelief, radiates off him.

Her strides are pounding however.

Because Clementine hears a saltlick. It echoes, somewhere. And the skull it married after that too, before the flesh trodden by their union.

Kenny makes a joke, or something like that, which… It actually rises a chuckle from her. Scathes up her throat, but it is one none the less. Feels…nice, even if not a moment later, she's rattled again. Kenny is a haunting reminder of Lee's patience, and how much he spent it on the man. Caught in a crossfire.

It takes everything to remember how she used to laugh.

And how Lee meandered down the line between one and another.

Clementine murmurs to Kenny that her people, they're fine. Sure her head was almost blown off at one point, and she still kind of wants it to, but, really. They're…

They're cool. Haven't made her laugh really, but they are.

The fireplace is grand.

In its mouth, a vast fire.

He comments about the ballcap. She could say the same.

The cold in her bones, winter's breath in her hair, remind her how far Savannah is. As a distant nightmare. A long, winding road down her life's broken spine.

"You know, I half-expected to see Lee walk up next to you…"

That nightmare flares. Life's broken spine rattles in her ears.

She's cold in her bones. Winter's breath feels too, too close to the tub's ceramic.

And there's Lee again. Spoken into the world. There is no grave for him to roll; he may twitch where she shackled him by his last wrist, however. Clementine doesn't know what Kenny sees in her eyes.

He panics though.

"Oh, shit, I didn't mean to… "It's just hard not to think about it, you know?"

It is.

It— It is.

Clementine swallows. She fights the bile.

She's desperate to know if he smells it off her.

Guilt. Rather than the degenerate.

"Aw, hell… I'm sorry, darlin'."

She answers everything he asks when she can. Silence permeates best, however.

They slink away from Lee. Catch up on things. Not many. There's no good memories left, and none of them breathe in their time apart. They're stained now. Corroded.

Like Christa. All of her.

"She's gone…"

Clementine doesn't know when she accepted it, the fact that there is no finding Christa.

The days have blurred together. Her famine has never ceased. It's only cannibalized. She eats away. Time smears in her split mind's wake. And between that, famine claws at memory and corrodes it all. Stains them.

The bite…

It gnawed Omid to an obscurity. Christa's next.

Kenny was too, once. Before life's gnashed smile brought him to her.

Why—

Why not Lee?

Or is he to be her last memory before blank moon eyes…?

"I am! This is all a dream!"

She flinches at first. His hearty laugh thereafter is unnerving—it snaps at her, wrings her from thought. This isn't Kenny. Not really. He's never done that, and the longer the laugh barrels from his chest, Clementine finds herself longing for the swift chuckle and clap on a shoulder.

They are not the people they once met. Neither are who they know by memory.

Kenny, the one in Savannah—Clementine laid him to rest, left him behind, the moment she was lured, and the moment the man's teeth found her shoulder.

And she's been rotting all this time. Not of body. In mind.

Gradually, because the days and weeks and years since have been a plodding agony.

The last Kenny still corrodes after all. This Kenny, however. He will never know what she's become.

Clementine's decided to mimic memory. He will not lose another child.

"Sorry. Bad joke."

Clementine finds herself wishing it wasn't.

. . .

AND SHE HERSELF WAS LOST

. . .

"Show me the bite."

"The other one, Clementine. You know what I'm talking about."

Carlos manages to snag Clementine from the Christmas tree. He herds her away, quietly, with the same hand on her shoulder. It doesn't feel warm. The scrap of whatever she still can't name, it's gone. There's no salvaging it.

And he's sat her on the furthest booth, beneath one of the overhangs.

Light is scarce here. The tree, and the fireplace, are one collective haze.

She hesitates, before grasping the shoulder.

He waits. Clementine should've known he expects to see the bite itself, so she works her shirt's collar open. Unveils where the man bit her: along the clavicle, dead between her neck's crux, her shoulder's point. Carlos studies it. Like before, his hands are loyal to his eyes, and there's precision. Nothing else.

Carlos murmurs about how it's scarred over. Asks if she was attacked.

Clementine wasn't. Not really.

A confirmation more than an answer—he knows from scar alone. The bite didn't tear. It's the perfect shape. There are no abnormalities. Yet, the clear indentation is what rivets the doctor so. The identity of a strange man. His lasting print. Had Carlos been in dentistry, this would've been something to diagram.

Clementine only hears that the man left his mark, and did it well.

Her grave, however shallow it shall be, will bury both her and this part of him.

There is no escape. Even now.

He asks if this had been a man, or the dead. His eyes want to know if she knew the intention. The depravity behind it.

The man had yellow eyes. He just wanted a family again. Until Clementine shot him, that is.

He's dead and gone. Never knew his name.

If Carlos thinks the worst of her, he doesn't say. His face doesn't flicker at least, and he leaves her to cover again. Which she does. Swiftly. When Clementine looks back to face him, she finds Carlos…pained. His face doesn't flicker; it yieldsinstead. Like something's dawned on him, so his hands come together. They're kept to himself. Whatever he knows, or assumes, Clementine can't fathom.

Just that there's an odd nausea, it coats him a blooming complexion, and he's angry. Cold, though. This is no fire. More like a man about to beat another, only to leave that man behind to bleed.

Lee had the same nausea. She saw it one night, with a hand twisted into her hair.

And he did just that—broke a man's face, left him behind to his welted eyes.

"There are men, Clementine, who aren't right, and they look at little girls all the wrong ways."

That was how Lee started a long, agonizing conversation. His words were coarse. There was conviction, however. She needed to know. It took a night. Then the week after curling herself deep in blankets, washing away the memory of the brother's twisting hand…

Then the other.

The one with dark eyes and a twitched smile.

She never met those hands. Nor saw what they'd do in light of the evil in his eyes, because it was only that light there. The evil.

"You bite if you have to. Do everything you can to get away."

Duck… He tried to do just that.

Did, almost, before Clementine was thrown off the patio, and Lee was slung over the St. John's shoulder.

She hopes he did. Duck's dead, but. Well. She hopes.

The memory of him settles whenever she believes so.

Clementine realized in the few weeks thereafter how glad she was that Lee killed the brother. And grateful, because there was a gratitude.

A world where that man walked with her, somewhere in the shadows, was worse to her than hearing the pitchfork run through ribcage.

She feels a lurch in her throat. She wants to assure Carlos that the man who bit her, it wasn't an evil in his eyes. He didn't want the same. He sought a daughter in her. Only that.

He did trap her by words alone, of course. His mouth. But not once did Clementine ever mistake him for the St. John brother. Not once. Still hasn't.

It's the thought of describing the brother, however, which keeps her silent. Because to explain him would means to speak gore.

Carlos preens away the nausea and watches Clementine. He then murmurs about her skin. The way that she's waned before his very eyes. In a mere matter of days, or something like that. Her aggression as well. Wandering off wherever they walk, or in the night. She's had a scarce portion of their food. None of them know a habit of hers—the one where Clementine pulls her ballcap over her face, just to sleep.

"There are many peculiarities with you, and I've kept my eye on them."

"You're not going to put me down, are you?"

"Of course not. I realize you don't have any interest in us."

Carlos speaks to her like she's something else.

As though Clementine is another being. No longer human.

Yet, this isn't the same as talking down to a dog either. Far from it. She's not an animal. Instead, he speaks like she understands every word, and knows them in his eyes—down to the grain. He's careful. Articulate. Above all, however, Carlos is guarded.

She's beyond his understanding. Something to behold. Perhaps study. And to revere.

A threat.

Clementine is a threat, but not quite the danger she could be.

Not an animal, but a walking dread.

He unfolds a hand.

There in his palm, a tooth. Hers.

"You are going through a metamorphosis, Clementine. "And so you feel like you're starving despite being fed not long ago."

Carlos has met a person like her before. He knew her. Married her. Had a child.

She got bit. A mere matter of days, and she was…fine, but not. He kept Sarah away. Did everything he could to console.

His wife, however… She was lost, but she was there. And she asked what Clementine craves. A gun. A ledge. A river.

Sarah found her writhing. Strung from a fan.

He does not know what would happen if Sarah is ever bit. What she would become. How coherent she would be, if at all.

And if she would feast like his wife did. Or if she would only walk.

Carlos doesn't say it. Clementine smells it off him anyway.

He doesn't want to be the one to pull the trigger. Not again.

"No bite is anyone's fault. But you do anything to Sarah, and I will put you down like you are one of them."

"She's my friend. I won't do anything to her."

A frenetic storm builds.

The same he discovered of her, nights ago. Her tongue's wit and mind's hemorrhage—neither have left Clementine, and Carlos sees them within her still. She is something to revere. Walk tepidly around, should he be a little too close, a little too loud.

And should Clementine be just hungry enough.

He sees it in her eyes. She isn't mindless…

Carlos knows the dwelling monster.

It wears her skin, calls herself Clementine. Debated whether or not it could lick its maw in the time Pete fermented, and citrus throve.

She just…cannot, for the life of her, tell if he knows the monster only.

Wonders why Sarah sees beyond that—if she truly does—, and if it's something inherited from a mother, not the doctor.

Sarah is…different that way. Another for Carlos to behold.

"Do you understand now?"

She does.

No answer crosses her lips, but yes, she does.

Clementine nods. It is a vow to never bite Sarah.

When silence drawls, and there's nothing more, Clementine breaks away. Carlos lets her. The tree evokes for another time. The lights glimmer. Sarah's dawned it an angel. It's all a shard to her very eyes. The tooth in her closed hand bites. The floor rocks with every stride, and the lodge is swaying to the fireplace and its restful flame, and the shadows birthed.

She snags his silhouette through the windows.

Kenny's.

That alone keels everything in arm's reach.

Clementine shambles for solace. Finds it in shadow.

Cliffside again. Where the air was brisk, and the river beneath her was a frigid havoc to her body.

It's found her. Laughs like life's miserable parody. Harkens to its thrashing well, where copper lathers down her throat, foams like river's whirlpool. Momentum to gain, everything to lose—how it's happened again, and the world's racing to snap her neck, she doesn't know. All it took was falling off that fucking cliff.

And the water didn't feel like concrete, so she calls bullshit on that.

She knocks into a door. One of the lodge's restrooms. The women's.

As the door closes, Clementine is abandoned to the blood throbbing in her ears. Static is a balm down her skin. When she reaches beside the door— clamps upon an old, old habit of hers—, Clementine doesn't fathom why, not until she finds the switch, and a lone bulb springs to life.

Clementine recoils. It's loud to her eyes, and her ears. Buzzes worse than the static. It's callous as well. She's forgotten just how much everything was before. There was never a gradual passage between these lights and not. There was only ever onslaught, and the overbearance.

When her eyes adjust, she lumbers across the restroom tile. The stalls are wooden. There's clutter, everywhere, to meander around. Her nails rake across the counter. The mirror is wide.

To her nose, there's only must, grime, and neglect's spillage.

Clementine glares into the light's reflection, then the bulb itself. It hangs close to the mirror, incased within a flowering glass.

She has half the mind to throttle it before ripping the damn thing from the wall.

The other half reminds her that, well, she did just turn it on herself. So. Her fault. What didshe honestly expect? And Clementine doesn't really want to lug herself all the way back over.

She's also not that kind of guest. …even if she did rip open a hole into a crawlspace not a week ago.

Great. On top of losing her mind at the ripe age of still a child, she's now acquainted with her first very own paradox. Which is vandalism.

Second if Clementine counts the cannibal tendencies.

Mulling over the logistics of her wellbeing while glaring holes into her reflection, with her own tooth burrowing into her palm… It doesn't feel great, for some reason.

Who would've thought?

Clementine seeps into the aches of her body. Her exhale is withdrawn. The tooth rattles over the countertop granite when she clasps for balance. Burdened by her joins, there lies a call for sleep, to rest her weary head and heal these wounds. And her lungs are clawing for air the more she gasps. Every swallow is reticent. With them bolts another ache, and they're piling now. They settle where she doesn't want them to. Not her stomach's basin. Instead, these aches char within heart's cage.

They spurn her. Like embers, or the falling ash to a fire deep within pine vista.

And they've clogged her jugular. Clementine's mouth froths for words she cannot find. There's only smoke, or it's the thrashing frigid waters, or those coin spiral wishing wells. A blaring arcade. Claps of a storm.

There's too much. It's all too much.

In this… This body of hers…

She rocks her jaw again. Stares at the lone tooth.

Carlos cleaned it. There's not a red left behind.

Her eyes follow down a ravine in granite, and it splits into the wall, cracks the mirror. Weblike—it doesn't go far in reflection.

Clementine meets herself by her eyes. Finds a stranger. Wearing her skin. Hiding behind her name.

She's narrower than she once was, in the face. Her eyes are a striking shade of yellow. Not gold though. More… They're more lupine against her complexion. As in spitfire. Blinding in their own right. Spat from the end of a barrel, to scream a bullet's remark.

She leans to the mirror. Works her jaw, thumbs where the tooth once was, and by the pad of her finger, Clementine feels her skin abrade. A flinch later, a hand pulled away, blood beads close to the nail. Clementine leans again.

Another tooth. Knived, though… Its crown is knived. There's no other way to explain. She scrounges through smog to find better. There just isn't.

A thought pangs her. An inkling.

Clementine tries the opposite tooth. It's loose. So's another on the other side. Too many. She's already lost them. There's no reason. Her breath is rattling. The reflection is blearing, eyes burning.

Her nails grate into the granite. Chips wherever she scrawls, before she grasps, and tension shivers through bone.

"Sweet pea…"

The granite seethes into her palms. Lacerates one. Pricks the other.

Clementine jolts.

She staggers away. Holds herself.

The blood is dark. Seeped from her hands, stained into the counter, it's of wine. Dark like wine, raw in glass.

"Another … daymare, Clem? Which one?"

"The— The one you killed…"

She hears— H-Hears it fall.

Enamel chimes across ceramic tile. Cracks at the crown.

This blood, the wine, strings the counter. It leeches deep within grout.

Spitfire glints from shadow. Doesn't realize where she herself stands, and that it's the mirror. Her reflection. A stranger.

Clementine buckles. She chokes for air. Her ribs spine into her heart. Closes in. Blood smears down a stall door. Her hand's shape.

She seethes through her teeth. Air swells in her mouth. Can hardly swallow. Wood, tile, granite—the restroom whirls together. Agony gnaws her bite. Clementine's floundering. Her hands skate across tile. The grout is coarse. It cleaves whenever her palm's heel catches.

This isn't her mouth. It longs to shed its human shape.

A girl's lasting print.

"You bite if you have to. Do everything you can to get away."

"What i-if I can't…?"

Lee— He never did answer her.

So the world swam the way it does now.

All Clementine knew was his face.

"What do they want from me? "L-Lee?"

Not her mouth. Not her blood. Not her eyes—

None of this is hers.

Where has her body gone…?!

"The only thing a child has to themselves. Your … innocence, Clem."

Was he right…?! Had Carlos been right to look at her with this— This burdening nausea?!

Did it only take that one fucking glance at her bite?! Did the doctor know from her eyes alone?!

What— W-What did that bite do to her?

What did it take?!

"And men like that will steal it, just because they can."

. "They give reasons that don't ever make sense, because those reasons are for themselves to think."

Clementine smacks into a stall door, and down her spine, she nails into its frame. Her heart is hammering. It seizes down her veins. Sirens in her ears. She feels it pang behind her eyes. Or it's all her head, writhing in static.

Belting the moment when the saltblock drops.

Smells it. Tastes the flesh, ever brackish, on her tongue.

Her mouth's dry. Throat's raw. Air is clawing.

She can't breathe.

The air is clawing, yet her lungs scream for it.

"Because I would rather be the one to ease it away from you than to have it torn from your hands. "I'm sorry."

What kind of world is this…?

For the mercy of man to take anyway—if by a tender, wary gesture in remorse's name.

Clementine shudders, and her chest swells for that air.

Agony finds her jaw for another time. It strikes when she bares her teeth, when Clementine coils into herself. She grapples her head. Her fingers lace through hair. And… And she weeps. There are no whimpers to croon, for she is an orphan with no one to hear. The cold flogs across her bloodied tongue.

There's no granola to soothe this.

Lee's voice will be a mere ghost forevermore.

She is alone. Will only ever have the bite to take with her.

Clementine n-never asked for this. She never asked for his family. She wanted hers. Mom and Dad—th-that's all she ever wanted. She got Lee instead. Cherished him. Abandoned him. Got bit for it.

Left Omid for citric orchard.

And then lost Christa. In the woods.

Blood twines from her mouth. There's salt in her tears. They bathe her tongue, an open wound, in daymare.

She chokes.

"A metamorphosis, Clementine…"

Her nails dig into either arm when she hugs herself. She keeps the cloth tight on her body. The bite agitates.

"A metamorphosis…"

"So you feel like you're starving despite being fed not long ago."

Did that little girl die in a nightmare?

She doesn't know. The monster doesn't know.

There will never be clarity.

For that is a fabled dream.

— — —

AO3 | FF | Wattpad

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#twdgscav fic #volt's library #twdg #twdg 2 #twdg fanfiction #fanfiction #twdg clementine #twdg kenny #cannibalism #gore #violence #horror #body horror #psychological horror #trauma

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i0134 · 16 days

Text

𓍢 (bnd ver!) like its 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 .ᐟ ໒ 𓂅 ໋⋅

SIMP! bnd x CRUSH! reader GENRE ! pining, fluff, angst if u squint TW ! none (lmk if there is any) NOW PLAYING ! . . . . magnetic by ill-it WC ! 7O2

𖠗 𝐣aehyun — shy cute flirt !

insert butter-myung. once he lays eyes on you he's a goner like he's so dramatic about it, panting and clutching his chest hard "guys i think im going to die if i don't wife her up". is pretty delusional too yk. will outwardly flirt with and then get so shy smh. very cheesy pick-up lines that most of the time fail to flutter your heart but does give you a good laugh tho lol (his biggest accomplishment). expect lots of attention and acts of service ^^

𖠗 𝐫iwoo — calm (going insane inside) sweet guy !

tries to be very calm with you, his hand will always be balled in a tight fist and tries to hide the teeth gritting with a nonchalant smile (but the red ear says all lmao). very rational yet funny, constantly pulling jokes that actually make you laugh yet still being respectful. shares his food with you specially donuts!! takes you to caffé dates "hey, there's this new pretzel shop wanna check it out together??" if you say something about dieting he would immediately encourage and lecture you about how important it is eat alot. will try to feed you too >_< !

𖠗 𝐬ungho — nervous yet reliable big guy !

the first time he saw you he was literally going through a massive panic attack, he literally thought he saw an angel lord! tries hard not to stutter or get nervous around you cue the clammy heads lol. but he still tries to collect his composure together and tries to be more reliable. will tie your undone shoelaces, make sure you ate or drank, always making sure you’re not upset. bro will take you’re side and clap back on behalf of you (sass king). will let you rest your head on his broad shoulder if you fell asleep and he so happens to be sitting beside you chill.

𖠗 𝐭aesan — shy introverted observer !

he's very introverted and often struggles to express his feelings. so he will always just admire you from afar, eyes never leaving you. you're his only muse. he notices all the little details about you and your reaction and expressions to certain things. like the way your hair sways, looking soft, they way you get excited with your friends or the way his heart literally explodes when you laugh or smile. if you end up catching him looking at you he would become shy mess, hiding his face and all. you’ll have to strike the convo first tho cuz he's too shy. loves making playlists dedicated to you oh! he has 100+ songs written for you on his soundcloud (shh).

𖠗 𝐥eehan — confident and shameless flirt !

you thought he was a quite and introverted pretty boy but boy were you so wrong. he's way more extreme in cases of flirting than jaehyun. the fact that he knows that he's drop dead gorgeous makes it even more intense. he will say the most cringiest, cheesiest pick up lines with the signature poker face and an eventual smirk (cue the girls screaming) and expect you to swoon (but you don't) and bro's downbad. veryyy delusional like he will announce to the entire school you two are married (you’re not??). you become the only one he yaps about his fishes and weird obsessions too. will hysterically start crying if you tell him to eat more "OMG YOU CARE SO MUCH ABOUT ME LET'S GET MARRIED!!!" "leehan js eat!"

𖠗 𝐰oonhak — cool guy to loser lover !

he would try to put on a cool guy frat boy image infront of you but it was a big silly FAIL! that one time when you smiled back at his corny "hey, beautiful" he passed away infront of the whole class BYE. he thought he had no game but when you aided for him he realised maybe being a loser for you wouldn’t be so bad actually! "hey cuties this one's for you" and then completely misses the ball smh. takes you out to arcade dates and parks to play (you win most of the time). but nevertheless he's a fun guy to be with (pls let him win time to time :D)

[ 🦢] : last post before semi hiatus (again exams sigh)

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tsukishumai · 3 years

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pairing: Bokuto Kotaro x gn!reader

summary: whoever said being adult was fun obviously never had bills to pay. so when Akaashi offers up a way to earn cash fast, you jump at the opportunity. except, you never thought you’d find yourself modeling in your underwear... least of all with Bokuto Kotaro

wc; 3k+

tags; fluff, humor, college au, mentions of very slight nudity

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

If anyone else other than Akaashi offered you this position, you would probably punch them right in the face.

Maybe he considers this payback for all the times he’s had to listen to you whine about your problems during your shared shifts at the cafe, or maybe this truly was his own sadistic way of attempting to provide support.

“Okay, so I know a way you can make easy money,” he started, and already those words should have sent alarm bells ringing in your head, but this was Akaashi. You’ve only really known him for a short time, but already you knew he wouldn’t lead you astray.

But really, the electronic shop five blocks from campus told you it would cost 55000 yen to repair your laptop monitor, so you weren’t exactly in a position to be picky.

You had also been complaining to him for the past forty minutes -- about the broken laptop, the leaking faucet in your apartment, the textbook that cost you more than your groceries for the past month, the two hours of sleep you got last night, and your paychecks that were all but depleted once the bills were paid. He remained tightlipped throughout your whole tirade, so you suppose the least you could do was hear him out.

“You’re not trying to sell my kidneys, right…” You mumble sarcastically, but you tilt your head to him anyway to show you were listening.

“No, sadly, it’s not quite the season for kidneys yet,” Akaashi delivers in a flat tone, “So you’re just going to have to deal with modeling.”

“Modeling?” Your reaction was harsh and loud, and you flinched away from the piercing glares of cafe regulars trying to study in peace.

Akaashi smirks as he wipes down the steamer before replying, “Don’t worry, it’s not the kind of modeling you’re thinking.”

Your mouth dropped, and you raised an eyebrow as you crossed your arms, scoffing at Akaashi incredulously.

“Are you trying to send me to a nudie shoot?!” you whisper in almost-mock offense, but now a part of you was a little worried that your favorite coworker was a secret pervert.

To your utter relief, Akaashi just laughs. “God, no. Well, I guess, kind of?”

At this point, your head was beginning to spin. “What do you mean kind of? Just spit it out already, Akaashi.”

Akaashi finally finishes cleaning off the coffee machine just as you finished replenishing the pastry displays, and in an unusual lull in customers, he’s able to lean against the bar and give you his undivided attention.

“My art professor pays the models for her figure drawing class a pretty decent amount of money, I think,” Akaashi tells you, and your eyes begin to sparkle. “She mentioned a couple of slots being open.”

“Really?” your interest was immediately piqued, “How much money?”

Akaashi shrugs. “Enough to strike at least one problem off your list, probably.”

That was all you needed to hear. Akaashi had given you his professor’s contact information, and you sent her an email the second you had clocked out of your shift.

Professor Nobuta was a kind woman who emailed you back with such haste, you could feel her desperation matching yours. She was candid during the entirety of your exchange, saying that her usual model had dropped out last minute and there was a spot in her class tomorrow that she needed to fill as soon as possible. Lucky for both of you, you were actually available, and details were exchanged swiftly.

As you read over the requirements, your eyes roved over two words in a section of the email that made your eyes bulge out of your head.

Semi Nude.

You blinked once. Then twice.

You had already formulated a kind rejection in your mind, ready to type your response when another section caught your eye. You inwardly groaned, dropping your head into your hands.

She was offering you almost as much as two shifts at the cafe.

That, alone, was enough to convince you, but the look of relief on Professor Nobuta’s face when you walked through the doors of her classroom was confirmation you made the right decision.

The seats around the classroom were nearly all filled, some students preparing their materials across their desks, and others sitting back and scrolling through their phones. The whirring of the A/C had filled the room with white noise, and you take notice of the two empty stools in the middle of the room.

“Thank you so much for signing up, L/N-san,” Professor Nobuta bowed profusely, and she gestured to a table for you to leave your things. “We’re still waiting on the other model, so take your time, and have a seat on the stool when you’re ready.”

You nodded in acknowledgement, and Professor Nobuta makes her way back to her desk. You briefly wonder if she was going to point you in the direction of a changing room, but realized the redundancy when everyone in the room was meant to stare at your half naked body anyway.

You begrudgingly peeled off your clothes, folding them neatly before placing them in a pile on the table. Your footsteps made hardly any noise as you walked across the room, desperately trying hard to act nonchalant.

Just as you took a seat in one of the empty stools, you heard someone pull the door open and loudly clamber inside.

“Ahh, welcome back, Bokuto-san!”

Your eyes widened at the name the professer had just yelled across the room. You brace yourself as you quickly whip your head around, and standing by the door sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck was Bokuto Kotaro.

Student Athlete, Volleyball Star, Most Wanted Bachelor Bokuto Kotaro smiled brightly as he skipped to the table your items were placed, apologizing profusely for being late. All eyes followed him like moths, and Bokuto was the bright flame. Everyone knew him, and you often saw him walking across the quad, always greeting at least twenty people on the way.

You could hardly hear what Professor Nobuta was saying to him, and you were now unabashedly staring as Bokuto began to strip out of his clothes.

Bokuto was built like a marble statue -- hard lines that traveled across his chest and traced his abs must have been painstakingly carved with the utmost care by a masterful artist, and every movement he made created new shapes along his muscled body. You found yourself instantly wishing you had even an ounce of artistic talent, because it was no doubt that Bokuto was every figure artists’ dream.

All at once, your vision was filled with gold and a sweet smile, and too late did you realize you had just been caught staring. Bokuto’s eyes don’t leave yours as he stands up straight, and struts over to you in nothing but a pair of nude briefs.

“Alright, everyone, your timed session is about to begin,” Professor Nobuta’s voice had startled you nearly out of your seat, and you turn your head back to face the class, cringing inwardly when you noticed some were smirking at you, “Feel free to request poses from the models, as this will be a graded assignment. We only have an hour and a half, so make the most out of your time.”

You feel your body stiffen as Bokuto takes the empty seat next to you, staying silent when you feel his eyes staring at you. You might have been able to ignore this in another setting, but at the moment, about fifty students were watching him watching you -- eyes flitting up the stage down to their sketchbook as they try to decide where to begin.

Envy coursed through you as the room began to fill with the sounds of graphite scratching against paper, wishing you could switch positions with literally anybody else in the room. You tried to relax your body against the stool, awkwardly attempting to find a natural position for your arms when you were interrupted by a throat clearing.

Your head turns to the side, heat rushing to your face when you see Bokuto smiling at you.

“Hi,” he greets, his voice a direct contrast against the silent concentration filling the room, “I’m Bokuto!”

His knees were bent as he settled his feet on the first ring of the stool. He rests an elbow on his thigh so he can place his chin on the palm of his hand, giving you an expectant look as he waits for your response. You try to avoid the way his chest seemed to bulge even more in this position, but the furious sound of sketching says you weren’t the only one to notice.

“Bokuto Kotaro,” you say his name back, and he pulls his lips back into an even wider smile, “I know.”

You bite your lip when a student from the back requested for you to cross your legs, resting your hand against your thighs. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be talking, but Professor Nobuta didn't seem to be paying either of you any mind.

He hadn’t said anything to you after that, but the grin remained on his lips as requests begin coming in from students across the class.

They were all fairly simple -- please position your hand like so, could you extend your leg this way, or turn your head that way. The first twenty minutes had been spent doing individual tasks and repositioning, and soon you felt yourself relaxing into your role. Your previous jitters had all but dissolved, and you figured if the rest of the session were to go on like this, then you’d be golden.

Your eyes shift over to Bokuto, who was leaning back with such easy grace, balancing himself with his foot against the footrest. The way his body created such naturally eloquent lines made it seem as if he was born to be a sculpture, to be admired and gazed at, to invoke inspiration and creation. You weren’t sure anyone in this room was even looking at you anymore, with Bokuto acting as if he was the lighthouse in a storm, beckoning all of you to come home.

He turns his head a second too quickly, winking when his eyes meet yours, and for the second time in less than an hour, you realize you’ve just been caught checking him out.

Your dignity was slipping through your fingers like sand, and you clear your throat before turning your attention to a poster on the wall.

From the corner of your eye, you see Professor Nobuta stand from her desk and making her way to a student in the corner. The two whisper among each other, and you watched as the professor consults with other students before nodding her head and turning to the both of you.

“I received a sort of direction from a few students,” she began, beckoning for the both of you to stand, “They were hoping you could do some more intimate poses.”

You balked, nearly choking on the air in our lungs. “I-intimate?”

Professor Nobuto nodded her head enthusiastically, and you exchanged a look with Bokuto.

“Whatever you’re comfortable with — an embrace, hand holding, hands on each other’s face — get creative with it!”

And with that, the professor sits back down on her desk and begins flipping through her phone, and the two of you are left to brace the expectant looks of the art students staring up at you.

“This your first time?” Bokuto asks you gently, a sort of sympathetic look on his face as his eyes study your stiff posture.

“Yeah,” you admit, and he coaxes you towards him with an outstretched hand. You hesitantly place your fingers in his palm, and for a moment, he just stood there. It took a minute for the sounds of rapid sketching to register in your brain, and you realize he’s allowing the class to take note of this pose.

He’s standing directly across from you now, and you can feel his gaze burning trails across your body as he regards you from head to toe. You feel like an ant burning under the beam of a microscope, and you nearly burst into flames when he chuckles.

“Nice peach,” Bokuto comments, and you nearly recoil back in surprise. The last thing you had expected from Bokuto was a comment like that, but then you notice his eyes flick back down to your underwear.

The professor’s email hadn’t included too many rules or requirements. She only included the most important details, such as time, place, pay, dress code, and such. Stated in the dress code, you were allowed to wear undergarments of any neutral color. Today, you had chosen a simple pair of black underwear and figured it was the safest choice.

You hadn’t, however, noticed the large cartoon peach that had gracefully adorned the back of it, complete with a cartoon face that winked sparkles. Now that you were forced to stand, and the entire class got a good view for themselves.

“Thanks,” you deadpan through gritted teeth, “It’s pretty juicy if you asked me.”

Bokuto fails miserably to hide a smirk, but his eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked down at you.

A few minutes (or eternity) later, his hand closes around yours, pulling it up to place against his cheek. He pulls you in by the other wrist, wrapping your arm around his waist as he cups the side of your neck. His other arm wraps almost completely around your middle, and he pulls you flush against his chest.

His body was hard against yours, and you had no doubts he could feel your heart’s hundreds of beats per second. He tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, and you hope he doesn’t notice the sheen of sweat beginning to collect on your upper lip.

A fire was bound to be started with how quickly everyone around began to move their pencils, and you heart races when Bokuto absentmindedly draws circles on your skin with his thumb.

He holds you in this embrace for much longer than you anticipated, and the butterflies in your stomach were making you nauseous. His eyes are trained on your face now, the intensity of his stare making you want to shrink back, but you hold your place and return his gaze.

His eyes narrow and squint, eyebrows wiggling as his face scrunches up in thought.

“Do I know you?” Bokuto asks, and it was in this moment where you felt your stomach flip flop into the abyss. It was the one question you had hoped he wouldn’t think to ask you.

Because you did know Bokuto Kotaro, but not in the way everyone else on campus knew him.

You remember clearly the slow, dreary Wednesday morning when Akaashi Keiji asks you the same thing.

“Uh, yeah? Of course, you know me, we’re coworkers,” you replied sarcastically, and Akaashi insists it was more than that.

“You’re hiding something from me,” he simply states, and you inwardly thanked the customer that had walked and interrupted that moment.

But you should have known that Akaashi was not one to let things go, and after being berated the entire shift about how secrets don’t keep friends, you finally confessed.

You were a student at Fukurodani.

Akaashi didn’t believe you. There was no way, how was that possible? He would have recognized you. But you were the year above him, and had actively avoided school sports. Because as much as you would have liked to watch your school’s Nationally Ranked Volleyball Club play and compete with super hot athletes from across the country, there was one glaring reason why you couldn’t.

You had confessed to Bokuto Kotaro in your first year.

And you were soundly, and absolutely rejected.

He had every right to, of course. You were just his classmate, you didn’t even know each other that well, and he needed to focus all his attention on volleyball. It made sense.You know that now.

But to your young heart, it was world ending, soul crushing even, and it took you two years to get over your ridiculous one-sided crush.

Now here you were, standing in front of a group of people in nothing but your underwear, with Bokuto staring at you like a fly caught in a trap.

“No, I don’t think so,” you respond, and Bokuto scoffs.

“You’re a bad liar,” he whispers, and you find yourself grinning.

“How would you know?” You whisper back, “You just met me.”

“No, I definitely know you —“

“Alright, everyone,” Professor Nobuto announces with a smack on her desk, “That about does it for today’s session. Give some thanks to your models!”

You jump back from Bokuto as the class offers a light round of applause. The two of you bow back, and you rush over to the table as the professor approaches Bokuto.

You leave the two of them to chat as you hurriedly put your clothes back on, hoisting your bag up on your shoulder, and nearly falling over putting your shoes on.

“Thank you for today,” Professor Nobuto sneaks up from behind, a smile on her face as she hands you a blank white envelope, “I hope I see your name on the sign up sheet again.”

You offer her a grin as you accept the envelope. “Thank you for the opportunity!”

And with that, you rush out of the stuffy room and make a bee line towards the door.

“Hey, Peaches!” Bokuto’s voice makes you freeze from across the room, and you turn around to see him adorned only his pants. “You never told me your name?”

With a smirk, you put your hand on the handle, walking out the door as you yelled over your shoulder.

“I thought you said you knew me!”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“That was a trap, wasn’t it,” you accuse Akaashi as soon as you see him again, walking into your shift at the café just as he was about to clock out.

His smile was almost evil, punching out as he gathers his jacket.

“Whatever could you possibly mean, dear coworker,” he replies, and you smack him on the shoulder.

“You had to have known Bokuto was doing that,” you seethe, glaring at Akaashi, “And you knew about… about… you’re dangerous, Akaashi Keiji.”

He laughs, waving you off, “You said you needed help, so I offered help.”

“Oh, you conniving little —“

“Akaashi, you ready?” A familiar voice cuts you, making your head twist towards the door.

A set of white and black streaked hair, a devilish grin, bright twinkling eyes — your nightmare in human form walking in.

His eyes widen as they meet yours from across the room, and he waves a hand in the air as if you could have possibly missed the six foot three volleyball player barely fitting through the door frame.

“Hey, Peaches!” He greets cheerfully, walking and leaning against the counter, “Fancy running into you here.”

“Peaches?” Akaashi asks, and your eyes shoot him a nasty glare.

“I work here,” you reply, and Bokuto’s eyes widen.

“Akaashi, why wouldn’t you tell me you have such a cutie for a coworker?!” He demands of his best friend, who simply rolls his eyes and heads out the door.

“Let’s go, Bokuto-san!”

“Akaashi! Hey, wait,” Bokuto runs one step to the door but stops and turns back, “If I come back tomorrow, you gonna tell me your name then?”

You laugh. “I don’t work tomorrow.”

“I’ll ask Akaashi for your schedule then!” He screams as he runs out the door.

The smile on your face stayed on for the rest of your shift.

#bokuto #bokuto x reader #bokuto x you #bokuto x y/n #bokuto kotaro x reader #bokuto kotaro x you #bokuto kotaro x y/n #bokuto fluff #bokuto kotaro headcanon #bokuto koutaro scenarios #bokuto imagines #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x y/n #haikyuu!! fic

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mystic-shadows42 · 3 years

Text

Lover's Quarrel

A/N: It’s been awhile since I wrote a piece for the Vikings fandom. Hope I haven’t lost my touch. Hope you all enjoy! Also, this one is a little more focused on Hvitserk rather than Ivar.

Pairing: Hvitserk x reader x Ivar

Warnings: Violence and mention of impregnation

Summary: A betrayal starts it all off making Hvitserk hurt and angry beyond anything else. He wants to shed blood, yours more specifically but Ivar won’t have it. He has other plans for you.

“How can she do this to us?!” Hvitserk stood up making his chair fall behind him in his sudden anger. “We’ve broken bread with her family! She grew up with us!” He paced around the room then stopped. “I love her.”

Hvitserk was trying to make sense of his love’s betrayal. He thought you’d always choose him and his brother Ivar than ever go against them. He was wrong. You chose your family over them.

“We must stick to the plan.”

Ivar brought up his hands and placed them just under his chin. He was deeply saddened by your betrayal but he didn’t want to show his men or Hvitserk just how much it was affecting him.

He needed some time alone to think of a plan to bring you back to him. One that’ll bound you to him forever without making you hate him entirely.

Once the battle ensued, Hvitserk was the first to break free and display the land red. He was fuelled with anger which showed.

When he spotted you out on the battlefield fighting too he was dead-set on what he was to do. Ivar followed his line of sight and knew that Hvitserk wasn’t in the right state of mind to face you just yet.

Hvitserk was about to rush forward but was pushed back by Ivar. They were both high on adrenaline but Hvitserk more so than everyone else. He’d been cutting down men and women left and right.

“I’ll kill her! I’ll do it!” Hvitserk yelled out, making his voice break at the end.

“No! No you won’t! I can’t let you!”

“She’s betrayed us!”

Ivar brought his head close to Hvitserk’s so he had his full attention.

“If you kill her then you’d never forgive yourself. I’d never forgive you if you do.” Hvitserk huffed at his brother but understood beyond his anger coursing through him. “Brother, look at me. I need you to listen. If you grab her we can take her as our hostage. She’s the key to all of this. Are you with me?”

“Yeah,” Hvitserk huffed.

“Do anything to get to her but don’t kill her. Got it?”

Hvitserk had a newfound intent on pursuing you. He was a man crazed with ambition.

He found your right-hand man and went toe-to-toe with him. He was a skilled warrior but Hvitserk had already configured his flaws.

He had a weak knee so that’s what he struck for. When he was brought down to the ground he wasted no time in finishing him off.

“Y/N!” Hvitserk yelled your name through the endless cries of battles. “Y/N!” He drawled out.

When you heard your name being shouted you turned to see Hvitserk standing on a hilltop by Ivar’s chariot. He held up your longtime friend’s head. He smiled displaying his blood stained mouth looking ever more menacing.

So many emotions racked through you at once. Though the sadness quickly turned to anger. You had spent many years training with the man Hvitserk killed. He was like family to you after having been placed by your side as a bodyguard.

Hvitserk watched on as he saw you striking everyone down that got in your way. He felt empowered to see how much of a fierce warrior you’ve become. He should know since he was the one who’d basically trained you.

Hvitserk jumped down from the hill he was on as you began to approach.

You faced each other down. He was breathing heavily with a bloody smile on his face. He kept gripping his sword in his hand. He was ready.

“You really want to do this?” It was never your intention to hurt him but for the sake of your people and family, what other choice did you have?

You could have always told him, that thought had never left your mind but Hvitserk was none too good at confrontation. He wouldn’t want to hear it. He would avoid it until it got too much to handle.

Then there was Ivar. He was always someone you could confide in but as of late you didn’t know if he was on the verge of being power hungry or just mad altogether.

“You’ve left me no choice.”

“I did what I had to do for my family. You of all should understand that.”

He turned his head looking at all the blood and death that was surrounding him. He looked back at you and lifted his head in the direction of the chaos.

“All of this is happening because of that decision. If you’d been with us. Things could have been different.”

“It’s just the way things have to be.”

“Oh yeah,” he sniffled and started to circle around you. “Let’s see what you can do then.”

You raised your sword just as he did the same. Hvitserk tapped the tip of your sword smiling then he swung at you.

You blocked it and tried pushing him back with as much energy as you could muster up but he was forcing all his strength down on your sword. He brought you down to one knee as you continued to block his sword with yours.

When you knew you couldn’t hold out much longer, you kicked his leg out making him drop to the floor. You quickly scrambled on top of him with your sword to his neck making him laugh.

His small fit of laughter had soon died down when you made no other attempt to hurt him. He looked into your eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Did you ever love me?”

“Of course I did.”

“More than Ivar?” Hvitserk had never bothered to hide the fact that he was always jealous of his little brother.

“The same.”

Hvitserk took your downcast look as an opportunity to flip you both over. He placed his hands over your neck shaking you.

“Tell me the truth?! After everything I’ve done for you! All that I shared! It was all for you! Now tell me who you loved more?”

He added more pressure onto your neck making you gasp. Tears were rushing from your eyes as you looked up at Hvitserk.

It was unbelievable to think that just a few weeks ago he was staring down at you in this same position, only with kinder eyes and a gentler touch ready to leave his ways all behind and go away with you.

Ivar and Hvitserk shared you but as of late Hvitserk was starting to get more possessive. He was falling harder each time. He had always been with you.

Meanwhile, Ivar did break away to be with Freydis because he believed her when she spoke lies to him.

In that time, Hvitserk claimed you as his. He had never fallen so hard for one woman and the betrayal had hit him tenfold. He took it harder than anything else in his life.

When the time came that Ivar realized how rotten Freydis was, all he wanted was you back. He became obsessed with taking you away from Hvitserk.

“You,” your answer was quiet and strangled but Hvitserk heard. He pulled his hands away and looked at your face. “It was always you Hvitserk.”

Even in the midst of battle, Hvitserk leaned down and placed a small chaste kiss to your lips. You hadn’t reciprocated which didn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke. Before you even had the chance to speak he hit your head against the ground rendering you unconscious. He picked you up over his shoulder and carried you to Ivar’s chariot.

Once he placed you inside, Ivar was quick to inspect your injury behind your head. He placed his hand on the spot where Hvitserk struck you. He brought his fingers up showing Hvitserk the blood on them.

“She’s bleeding.”

“How else did you expect her to come willingly?”

Hvitserk was beyond irritated and confused. He didn’t know what to think or feel about the whole situation. He loved you but the betrayal is what stopped him. He wanted to harden his heart.

“You’ve damaged her Hvitserk. I didn’t want her hurt or have any more reason for her to distrust us.”

“More than she already does?! Look where we are at. We are in battle. She’s already lost to us.”

“She isn’t lost on me. She could love me again.” Ivar brushed your cheek with his fingers gently. When he smiled down at your unconscious form Hvitserk couldn’t help but become even more annoyed.

“Whatever. When we get back we’ll have her chained.”

“Chained?” Ivar was appalled by his brother’s nonchalant response. “She will not be chained like some animal Hvitserk.”

“Where do you expect her to be held at?”

“My room. We’ll keep the doors locked at all times but she will be treated as a guest no doubt.”

“A prisoner treated like a guest?” Hvitserk scoffed at the idea.

“Brother you are so hostile.” Hvitserk was unamused. “I thought you loved her?”

“She betrayed us. Lied to me!” Hvitserk couldn’t help but kick up the dirt and throw one of his daggers at a tree.

“Funny, that’s what you did to me, yet, here we are. Truth is brother, despite all you’ve done against me, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be the one to kill you but Y/N convinced me otherwise. She saved your life.” Hvitserk paused and turned to look at Ivar. This was all news to him. His features softened and his shoulders relaxed as he thought of how you would actually do that to save him. “Once you put a baby in her, she’ll forgive us.”

“What do you speak of Ivar?” Hvitserk narrowed his brows and approached the chariot slowly.

“You’ll be the one to put a baby in her. As you know, I cannot have children nor provide any for her, but you can. If she has a baby with you then she cannot be against us.”

“You’re sick, Ivar.”

“Is it not your wish to fill her with babies and be the father of her children?��

Hvitserk rested his hand on top of the chariot as he leaned forward. “Not like that.”

“Only time will tell,” Hvitserk backed away when he saw his brother’s condescending smirk on his face. He never knew just how far he'd go until now.

Tagged: @belovedcherry @lordsexmachine @lol-haha-joke @mariaenchanted @ethereallysimple @bababasti @ir-abelas-telanadas @soleil-dor @youbloodymadgenius

#Hvitserk x reader x Ivar #Hvitserk x reader #Ivar x reader #Hvitserk lothbrok #Ivar Lothbrok #Hvitserk #Ivar #Hvitserk ragnarsson #Ivar ragnarsson #Hvitserk imagine #Ivar imagine #Vikings

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kimnjss · 3 years

Text

unconscious confession | jhs

⤑ series: heartbreaker

⤑ pairing: stoner!hoseok x cheerleader!reader

⤑ genre: fluff !!

⤑ rating: pg13

⤑ word count: 3.4 // unedited

⤑ warnings: use of recreational drugs..!!

⤑ A/N: hiiii! thanks to everyone who has been reading along so far and giving me feedback with each and every update !! i really appreciate it honestly it’s a really big motivator for me. sooo i hope you like this part as well, don’t forget to let me know what you think . and also it’s this hoseok walking around lmao .

OCTOBER 3RD, 2020 | 19:26

Hoseok showed up to the game while the players were still practicing and you and the rest of the squad were in the middle of stretches. He looks effortlessly handsome from the quick glimpse you get before he's slumping down onto the metal. Focus on tucking each crumble of weed into the paper, but he'd occasionally steal glances at you on the field.

And your eyes meet each and every time. He played into the casual feel he wanted to set for tonight, an oversized pale yellow shirt underneath his light denim jacket. The pants he wears matches the jean of his jacket but are covered in rips, hair being held back by a headband. You've never noticed it before, but staring at him from the field when you really should be stretching had you realizing how well he carried himself. All of the time.

Thankfully, you're able to keep focus while you're actually cheering. Ignoring the fuzzy feeling that rises in your chest at the sight of him cheering for you (it's not for the players on the field who are losing, badly). He even waves cutely at you as you're being thrown in the air and you consider ruining your form to wave back. But decide against it, Jimin would throw a fit.

His attention is on you from kickoff through overtime, taking the steps two at a time as the players line up to congratulate the winning team. “Ooh. Here comes your biggest fan,” Jimin points out from beside you, slightly breathless from the back-to-back routines.

You're gulping down mouthfuls of water, so you actually don't see when Hoseok makes his way over to you. Not until Jimin's words are registering and your head is whipping around to catch the wide smile on his pretty face. He doesn't hesitate to drop his arm over your shoulders, easily tucking your body into his side.

Instantly, you're engulfed in the familiar scent of him. The subtle stench of weed masked by his sweet cologne. You've never been around a guy who smelt as sweet as Hoseok always did, used to the overpowering stink of AXE body spray, but you're convinced he's never purchased a bottle.

He's offering a quick nod of acknowledgment to Jimin, which is met with a halfhearted wave as he leans down to tie his laces. “You were pretty cool cheering,” He tries to be nonchalant with his compliment, eyes focused on the sky as he talks. Which is pointless, you already caught the way he had been cheering from the crowd.

“'Pretty cool', that's it?” There's a playful smirk on your lips that he finds way more inciting than he should. But, he's determined to keep his cool in front of you so all he does is lift his shoulders in a slight shrug. “Yeah, pretty cool.” He repeats in the same tone as before.

You don't even bother to mask the snicker that sneaks past your lips. “I put my leg behind my head it was just 'pretty cool'? Maybe you need an up-close demonstration?” It's the one that you use that catches him off guard, highlighting the meaning behind your suggestion.

He stumbles slightly, eyes widening slightly. That was obviously something he's thought about before... respectfully. This wasn't the first time he's seen what your body could do and it never failed to get his mind wandering. Of course, he's thought if he had the chance to sleep with you, would you pull out the same tricks you do on the field. Who wouldn't wonder that with someone they were pursuing?

But, the fact that you were mentioning it. Hinting at it like you were planning for exactly that to happen, that was a whole different ballpark. And it's obvious from the slightly dazed look in his eye, that you can't help but laugh at. Pulling him from his thoughts with the sound of your laugh.

“You're funny,” You say through your laughter, which he's quickly catching on to – soft chuckles leaving his lips.

He leads you all the way to the locker rooms, where he waits outside for you to change out of your uniform and into the sweater and jeans you had picked out for your date. Compliment at the edge of his tongue the moment you're stepping out, arm dropping back down around your shoulder.

While the two of you walk to his car, he fills you in on the hilarious thing Jeongguk did that morning. And you laugh along with him. Like an actual laugh, not one of those forced ones to boost his ego. He's animated as he speaks, gesturing wide and goofy voices tagged as his friend's voices.

You're a few steps from his car when he's rushing ahead of you, pulling the car door open before dramatically gesturing to it. “M'lady,” He says as you pass him and you know he's just kidding, but your heart skips a beat.

There's got to be something wrong with you, you're sure of it. You've been on tons of dates in the past and here you were all warm and fuzzy inside and the date has barely started. It was comforting being around Hoseok, though. As if you've always known him, you hardly had to do any thinking when you texted and it was no different in person.

You can't help but wonder if it felt like that for him too. A connection like that can't just go unnoticed, right? Or maybe you were getting ahead of yourself. “Will you tell me now where we're going?” You're asking as he's settling into the space beside you, tugging his seatbelt around his waist.

“I won't tell you until we're there.” You had spent the entire night before trying to guess where he was taking you, which was no use. The shrug emoji was a favorite of his you were quickly realizing. “It's really cool, though. You're gonna like it,” He says with a grin.

If that was supposed to ease your curious mind, it does the exact opposite. A place he was sure you were going to like? How would he know? Talked for seven days straight, but that's only one week. Do you really know what someone likes after one week?

Hoseok's quiet the entire car ride, a small smile playing on his lips as he drives. You're too busy striking out possible date locations to make any conversation, so the soft sound of his music is the only noise that fills the car. He's humming along to the beat, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, hair being swept by the wind. He's something out of a movie, it's hard to really focus on anything else.

Ten whole minutes pass of you shamelessly admiring his profile before he's shoving the car into park. “We're here,” Arms stretched out in front of him and your eyes squint, figuring you're missing something. “Where's here?” You're asking when you can't find the answer for yourself.

Hoseok lets out a small laugh, hand reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt. “You gotta get out to see it,” He's at your door seconds later, pulling it open and offering his hand out to you. Which you take, allowing him to pull you from the warmth and into the night wind. With his fingers laced with yours, he leads you away from the car.

You were standing on a cliff and the closer you get to the edge, the prettier it gets. Lights from the city below twinkling, but it looks so quiet. “You can see everything up here,” His fingers are still laced with yours, forgotten between you. “Right. I like to come here sometimes and just look,” Even with the endless conversation the two of you shared throughout the week, there were still quite a few things you didn't know about him.

Like the fact that he had a spot or the reason, he felt like he needed one in the first place. “How come you wanted to have our date here?” Aren't spots supposed to be private? Wouldn't showing you where he goes to 'just look', take away from that?

All at once, he's becoming all too aware with the warmth of your hand in his. The small tingle he feels throughout his palm that he had done a good job at ignoring up until now. It's the reason he's wiggling his fingers from your grasp and shoving his hand into the front pocket of his jeans.

He's plopping down on the rock with a thud, shoulders shrugging. “I don't know. Sometimes when we talk, I feel like bringing you here. So I did.” He's trying to be cool and you're not too sure why. There's a code in his words that isn't at all hard to read. He wanted to bring you here, let you in on a piece of him and no matter how nonchalant he tried to act about it, that's what it was.

So you're lowering yourself to sit beside him. From his pocket, he's pulling out a pre-rolled blunt and tucking it between his lips. He's quick with lighting it, taking his time with inhaling. “I don't really go on dates like that, you know. I mean, I do... but I don't. When I take girls out, it's like a gratuity, you know? But, I like talking to you and I wanted to show you something cool too. So I brought you here,”

His free hand rests on the ground behind you, inadvertently pulling your body closer to his. “Do you like it?” There's a bit of hopefulness in his voice that's hard to miss.

You're smiling brightly up at him, nodding your head to rid him of any confusion. “I like it. It's really pretty. Thank you for showing it to me,” Just your smile was enough to have the flutter starting up in his chest, but the way you talked to him? He'd turn into a blubbering fool if he wasn't careful.

He extends his hand, wordlessly offering the smoke out to you. And you're assuming that he just wants you to hold it for a second, so you pluck it from his fingers. And wait. He's snorting out a laugh at the patient look on your face. “You gonna hit it or...?”

“Oh! Uhm... no?” He's quick with pulling it from your fingers at the rejection, no desire to waste anything. “Why not? Are you like a good girl or something?” He teases, words coming through a cloud of smoke.

You're letting out a scoff, eyes rolling at his words. “No. I'm an athlete. My body is my most important instrument. Which includes my lungs,” He's bursting out laughing at the snootiness hidden in your tone. A loud laugh contagious laugh that could probably be heard throughout the entire city.

“Well, excuse me,” He speaks through your dying laughter.

With his arm resting behind you, you're naturally leaning into his side. The calm of the night and having him so close has a warm feeling settling in your chest, so much so that it's hard to contain the smile that has spread onto your features. Sitting in comfortable silence and watching the city below and it doesn't feel weird.

Content with just being around him and that's something you've never felt before. Whether or not he was feeling it too was lost on you, his focus on moving the blunt to and from his lips, a cloud of smoke forming above your heads.

“You see that greenish building?” You're pointing a little ways ahead of you. He has to lean forward and squint to see what you're referring to but nods once he spots it. “That's my middle school,” Punctuating your words with a grin up at him.

His fingers move to flick his scraps into the window, his body moving closer to you now that his focus wasn't split. “What was Middle School Yn like?” His free hand fidgets with the pebbles on the other side of his body, the other resting over your shoulder.

“Middle School Yn?” You repeat with a laugh, head tilting to the side as you're brought back to what you were like in middle school. Nothing like how you've turned out. “She was... different?” You're laughing again, planning on leaving it at that.

But, he's got this expectant look on his face, waiting for you to go on. So you do. “I kept to myself mostly, didn't have many friends. Not nearly as confident as I am now. I read a lot and did my homework. That's it,” He doesn't seem shocked or even surprised by the fact that you weren't always this popular magazine cut-out creation of yourself.

He doesn't even bat an eye, simply nodding at your words. “So you were a little nerdy?” His words don't come out in the rude unconvinced way that you've heard before when showing your past yearbooks. It's more like he's trying to get an image of what you looked like back than despite anything else.

“You could say that,” He's nodding, brushing the dirt from his hands. “Cute. Middle School me would've had the biggest crush on you.” Hoseok speaks as if it's just another fact like his words don't have a flutter shooting through your chest.

And with how sure he was that you two would've hit it off in middle school, you can't help but become curious. “What were you like back then?” You try to picture what a younger version of him would look like. How he'd act. Probably still cool, unbothered by most things that would usually send kids into a rage.

Your imagination doesn't get too far before he's answering. “I was a bit of a hothead... always wanted to fight someone. I was sensitive and emotional, so I argued a lot with whoever. I had a ton of friends, though. But looking, they were probably just afraid of not being my friend.” He laughs so you offer up a small giggle.

Your hand had been mindlessly resting on his thigh before, fingers tracing patterns into the fabric of his jeans as he speaks. “So why do you think you'd have a crush on me?” From the way he described himself, it seemed like you two wouldn't even sit by each other – let alone be close enough that he'd develop a crush.

He's shrugging at your words, an action that you've quickly realized is his favorite. A way to give off nonchalance, but looking close enough it's not hard to detect the light blush that dusts over his cheeks. “You said you were quiet. I think I would've liked being around you. Listening to you talk... like now,” His arm drops from your shoulders to wrap around your waist, using his grip to pull you closer to him.

“Think if I met you then or now, I'd still be into the way you smile... or the pretty way you roll your eyes when you're trying to act annoyed. And yeah, just you.” His hand reaches for yours in his lap, loosely twisting your fingers with his. “Any version of me would like you,” It's so soft, you're not sure if that last part was meant for you to hear.

His eyes are focused out in front of you, not even slightly looking like someone that just confessed. So you ignore it, summing it up as a slip of the tongue. You don't comment, but that doesn't stop the butterflies from taking over your stomach.

All at once, you're being met with the undeniable urge to kiss him. Just to see what it feels like. Throw out the self-proclaimed challenge you set for yourself because Arya was probably wrong. You've spent the entire night with the guy, he cheered you on from the crowd, brought you to his spot, and now this... unconscious confession. The fact that he liked you was on his mind so much that he was saying it without even realizing it.

You found it extremely hard to think someone like that would have the wrap sheet he was given. Or, maybe he did in the past... but with you it was different. Why else would he take you here, invite you into his space and talk to you the way that he has if it wasn't anything different? Right?

Right.

So before you can talk yourself out of it, you're tilting your head to the side to face him. “It's pretty here, huh?” Voice much softer now, you've taken control of the fiddling of fingers. Twisting yours around him and occasionally brushing your nails against his skin. It's subtle enough to be taken lightly but just enough to leave his skin tingling.

He's quick to pick up on your change of demeanor, brows raising in slight surprise, but he doesn't say anything. In fact, he's following your lead, leaning his body in closer to yours. “Mhm. Quiet too, nobody really comes over here,” His fingers tug at the belt loops in your jeans, tongue pushing out to wet his lips.

“That's good,” Your breath brushes against his lips as you speak, eyes dropping to his lips. He doesn't say anything else, gently pulling his fingers from your grasp just so he can spread his palm on the side of your neck. And then his lips are crashing down onto yours, hand holding your head in place.

Hoseok kisses you slowly at first, mouth molding with yours. But it's not long before he's brushing his tongue over your lips, testing the waters before he's plunging in. Fingers pressed into his jeans, you try to keep your head from spinning as his tongue pushes against yours. He tastes earthy... but a little sweet. It's intoxicating.

With two hands planted firmly on your hips, he's easily lifting you onto his lap. The movement so fast it's forcing you to break the kiss, a squealed laugh breaking the kiss. Which he meets with a wide grin, reaching to push your hair from your face. Slowly, he drags the tips of his fingers over your jawline, until he's holding your chin between his thumb and index finger.

“I really like your lips,” He says through a groan, leaning in to cover your mouth with his once more. Hands dropping to cover the curve of your ass, pushing your body further up on his lap so your hips collide. You can feel his half-hard cock pressed against your thigh and it takes everything in you not to grind your hips forward.

The feeling of his cool hands slipping underneath your sweater has a shiver running down your spine. Body reacting to the way his fingers climb up your skin, grazing over the underwire of your bra. His teeth tug at your lower lip and you feel the twitch of his cock hardening as his hands slide underneath.

Your slow with pulling back, not fully wanting to pull away – but knowing if you didn't stop now you wouldn't be able to convince yourself later on. It's cute, though, the way his lips chase yours as you put distance between the two of you. When he's not tasting the peach of your lip gloss, his eyes flutter open.

Two large hands resting over your breasts, cheeks matching the color of his eyes. “You don't want to?” He looks genuinely confused, like someone not wanting to sleep with him right away was some foreign concept. Still, he's pulling his hands from the inside of your shirt, resting them behind him.

“Not yet,” He nods, glossy lips spreading into a smile. “Okay,” He leans up to press a reassuring kiss to your nose before he's sliding you off of his lap. And then, without missing a beat he's saying. “I bet I can name more constellations than you,” Completely wiping away any possibility of an awkward moment rising.

Challenging you with a smirk on his face and the comfortable atmosphere you had been in before is quickly returning. “Yeah, okay.” He's stretched out on the ground so he can look at the sky properly and you're quick to lower yourself beside him.

And just like that, you're pointing out clusters of stars, laughing at the ridiculous names that you come up with. Your head pressed to his shoulder and his arm wrapped around you. You don't even notice as the hours tick by.

— you’re just his type. so it’s no surprise when all of his time and effort goes into making you his. though, they’ve always said… you only want it because you can’t have it.

⤪ masterlist ⤨

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#hoseok #hoseok fluff #hoseok smut #bts smut #💔 sm au #hoseok fic #hoseok sm au #hoseok imagine #hoseok angst #jung hoseok #hoseok x reader #bts #bts imagine #bts sm au #namjoon x oc #yoonmin

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heniareth · 3 years

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I was really curious about what your opinions on the DAO companions are :) I know we have talked about some, but I'd love to hear more and about the others as well :D I hope it's ok to pose this as an ask :)

Sure! That sounds like a ton of fun. This might be a long one tho. Mind you, this is not the finished version of the answer. I'd like to link stuff and add a cut, but rn that's not possible. I'll update it when I can.

Edit: I have updated it ^^

Let's go alphabetically bc why not.

Alistair:

Sweet guy. So sweet. There was a moment when I was hard pressed chosing between him and Zevran (alas, Zevran won). Also, he's weirdly tall according to the wiki? How did I not notice that before?

Let's get a bit more serious now, Alistair is a great guy. The only reason he's not the hero of the story is because he doesn't want to. He has all the qualities of a leader: he's good at dealing with conflict (as evident with the conversation with the mage at the beginning. He gets where he wants to get without antagonizing the mage, but without allowing him to trample all over him). He's a solid tactitian and knows how to make allies (he suggests to use the Grey Warden treaties, after all). I bet if he was in the leadership position, he'd even not bicker with Morrigan. His moral code is pretty tight; some might say too tight, but I think it's less about the moral code and more about learning to judge people by their actions, not by the labels they fit into (Morrigan is a proud apostate and therefore bad. Wynne is a humble circle mage and therefore good). He also has a bit of a black-and-white way of seeing the world. I empathize a lot with Alistair, especially with his experience with the Chantry and his subsequent reluctance to deal with it. I really wish I had gotten to know more about concrete experiences he had during his training as templar, but he seems reluctant to talk about it (gee, I wonder why).

Since I've only played the game once, I haven't really picked up on Arl Eamon's abuse towards him, which apparently exists (Isolde, however... I mean, even if he were Eamon's illegitimate son, he's a kid, ma'am, he didn't exactly get to chose his parents. So that's so not okay). Alistair's way of speaking about them both, however, is either sign that he has not come within a hundred miles of acknowledging how much it hurt him, or that he's already gone through the whole process and has decided to forgive them. The latter shows a very strong character; yes, he relies on the approval and leadership of others, he has his issues, but he's already started working on them.

That being said, irl Alistair would be like a little brother to me. I'd tease him relentlessly (all in good fun and I promise to stop if it makes him uncomfortable, but he's just so teasable). I still wish the videogame gave him the chance to take important decisions for himself. But that, of course, would somewhat defeat the point of the game.

Leliana:

Another sweet, sweet person. Her singing voice is amazing. Her belief in the Maker inspires me (I'm a religious person and seeing religious characters represented in a positive light is Very Cool. It's also sometimes a source of discomfort, because the Church has done a lot of very messed up stuff and positive representation can sometimes veer into apologetics for things that should not be excused, but that's a whole other can of worms. The bottom line is that religious characters sometimes work for me and other times don't and Leliana works for me very much bc she's an outsider inside the Chantry).

Leliana is best friend material, tbh. I'd love to get to know her irl, discuss theology and philosophy and maybe even politics? She makes mistakes and has prejudices, but, tbh, so do I. And I do get the feeling that she tries her best to learn. From the times she intervenes in a conversation between the Warden and an NPC, she shows herself to be compassionate and open to the needs of others. What I get from her character is that she genuinely wants to help, which is something that I adore of her. I suspect that she sometimes has a hard time deciding wether she's a good person or not. She has killed and seduced and worked for a morally dubious person, and she doesn't show the same nonchalance about it as Zevran (though they both do discuss their line of work in very... professional terms). This is, however, more of a headcanon than actual factual canon.

I also very much enjoy her girly side, like her interest in shoes and dresses. She's one badass woman who also looses her cool about the latest fashions in Val Royeaux. I like that. Between her and Alistair, a non human noble Warden has as good a help to navigate the Fereldan court as they're going to get. Leliana is also, I can't forget that, clever and insightful. It'd be easy to write her off as the innocent chantry girl, but she's so much more than that. Her kindness is paired with foresight, I think. She knows that taking on the trouble to help now can go a long way in the future. I just have a lot of respect for her.

Loghain:

This one's gonna be short bc I didn't recruit him. He's an amazing villain and would probably be a great Warden as well. He reminds me of Denerhor from LOTR; once a hero/stewart of his people, ambition and desperation have driven them both down a terrible path. I have also only little idea about his past. People say he lost a lot, and I believe it wholeheartedly; it doesn't excuse the fact that he plunged the country into a civil war in the middle of a Blight. I don't have a lot of sympathy for short-sighted politicians. I wish he hadn't made himself regent. That's what I take away from his character.

Edit: One thing I forgot to mention that really impressed me was his death. I had Alistair duel him (that was a rough duel), and then it kinda just jumped to a cutscene of my Warden nodding and Alistair executing him. That didn't sit well with me. I didn't want to kill Loghain, and less so in front of Anora. But what impressed me was that Loghain just accepted it. That takes a whole lot of guts. Compare that to Howe's death, and how he screams out that he deserved (more, probably, or anything but death) and it's crystal clear who the more noble of the two is. Loghain strikes me as very lawful neutral, and any neutral alignment has the particularity that it can be dragged towards good or bad, sometimes without the characters noticing it (which is interesting from a DnD perspective; neutral is often concieved of as just as stable as good or evil, but that may not be true. But that's a different post). Anyway, Loghain's death was impactful.

Morrigan:

I could kick myself for not maxing out her approval in the first play-through. I got to enjoy a bit of her friendship by the end of it and boy was even that little bit worth it. Friendship with Morrigan is something that is hard-won. It's all the more precious because of that.

Morrigan is full of paradoxes, I think. She's incredibly wise in some ways, yet also very short-sighted (”just kill them, don't solve their problems”. Morrigan, dear, I'm not going to gain a lot of allies if I kill everybody who poses a problem to me). She is so intelligent, but emotionally... not so. She knows so much about some things, and very little about the next. She's incredibly wilful and knows what she wants, but follows Flemeth's orders all the time through. She hungers for power and independence, yet craves closeness, but won't allow herself to have it. She asks you to prove yourself to her and is extremely critical of your actions, I think, because she's afraid. She bites the hand that feeds her because it might hit her next.

Like with Eamon, I haven't managed to catch the undercurrent of abuse that seems to permeate Flemeth's relationship with Morrigan. Except there are signs, because there must be something Morrigan is scared of and who has instilled all that rage in her, and that's Flemeth. Also, she clearly hates/does not care about her and wants her dead (unless killing Flemeth was part of Flemeth's plan as well? Hm.)

Morrigan is that one person who you are nice to, continuously, because nobody else is. And suddenly she becomes less cold. And then friendly. And suddenly you're asking yourself why everybody hates her, because she's a really good friend! I just wish the other companions came to a similar conclusion, especially Alistair and Wynne.

Oghren:

They did this man dirty. He has such great lines and I'm convinced he was a great person before Branka disappeared. He has that dwarven warrior spirit, and while he looks like Gimli, some of his most impactful lines remind me of Dwalin or even Thorin Oakenshield himself. He could be so noble had he gotten some character development, damnit!

Oghren as he is written is somewhat disgusting. I hate the lechering comments and the drunkenness. And still, I don't hate him because of those amazing lines he has when he's actually sober. It's frustrating and I'll give him that character development myself if the game won't. I strongly associate the song Whiskey Lullaby with him, bc that's how he would have ended up if the Warden hadn't taken him along (warning: the song talks about suicide and alcoholism). Like I said, they could have done such cool things with his character. As he is written now... it's just sad. Moments of lucidity drowned in alcohol and creepy jokes. As you can see, I don't blame the character for either. The alcoholism happens all too often irl. The creepy jokes... I put that one on the writers' tab.

I actually think Oghren could have been a great mentor figure (I know, I shock myself as well sometimes). Next to the Grey Wardens, the ones who know most about fighting darkspawn are the dwarves because they have to deal with them constantly. Especially a warrior caste dwarf like Oghren could have brought a lot of that invaluable knowledge to the team, especially since there are no Grey Wardens in Ferelden but two extremely green recruits. Next, you get the chance to give Oghren the command of the teammates you leave behind in the battle of Denerim with the reason that he has lead men into battle before. Where did that suddenly come from? Oghren should have been right up there telling my Warden that they were doing this wrong, that they needed more food (and booze) and a confident leader to keep the armies they've called together going. Oghren should have been able to tell my civilian city elf who got recruited into the Grey Wardens a six months ago how one leads an army. How one presents oneself to inspire confidence, how one doesn't crack under the pressure, how one gets the leaders of said armies (some who hate each others guts i.e. Dalish elves and humans) to work together. And, last but not least, Oghren could have had a great story about grief. This is a man who has lost most of what made him (and what he hasn't lost he's spilling down the drain with every mug of ale). This is a man who, if you take him into the Deep Roads, has to see what his wife did to his family, how his wife got absolutely obsessed, and can be forced to kill said wife or watch her die. All Wardens loose their home and families at the start of the story. It would really have rounded the whole narrative out if the Warden and Oghren could have recognised their grief in each other and hashed it out somehow. Such as it is, Oghren is a depressed drunkard and there is nothing we can do about that. I find that frustrating.

Rascal (a.k.a. Dog):

Best boy. 100/10. I wish we had gotten to see the reaction of the different origins to the mabari (because elves probably have a whole different experience with them from mages or humans. And dwarves just... I think they straight up have none? XD). Other than that, no complaints. The name Rascal was the one I gave my dog because you have to be a right rascal to survive what he did and play the pranks he plays. Smartest breed in the world indeed.

Shale:

Shale is one of those characters that I recruited rather late in the game, so I haven't had the chance to explore their personality and worldview, really. I didn't even get to take them to the Deep Roads (this will be ammended in playthrough nr. 2). As such, I don't have particularly strong opinions on them (or her? The wiki refers to Shale as 'it', but that sounds weird). But, because I know so little about Shale, I have a lot of questions. First, what were they like before they were a golem? Shayle, as she was called then, was the best warrior of her time if I remember correctly. Why did she become a golem? Was it to be able to eternally protect her people? Was the sarcasm the golem Shale exhibits also part of the dwarven warrior Shayle or did that come later (if for thirty years you have nobody to talk to but yourself, you better be entertaining. And I can imagine how it could make somebody terribly jaded as well).

Next, how attached is Shale to their golem form, exactly? According to the banter, they infinitely prefer it to a squishy fleshy form. If that is the case, however, why go to Tevinter to try and become a squishy dwarf again? It's not like that process could be reversed if they wanted to become a golem again; if Shale survives to the end of the game, the Anvil of the Void is destroyed and Caridin is dead. Was the whole spiel about their indestructible form a façade? It might have been, but not because Shale actually disliked their form. I think it would have more to do with the loss of their memories and with the very invasive experiments and alterations of Shale's body made by the mage Wilhelm. The loss of memories means that Shale is unable to remember life as a fleshy creature. They might be deflecting by pretending that they didn't care for that experience anyway because of the superiority of their golem form. The modifications made to their form by Wilhelm would have alienated them from their body. In light of this, it's significant that Shale asks the Warden to decorate their form with crystals.

All of this is, of course, pure speculation. I may have easily missed or forgotten details that would disprove the above thoughts. All in all, I like Shale and I hope we meet them again in DA4 (given that it's mostly set in Tevinter). It's a liking from a respectful distance, because Shale is tall and made out of rock and also way more experienced than I will ever be (they are literally the oldest member of the Warden's little Blight fighting squad).

Sten:

Sten is another person I'd keep a respectful distance from physically. That seems to be the what he would prefer, at least. I've enjoyed his character a lot, especially because he seems pretty clear-cut at first, but slowly lets the nuance of his person show (gruff and stoic, but then he has an eye for art, a sweet tooth and he likes cute animals). It's also very interesting that there's no moment when you learn "the truth" about him the way you do with Zevran or Leliana. There's no big reveal about his life under the Qun before coming to Ferelden. He says he was sent to monitor the Blight, but honestly? If neither Ferelden nor Orlais knew there was a Blight, how could the Qunari know? I think he's lying, and he takes his secrets back with him when he leaves Ferelden. And yet I think I know him enough to say that a Warden who has become friends with him has nothing to fear from Sten.

One thing I find very interesting about Sten is how he thinks. His conversation about how women can't be soldiers has been analysed a lot on this page I think. He seems to be arguing based on a different paradigma than the one the Warden has. He also seems to have a very clear-cut view of the world. What is fascinating to me is that, when arguing with the Warden and learning about their culture, he is not necessarily becoming more lax about his worldview. I think it's more likely that he is expanding his paradigma, the structure of thought through which he understands the world. I don't think that he is now convinced that women can be warriors as well. I think he rather understands that, in Ferelden, the relationship between occupation and gender is different than under the Qun. Which of the two he thinks is more right or more agreeable, I have no idea. I'm also not very interested in that. But I find it fascinating how he always seems to be looking on quietly, gathering data, classifying it and trying to fit it into his understanding of how the world works. I wouldn't be surprised at all if his original party was a scouting party to see how vulnerable Ferelden was at that moment to outside forces. One thing I don't understand with all of this is why he urges the Warden to meet the Blight head on. No smart soldier would suggest that, except if they are foolishly proud (and Sten doesn't seem like that kind of guy tbh). I get that the Warden takes way longer to gather allies than expected because they first have to solve all of their allies' problems. But surely Sten sees the need to have allies? Is he just that impatient? Does he have a death wish (à la, I lost my sword and am without honour, better to die sooner than later and in glorious battle)? Was he his group's previous commander and is he now having trouble following somebody else's orders? Or maybe it's his way to make sure the Warden knows what they are doing? To push them into becoming the self-assured commander their allies will need once they're all gathered? I really don't know. I like the last option best, however.

For me, Sten is my fellow, more experienced soldier. Like Alistair, he can potentially be the Warden's brother in arms, but he's definitely the older brother here. He probably doesn't take kindly to tearful confessions of how hard everything is, but I feel like he's otherwise a solid rock to lean on. I feel like the Warden can trust him to do what is necessary and count on him no matter what, especially after they get his sword back. His devotion from that point on is honestly so powerful.

Wynne:

Wynne was such a support for my Warden (except with the whole conversation about love vs. duty and that she may have to choose between Zevran and ending the Blight and that she should therefore break up with him. Wynne had a point. Astala was so not willing to sacrifice her relationship with Zevran. But the whole conversation came at a point where she was already so disillusioned that she blew up in Wynne's face (”can i please just have one (1) nice thing????”)). But all in all, Wynne is great.

She has a lot of flaws. She was very marked by her life in the Cricle and, for all her age, she has little experience living outside of it. She is also a conformist despite her strong moral core. In a way, her ability to find peace with her lot in life impresses me deeply because it speaks to a lot of strength of character. Sadly, however, strength can be ill applied and used to suppress. I think she has convinced herself that the Chantry is right under (almost) all circumstances to be able to rationalize the life that mages live. She's had her son taken away from her as a baby and an apprentice killed. Her reaction seems to have been to convince herself that this was right, or for the greater good (and now I'm thinking about the Guardian's question at the temple of Andraste's Ashes; are you wise or do you just repeat what others have told you? The answer is not as clear-cut as it might be). This is why she is so irritated by Zevran and Morrigan. By aligning herself with the Chantry, she is, in her eyes, good. Zevran and Morrigan are not; they do not conform to Chantry morality and they defend themselves tooth and nails against somebody who would try and convert them. This is something Wynne never allowed herself to do; she always did the "right" thing and it has cost her so much. I'm not saying she was right (it would probably have done her some good to rebel from time to time, and to trust her own gut instinct more), but in light of this, it hardly surprises me that she's so judgamental. She has to be, or she would be forced to confront all the evil she has not fought against all those years and all the hurt that has been caused to her by the very institution she protects (and thank God she only tries to argue and can appreciate it when people have found a good life outside of her comfort zone. If she tried to convince by force or, for example, drag her former apprentice back to the Circle... boy oh boy that would get ugly). If you think about it, Wynne really is a good example for what happens if you live by a philosophy of always choosing the lesser evil.

Something that I keep forgetting over her grandmotherly and dignified character is how damn powerful she is. She has escaped the carnage at Ostagar; HOW!? She protected those mage apprentices in the Circle tower for God knows how long. In the battle of Denerim, she wades through an army and comes out alive on the other side. The wiki lists her age at 40, I think, but that doesn't make a lick of sense unless 75 years of age are the Fereldan equivalent to 100. This lady, about whom people make grandmother jokes, did all that. It's impressive.

Zevran:

You know, I would really love to know what Wynne thinks about the events at Kirkwall in DA2. It might be a disaster for her, or it might pave the way for one last bit of character development. She certainly didn't want to return to the Circle after fighting the Blight. That may be an indicator of some change in her stance on the Circle of Magi.

Edit: I forgot that she is what the Circle considers a literal abomination! Holy cow, how could I forget that?? Anyway, her conversation about what being an abomination means is so... heartbreaking, actually. It's so tentative. So careful. "Am I an abomination? Am I the same thing that has killed my students? The same thing as Uldred? Am I lost and damned? Did I invite this spirit in? Is this my fault?" Like wow, Wynne is going through something huge right there. I love it. I have to continue playing the game to see what it ends up as, but it's fascinating and such a huge thing that she allows the Warden in on that.

Ah, Zevran, my beloved (he has stolen my heart so much it's not even funny anymore). He's funny, he's charming, he's so so loyal and it breaks my heart. Zevran is the one about whom I've read most meta: these three wonderful posts for instance, as well as this one about his possible lack of scars, and this one about his lack of freedom. All of these have influenced my opinion of him and they are great reads.

I have talked about Zevran with you before, so I'll just skip to the new stuff. I have come to conclusion that Zevran is an artist at heart. This is totally not biased by the fact that I also do art, but hear me out. One of his preferred gifts are bars of silver and gold. While those have the obvious utility of basically functioning as money (they can be sold to any silversmith or goldsmith and their value is pretty stable through time and in different countries), there's also this from his codex: "Zevran shows an affinity for the finer things in life—hardly surprising for an Antivan Crow—but his appreciation can be more poetic than he lets on. A simple bar of refined silver or gold, uncomplicated by a craftsman's hammer, is elegantly valuable." Tell me that is not an artist's eye that sees that gold and sees the beauty in it. Then, there's also the meta about Zevran the Seducer which I linked above and link here again. It talks specifically about how he lets himself enjoy the target and be seen in his enjoyment. Tell me that is not an artist's eye that beholds the beauty of something he is set out to destroy. Even his talk about his assassinations show this. He talks about it as an art, the way somebody would talk about the brutal intervention in stone that produces a sculpture. Yes, it's a rationalization of the act of killing and yes killing is still wrong. But he doesn't go on about it on a moral tangent the way Alistair or Wynne would (”this person was bad, killing them was necessary”) or even through the argument of survival like Morrigan would (”it was either them or me and it sure as Hell wasn't going to be me”). He talks about the pleasure of a job well done, of the satisfaction of striking the precise point and executing a plan to the perfection so as to minimize chances of discovery and to make a clean death possible. And pleasure in seeing and in doing, this I firmly believe, is absolutely fundamental for an artist.

My favourite part about my Warden and Zevran as a pairing is that Zevran precisely brings out that ability to take your pleasures as they come and to really savour them. Fighting the Blight is tough; it's so important to find good things amidst the chaos to stay sane. If Astala saves Zevran from himself by offering him a place to stay and a purpose, Zevran saves Astala from herself by keeping her from running herself into the ground trying to save the world.

There are some things I don't like about Zev. The incessant flirting, for example, sometimes makes me uncomfortable (it becomes enjoyable for me once the Warden and him are in a relationship, but before that? Nah, no thanks). I wish he would also leave the other female characters alone (and there's so many more shameless comments of his aimed at Morrigan, Leliana or Wynne than at Alistair or maybe even Sten).

---

And that's my take on the Origins companions (this was rather long. Whew ^^' I hope it was still readable and that you enjoyed it!!) Thank you so much for the ask!! It's been a joy thinking about this. I was worrying at first that the less prominent companions like Sten or Shale wouldn't get as much content but... well XD

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tobi-momo · 3 years

Text

Your Cupid

a/n: hihihihihidihgl;df im finally posting again!! so sorry to take so long! also- im so so so sorry if this is bad i really wanted to post so i kninda rushed the end, and ik its long im so sorry😭 also i hope you find out soon in the fic and interpret yourself but just to let you know the title is referring to Oikawa, not Iwa.

Pairing(s): Iwaizumi Hajime x reader | Oikawa x reader (PLATONIC)

Genre: Slowburn!!! Romance, Fluff, Angst, Comfort

Warnings: Cursing, i think that's it?

Word Count: 4k

Synopsis: Being childhood best friends with Oikawa meant you weren't going to hear the end of it when it came to volleyball, when you finally agreed to become the Seijoh manager, he suddenly started to regret introducing you to his other best friend, Iwaizumi.

It wasn’t your choice, being here. You were forced to come, Tooru practically dragging you to the gym while you whine and complain, his cocky smile and fake charm trying it’s best to convince you to stop resisting. You barely know a thing about volleyball, even though always going to Tooru’s games and helping him practice when you were little, you never really caught the whole jist of the sport. He vowed to help you, to always be there when you have questions about it.

So with an elongated sigh, and a pinch to the bridge of your nose, you agree. You would become the manager of the Seijoh Volleyball Club.

~.~.~.~

The first practice you had attended consisted of balls flying, smacking aggressively on the ground; your eyes not being able to keep up with them, instead finding entertainment in the players instead. Tooru had introduced you to them, each of them holding their hand out for you to grab and shake gently before letting go and subtly wiping your hands on your uniform. He had mentioned another best friend, one that he had been trying so hard to get you to meet, wanting to complete his holy trinity. When you refused to go anywhere he would moan in defeat, collapsing on your bed while fake pouting and turning around to pretend that “y/n doesn’t love me anymore”. You would always just hit him with a pillow after that, resulting in an all out war. You had assumed the other guy refused as well, as Tooru never mentioned if his poor friend desired to meet you.

You guessed even after the ace met you for the first time the desire still never came up, his nonchalant nod and monotone greeting of his name showing proof of that, even before he turned around to walk away without a care in the world. He never took your hand, he never even looked at you; must have been too busy, throwing the ball in the air before running and leaping upwards, smacking the ball on the other side of the court, a loud grunt bleeding through his throat when he misses his target, running to and under the net to receive the ball. You watched him, pupils stuck on the way his body moved so flawlessly through the air, the way his rough, calloused hand hits the ball, making it mold around his palm and forcing it through the air without resistance, the loud slap that echoed throughout the gym when the ball made contact with the polished floors, the annoyed glare he made when the ball didn’t go where it was supposed to.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“Y/nnnnnnn,” Tooru mewled, his fingers waving in front of your face, his fingers snapping together to grab your attention. His head turns, eyes widening dramatically when he finds what you were so distracted by.

Only regret ran through his mind at that moment.

~.~.~.~

You had attended most of Tooru’s games, but you had never really paid attention, as your eyes kept drifting towards the scoreboard and the clock, impatiently waiting for the final whistle to be blown. This game however, was different. Your attention was nailed to this game, your hair pulled back and your hands gripping the rotation sheet ever so tightly, your breath coming in hitches when the score rises, the atmosphere becoming so much more intense than you remember.

Awe was painted all over your face as you gaze at your best friend setting the ball so beautifully among the court, it flying towards the wing spiker just in time for him to strike it down on the other side of the net, gusts of wind following after- the hair of the libero on the other team fluffing up as they stare at the number four player. You watch him smirk in victory and his hands balling up in congratulating fists. The rest of his teammates whooped and cheered, patting him harshly on the back, a shared smile between him and Tooru before their knuckles joined in a tiny bump before returning to their sides.

Then, his eyes went to yours. The sweat dripping down his heated face and his heaving chest disappeared after you caught a glimpse of his green iris’. They were piercing; cutting into your brain and engraving themselves in your memory. How were you ever going to get them out of your mind?

You didn’t notice him walking towards you, his arms slightly swaying back and forth as he walked, his quiet footsteps picking up speed only a tad towards you. Then, as your mouth opens in an attempt to speak, the light of his green eyes floods your pupils when the words catch in your throat. “I- you were-”

“Y/n-chan! How’d you think of the game? Being so up close and personal like that has to make a difference from the stands, right?” Tooru’s voice bleeds straight into your hearing, interrupting your stutter. This was one thing you’d have to thank him for later.

~.~.~.~

“Wait, I’m confused, what’s that for?” You point to an arrow on your clipboard, looking up in confusion towards anyone who would listen. The captain was busy announcing whatever he wanted to the team, making them groan in annoyance and roll their eyes, Tooru only continuing with his story.

“What’s what for?” You heard from beside you, the low grumble of his voice seeping into your ears, making you jump backwards. The palms of his hands move to grip your arms firmly so as to not let you lose balance, his rough fingers wrapping around the flesh of your arm to pull you back up. He only stares, more of a glare, if you were being honest. He looked madly confused, or it may have been his resting bitch face, you don’t know. It wasn’t until you were back on your feet when you decided to speak up again, subtly avoiding eye contact by letting your eyes zip from random item to item, finding purchase on the metal clip of the plastic board you were holding.

“Uhm, I’m just confused about what play this is,” you say, your finger pointing towards the specific circle and arrow you were questioning. His head tilts downward, his eyebrows furrowing as he narrows in towards your problem, a hand on his chin.

“That’s a back row attack.”

“A what?” You question, looking up towards him for an explanation, only finding his eyes still stuck on the paper.

“A back row attack. It’s when a hitter from the back row jumps up towards the ten-foot line and hits the ball on the other side,” he abbreviates, a little hand gesture making its way through the air.

“Oh, really? How would that work? Why wouldn’t the setter just toss the ball to a front row player?” Volleyball gets more confusing everytime you think about it. He glimpsed up at you, took a short breath, then shifted his feet, like he was getting ready for a long conversation; you just stood there, waiting for him to explain a little bit more before taking a quick look around the gym, the cart of balls standing out to your line of vision. You hold a smirk, his head following your movements as you turn around to set the clipboard on the bench and walk towards the cart full of balls, picking one up and bouncing it on the floor.

A single eyebrow raises, but he still follows you to the court. “So, if I were to toss...to,” you put a finger on your chin, pondering, “back there,” you point to middle-back, taking a step towards the spot, “where would I be over here?”

He understood immediately, nodding his head as his legs made their way to you, scaling the court with narrow eyes once he halts beside you. “Well, depending on the play and the rotation, you could be anywhere on the court, so you could toss to them from pretty much any position.” His explanation sounded brief, vague. It was just enough for you to get the idea, though.

“Uh, go stand over there,” he urges, pointing to the middle back position. “Do you know how to hit a ball?” You look at him incredulously, feeling a little embarrassed to say you barely know how to do your approach.

“Not...really?” You compromise, shrugging as you backpedal to the back row position.

“Here,” he jogs up to you, handing you the ball, “take this and go to where I was just now.” You comply, heading over to that position, shifting the ball between your hands. “Give me one.”

“What?” You question him as he pulls his ankle back up towards his back, stretching his quad.

“Toss me one and watch me.” Oh.

You do as told, under-handingly tossing the ball up towards the ten foot line, studying his footwork. His form was perfect, you thought, his right foot leading his approach until he jumps into the air, practically flying flawlessly as his arm comes up behind him at a perfect angle to shoot the ball straight down one of the back corners.

The setter on the other side of the court could see the sparkle in your eyes, the glistening of awe in your face as you admire his best friend. He had a feeling you would like him once you met him, but not like this. The idea of you two suddenly being fond of each other ate away at him, like he was about to lose someone. Maybe two.

~.~.~.~

Away games were the worst. You hated sharing a small bus with smelly boys who don’t know a thing called “boundaries”. They hover over you, their arms flailing and their mouths running. You were annoyed, to say the least, trying to refrain from rolling your eyes at the boy's antics, crossing your arms to separate yourself from them. You didn’t even get the chance to sit next to Tooru, who got stuck on the inside of Kindaichi, messing around with Matsukawa and Makki.

You were uncoincidentally stuck with the captain’s best friend, Iwaizumi. You didn’t mind him of course, as he would put Tooru’s ego in place and tell everyone to shut up before you explode on them. You didn’t know if he noticed your irritation, your bugged eyes staring out the window, your head leaning against the glass. His head was also turned your way, you guessed to doze off to the moving trees outside, but you didn’t notice the way his eyes focused on your hair, subconsciously trying to count the strands while you look away, your eyelids drooping downwards ever so often.

Your dreary state was interrupted by a plastic water bottle being caught in the air, your nose coming face to face with a hand- the hand of the man sitting next to you, you infer.

“Guys, what the hell did I just say? Stop throwing shit around!” He yells towards his teammates, their playful demeanor turning pensive, their heads rotating away guiltily.

“Thanks,” you mutter, the words barely leaving your throat when he pulls away.

“No problem,” he dismisses, forcing himself to not glance up at you when he shoves the bottle in Makki’s hands.

“Hey- what the hell?” Makki whines.

“It’s yours, dumbass, take it.”

~.~.~.~

The red marker covering the white page gawked at you, showing you how you weren’t good enough for anything better. You couldn’t look at it any longer, the bottom lip of your frown quivering before you bring the inside of your elbow up to your mouth, muffling your sniffles and absorbing the steamy tears that scurry down your raw cheeks. You were better than this, what the hell is wrong with you?

Hiding in the storage closet wasn’t a good idea, The initial plan was clever, sneaking in there to calm yourself down before practice, needing to keep an optimistic mindset. That plan was ruined as soon as you broke down though, slow, and quiet but clear footsteps closing in on the door, like they were leaning their ear in to listen. Your mind hadn’t kept up with the time, as you hiccupped and sobbed even after the door was opened and light shined through the dark.

“Y/n?” You whipped your head away, refusing to look at them as you deal with your mortification. They scoot in, shutting the door until only a little line of light cracked through. “Y/n, what happened?” They sat next to you, closely you may add, dipping their head down to try and see your face. You avoid them, trying your hardest not to cry in front of them. “Don’t turn away from me, look at me,” they hush, placing their fingertips on your forearms, gently pulling them towards their direction, your head hanging down as your arms are removed from your mouth. “Look at me.”

You sniffle with exhaustion as you drag your head up, finally letting them inspect your glassy eyes, tears continuing to run down without fail. They had felt the hot liquid stream down their thumb as they wiped it away from your face, caressing your cheek as you fret.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head.

“Do you want my help?”

You nod. And you don’t move away when you find the vice captain’s hand reaching behind your head to cradle it as you whimper in his shoulder.

~.~.~.~

Study sessions with Iwaizumi became a regular thing. Whether it was him coming to your house and staying for dinner, or it was you falling asleep on his desk, you two never stopped doing it. Even after your grades went back up, the red marker leaving your memory almost completely when you get your new tests back. He gave you a look of approval, nodding his head a single time to show his acknowledgement. He wasn’t surprised when you came up to him and tugged him into a tight embrace, his large hands coming to hold your figure like second nature. He was used to this, your excited hugs and your bursts of energy and your lack of an attention span and your bright and sunny nature. It was funny to him how much other people burn you out, like a dying fire that needs more gasoline.

The second your body hit his, a breath slipped out, creating a little chuckle that filled your ears, the cozy warmth of his chest slightly leaning into you.

“Finally! I finally did it. Proud ‘a me?” You smirk at him, feeling a little full of yourself at the moment.

“Sure, sure, yeah,” he replies, slowly shoving your body off his, your feet stumbling as you let go of him, struggling to find balance. The hands wrapped around your arms keep you firmly planted on the ground, gently letting go the moment you stop moving around. They dive straight into his pockets, his head lifting to see your cheery expression. “You did good.”

You only smile in response, opening your mouth before a hand was planted on your shoulder.

“Y/n-chan! How’d you do? I heard trusty Iwa-chan helped you study!”

“Shut up, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi grumbles.

“I did really well, thanks to trusty Iwa-chan,” you emphasize, a glare shooting your way once the sound of your voice finds Iwaizumi’s ears. He didn’t like that. Tooru giggled, his hand half-covering his mouth to ‘try’ and stifle his laugh.

“Well, I did amazing too, in case you guys wanted to know.” A cocky grin made its way through Tooru’s face.

“We didn’t.”

“That’s awesome, Tooru!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m amazing.”

“Shut up, Crappykawa,” you and Iwa both chant in unison.

“Aw, c’mon, you guys!”

~.~.~.~

“I have to admit something, Y/n,” Tooru blurts in your room while he sits on your bed, his head hanging low while his fingers trace the thread patterns of your blanket. You spin your chair to face him, the atmosphere brought down when you see his quiet expression. Oikawa Tooru was never quiet.

“I thought letting you two meet was a good idea, I wanted us to be the power trio,” he strained a chuckle. “I just didn’t know that you two would become more than friends.” Your eyes expand, your breath immediately slowed and your movements coming to a full stop.

‘What do you mean by that, Tooru?”

“You know what I mean,” he waves you off dismissively. “I see the way you look at him, Y/n. I see the way he looks at you. I’m like the biggest third wheel in the world.”

You were confused, shocked. Was what was coming out of his mouth true? Did you really have different feelings about him than anyone else? Did he have them for you?

“I was mad, at first.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Like, really mad. I didn’t want you guys to have all that lovey-dovey stuff together when I’m right here, you know,” he gestures to himself; your head tilts in understanding, nodding. “I guess you could say I was jealous. It just irked me that you two never wanted to meet and then when you do you immediately fall head over heels for each other, completely ignoring the fact that I was the one to bring you two together.” He didn’t feel left out, like he did before, though. He had watched you two for a while, realizing that you two need him just as much as he needs you and you two need each other. He felt as if this was really who he belonged with. You guys.

You just stared at him, the cogs in your brain trying their best to process his words, your fingers coming together into a fidget. Your wide eyes landed on his, and although his pupils were nailed to the bed, you could see the sadness that didn’t belong. His eyebrows were furrowed in a way that made him look like he was worried, regretful, yet his lips stayed thinned together as his hair dangled in front of him. You could tell he was trying really hard to say this. Even if it was The Oikawa Tooru, he wasn’t invincible.

You try to recall all the times you’ve met with Iwaizumi, all the conversations you had, all the tiny contact you made when your fingers had mistaken each other’s arm or fingers for the textbook, all the times he caught your lingering gaze, but refused to let it go, the times he caught up with you after practice, slightly jogging towards you and stopping once he reaches the same spot as you- you naturally having to speed up every once in a while as his legs were much longer than yours.

“You’re right,” you mumble, your words coming out slow and smooth, your eyes focusing back on him from the blurry space you just dropped yourself in. His eyes have a double-take on your face, moving back and forth from the blanket to your face of realization. “I do like him more than a friend. And it’s because of you.” His back stretches upwards, sitting up straight. “So, thank you, Tooru.” It was now his turn to be utterly stunned- thank...you? “I’m glad you convinced me to join the volleyball club, to meet Iwaizumi, to allow us to have these experiences together, thank you.”

What could he say? “Your welcome”? It seemed unfit for the situation, he figured. So instead of plastering on a confident smirk and showing his “Great King”, he exhales deeply, looking straight into the holes in your eyes. “Just don’t break his heart, yeah?”

You nod in assurance, returning a determined eye. “I can do that.”

~.~.~.~

The next few weeks passed slowly, like the clock gave an extra two minutes with every second that went by. You had barely seen him, as he walked away from you every time he noticed your presence. He refused to look at you, the back of his head being the only thing to face you during practice. Why was he avoiding you?

“Iwa.” He doesn’t look up at you from putting a ball back in the cart, shutting his eyes before turning around. He stops when your hand grasps his arm, pulling him into a stop. He tugs his arm back, your grip hardening on his flesh, your sharp glare not letting him leave. “Iwaizumi.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose while screwing his eyes shut. “What.”

“Why have you been avoiding me?” You bring your hand up in the air with question.

“Why have I been what?”

“You heard me. Now answer me.” Your tone was strict, firm. It annoyed the hell out of him that it made him want to confess.

“I haven’t been doing shit. Stop following me like a lost puppy,” he growls, side eyeing you.

“Excuse me?” Your head bucks back, surprised. With one last tug, his arm is out of your reach as he walks away with his dark demeanor.

Then, he was gone.

~.~.~.~

You had spent a couple days thinking about it. How the conversations were so short, how he just completely dismissed you. Tooru watched you two go back and forth between bickering, you usually being the one to start the conversation before he tells you to fuck off. He was curious as well. You mean, that’s what you assumed from the conversation they were having in the gym before practice, ceasing your stroll when you hear their voices echo throughout the room, your body hiding behind the door so they wouldn’t notice.

“Iwa-chan, we talked about this, she just wants to be your friend, stop being so mean to her!”

“Whatever.”

“Iwaizumi, I’m serious. Stop being so cold to her,” the captain’s voice changes, his playful attitude gone in a swift motion, replaced with a scowl when Iwaizumi’s wide eyes find him. “What did she do to make you like this, huh? Such a meanie, Iwa-chan.”

“I’m not,” the number four defends, looking Oikawa up and down before taking a step back.

“Oh, I think you are,” he taunts, “you too were getting along so beautifully, it looked like. What happened? Scared?” He smirks.

“Of what?” Iwa’s eyes twitched, his face flushed.

“Of her not liking you back.”

The ace stammers, his mouth not knowing what words to spit out as he looks his best friend in the face.

He was serious, wasn’t he.

Iwa stood there, gaping at Oikawa’s satisfied expression while stumbling on his words, trying to find the best one to respond with. But he couldn’t. There was nothing he could say at this moment that would change the way Oikawa thinks, because Iwa knows he’s right. He knows.

~.~.~.~

You were frozen in place, your heart seemed to stop working, you couldn’t tell. Your nerves had stuttered a couple times- you weren’t sure you were even alive at this point. The hand that placed itself on your mouth had fallen to your side, leaving your silent gasps less silent now. Thankfully, they hadn’t heard you, but once you rushed inside with purpose and resolution, the gym door slamming shut, their heads had whipped your way.

“You’re telling me you liked me this whole time?!” You shout to him, walking closer and closer until you arrive right in front of him. His eyes stayed glued to you, confusion stirring back and forth throughout his whole system. He was scared. “Is that why you’ve been a dick to me?”

“I didn’t-”

“Now, now, Iwa-chan, let her talk.”

“Tooru,” you lour, “stop talking.”

“I’ve liked you since I saw that jump serve you did at my first practice, and you’re telling me that you like me too? Even though you’ve been avoiding me and pushing me away and telling me to leave you alone and-”

“You what?”

“What? I like you? Yes! I do! Now can you finally stop acting like an asshole?”

Silence.

“Uh…”

“He means yes, Y/n,” Tooru cuts in while patting the vice captain on the shoulder, laughing it off.

You take a deep breath, running a hand through your hair as you sigh. “Okay,” you exhale, “well, then...are we? Do you-”

“Mhm! He would love to,” Oikawa answers again.

You look at Tooru once more, biting your lip to hide your smile before nodding once towards him.

Thank you, Tooru.

im so sorry for this mess oh my god

general taglist: @combat-wombatus @toosharkinternet @alpha3113 @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @solar3lunar @hitosushi @zerohawks @katsuhera @awmahleebkg @thisnoodlewritesao3 @realcube @f0leysgurl

haikyuu taglist: @pies-writes-and-more @luvrboykento

REQUESTS: OPEN

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yee-fxcking-haw · 3 years

Note

a hard dom hitoshi pls?? maybe some rewarding in the end...

SAY NO MORE.

•Love Me Like You•

Summary: Just some Daddy Hitoshi being a hard dom, then getting real sweet.

Pairing: Hitoshi Shinsou x FemReader (both 18+)

Warnings: Dom Hitoshi, Sub reader, Daddy kink (shocking I know), light bondage, impact play, creampie, unprotected sex, mild degradation, mild dumbification, a dash of spit play.

Word Count: 1,816

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Your thighs tremble, unreliable as you kneel. Your wrists ache, bound behind you for what has felt like eternity. Still, you don't move. You sit pretty and shake.

Hitoshi's hot breath is on your neck, one hand grasps your hip as the other adjusts the vibrator he's holding against your clit.

Your head falls forward and you sniffle against his sweat slicked shoulder. Your cunt honest to god hurts as it clamps around his painfully hard cock.

Hitoshi came home in a particularly sadistic mood. A very unique kind, though. Whenever he was in this mood, he would usually have your whole body bound, mouth gagged, and your pussy brutalized. Today, however, it was slightly different.

Today he was full of authority, he wanted you to obey according to your own free will, he wanted you to be good for the sake of being good. He didn't want you bound, he wanted to feel you squirm, watch you twitch, make you hurt.

"D-Daddy, please." You roll your head on his shoulder, crying into his neck as the hand on your hip tightens.

"No." His voice is short, harsh, unyielding.

You nod and whimper, body driven mad by how long he's had you hanging off the edge. You straddle his lap, impaled by his length as he works his toy against your clit.

"Do you really need more? Are you really that fucking greedy?" His voice rumbles in his chest, dripping with disdain.

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off with a harsh slap to your ass. You choke out a moan, the sting only making you tighten around him, only pushing you closer to the ecstasy he won't let you taste.

"Oh baby, I love the way that pussy tells me what you like." He lets out a breathy, condescending laugh before striking you again.

"You like that, little one? You like it when I bust your ass for you?" He smooths his hand over the reddened skin, chuckling when you let out a gentle sob as he flicks the speed of the vibrator up.

"I- C-Can't hold it." Your body jolts as you stutter out the confession, feeling the first flutters of your orgasm, cursing your disobedient body.

"That's a damn shame." He says thoughtfully.

Then, just as your body is about to ignite, he rips the vibrator away, then he plants his hand on your chest and pushes you off of his lap.

"You were behaving so well, you just had to ruin it, didn't you?" He crawls over you as you collapse onto your back, arms bending uncomfortably behind you.

"I'm sorry! Fuck- I'm sorry, it felt too good, it felt too good." Hot tears soak your face as you thrash on the mattress.

He grabs your jaw with a crushing grip. His eyes are wild, full of rage and impatience.

"Then you tell me, you tell me when it feels too good. You do not cum without fucking permission, you got that, slut?" His words drip from his lips like venom, biting and melting your skin.

"Yes s-sir." You sniffle, searching his face for even an ounce of mercy.

He pulls his hand away a little too fast, only to crack the back of his hand across your face. Your head whips to the side, you can't catch your breath or focus, you barely feel his hands hook under your knees as he pushes your legs up and apart.

"You didn't fucking earn this." He says before lining himself up with your dripping cunt, he pushes in with a low groan.

His fingers gorge themselves on your legs, his eyes devour your quaking form. You're nothing but clay to him, soft and moldable, anything he wants you to be.

"What do you say?" He asks, leaning against the backs of your thighs as he settles your legs over each shoulder.

"Tha-ank you." Your breath catches when he sinks all the way in, kissing your most sensitive spots with the tip of his thick length.

"Is that it, kitten? That the spot that gets you all fucked up?" His tone is mocking as he pulls his hips back. You nod frantically, desperate for him to fill you again.

And he does.

He fucks into you recklessly, he doesn't hold back in the slightest. He watches you cry and squirm and beg, and he fucking loves it.

Your body lights up, every inch of you catches fire as he breathes fire into your limbs. Every thrust in sends new shocks of pleasure to your very soul. All you can do is lay there and take it, especially with your arms bound and your legs so well contained by his body.

"You're so well behaved when you've got a cock inside you." He teases, turning his face so he can mouth at your calf.

"I wanna be good- wanna be good for you." You admit between sobs and moans, fisting at the sheets behind your back as he decimates your core.

Something in him snaps then, something depraved, something feral. He throws your legs off of his shoulders before grabbing you by the hips and flipping you onto your front suddenly.

You let him throw you around like the ragdoll you are, whimpering as you push yourself up onto your knees, keeping your back arched how he likes.

He growls as his hands slide up the backs of your thighs, his breath is hot on your pussy, taunting you with what could be.

"You're a good little whore when you want to be." He spits onto your clit with malice.

You turn your head so you can glance back at him, he runs his fingers up through the mess he's made between your legs. His eyes stay on yours as his middle finger plays at your clit, chuckling when you jump and whine.

"Beg me for it." He breathes, giving a confident nod down to his pretty dick.

"Please- I need it, I'll stay just like this, I'll take it, I promise I'll be so good just please let me have your cock." You blabber, only slightly worried it might be overkill, but your body is screaming for him.

His eyebrows raise and his lip twitches into an amused smirk.

"You sure look pretty when you're falling apart." He muses as he settles behind you, lining himself up with your hole once again.

"Please, please, please." The last plea is a broken, shredded cry. It rips from your throat with a sob as he finally sinks in again, ridding you of the emptiness you feel without him.

"You're a terrible little thing." He sighs, his nonchalant tone contrasting harshly with the urgent way he thrusts into you.

His pace is immediately merciless, the angle is brilliant, the sensation makes your skin run hot. Your toes curl and your wrists tug at the binds, your body desperate for the kind of freedom only Hitoshi can provide.

"Beg. Me. For. It." He barks out, cracking a palm down against your ass.

"I feel that cunt squeezin' me, don't you dare cum without asking. Learn a damn lesson for once." He sneers.

"P-please, Daddy please, lemme cum on your cock, lemme cum." You gasp out, trying with everything you have to hold off the electric euphoria creeping up your spine.

He grabs your wrists with one hand, and your hair with the other. He leans back slightly and lifts your torso up with him, suspending your upper body off of the bed as he hammers away at your weeping center.

"Do it, cum on that cock, cum on that fucking cock." His words become hurried and unsteady as he inches towards his own undoing.

And then it all shatters. The two of you cry and groan and grab as you fall apart, your sexes pulse and flutter in time, heat consumes you both and it's everything.

"That's my girl, that's a good girl." He praises as his hips stutter, slowing into an easy roll as he works you through your orgasms.

He lowers you down again as your walls continue to contract around his length as he fills you up beautifully, making you feel so impossibly complete.

His mouth is hot and sloppy as he kisses down your spine, making you shiver and arch into him.

"You did so good, you're so damn good for me." He smiles against your skin, reveling in the tightness of your cunt around him.

His hands work at the binds on your wrists, freeing them almost immediately. You sigh at the relief, letting them fall down as the rest of your body collapses.

"Easy, I gotcha." Hitoshi whispers, hands on your sides as he lays you down and slides out of you.

He's pulling you into his chest instantly, issing the top of your head as his hands rub soothing lines up and down your sweat soaked back.

"Baby, that was so perfect, you were so perfect." He says between soft kisses.

"I'm sorry I almost came without permission, it just felt so good." You say, hands clawing at his skin as you bury your face into his neck.

"Hey, listen to me." He says sternly, one hand coming up to hold you cheek and force you to make eye contact.

"You're not in trouble, I just needed you to listen, you listened so well afterwards." He reassures you. His eyes are soft now, honest and full of safety.

"I'd say you even deserve a back rub for being such a good girl." He says, a smile playing at his lips when you light up at the suggestion.

"Please?" You ask, voice sweet and eyes full of hope, it makes his heart melt.

"Anything, whatever you need." He promises, he gets you settled on the bed after he cleans you with a warm cloth.

He throws on a pair of basketball shorts before he straddles the backs of your thighs. You cross your aching arms under your head so you can watch him work. He looks so stunning, all milky skin and lavender hues as, it's absolutely mesmerizing.

"Thank you, Daddy." You sigh as he presses his lotion covered hands into your tight muscles.

He smoothes and rubs, working every bit of pain and tension out of you.

"Thank you, for being so damn good, kitten."

He takes his time with you, capable hands work with soft lips as he loves the aches out of your body. He brings you back down so sweetly, easing you into such a warm fuzzy headspace. Soon, your wrapped in his clothes, drifting into sleep as he whispers sweet nothings into your freshly washed hair.

Hitoshi is nothing short of heaven on earth, you're sure of that. He could be so rough, so demanding, but god he could be so soft, so caring. You love him for that, you always will.

#my hero academia #hitoshi shinsou #shinsou #my hero smut #shinsou smut #shinsou x reader #shinsou x you #my hero academia smut #domsub #shinsou hitoshi #mha shinsou

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buck-nialled · 3 years

Text

Strikeout - B. Barnes Imagine

NOTE: this takes place in TFATWS period

TAGLIST: @poetic-heart @hallecarey1 @moonlightbaby10 @5-seconds-of-mendes @bbl32 @wobblymug

SUMMARY: it’s bucky’s first time bowling and he’s doing reasonably well. it’s not your first time bowling, but you can’t seem to score anything but gutter balls. when he comes to your rescue, will both of you strikeout?

Bucky tilted his head, eyeing Sam’s assertive footing down the wooden panels of the floor and studying the dip of his body as the man released the heavy, marbled ball. Bucky’s eyes maintained their stare on the ball as it glided smoothly down the lane, straight into the ten, uniform pins, ultimately knocking all but one over. Sam turned around to face Bucky, who sat with Sarah and her children at the table and gave each of them a confident smirk. Cass and AJ clapped, with nothing but awe overcoming their youthful faces.

“That’s how it’s done,” Sam says, now approaching the table for a sip of his drink.

“Now see if you can knock down that last pin, big time.” Sarah taunts, lifting a challenging eyebrow.

“Boys,” Sam calls Cass and AJ to attention, “watch and learn.” He spins to reclaim his marbled ball, which had just reached the return. The steps towards the lane were unfaltering yet again and Bucky eyed his moves yet again--the small bow took before letting go of the ball, and seeing it cruise smoothly in between both gutters--guarded by bumpers for Cass and AJ’s sake--before it disappeared into the mysterious abyss all nine pins had fallen into mere seconds ago. The last pin stood, victorious.

Sam only gives a nonchalant wave of his hand, shuffling towards the table to take his seat. “I’ll get a strike in the next one...still got nine turns left.” Sarah chuckles to herself, before patting Cass on the shoulder and informing him it was now his turn.

“So you just...try and knock the pins over?” Bucky furrows his eyebrows, sparing a glance at Sam. The man scoffs, setting his cup of soda down onto the table.

“It’s much more than that. A sport like this is all about aim, and timing. You can’t just walk up, toss the ball and expect to be a pro after one shot. It takes lots of practice.” Cass reapproached the table to give AJ a high five upon knocking down six pins. As the young boy waited for his ball to arrive at the return for his second go, Bucky’s eyes drifted from the pins being swept away from his lane and to the one beside him.

The table was overrun by a group of females, no doubt intoxicated by whatever liquid was hidden in the silver flask they were passing around. One person of the group was up taking her turn, while the rest made light, slurred conversation through giggles. His eyes landed on one girl, in particular, who was mouthing the lyrics of the pop song currently blasting over the speakers and using the flask as a makeshift microphone. The girl who just made her shot at the lane squealed in celebration of making a spare, before turning to announce, “Y/N, your turn!”

“Bucky, you’re up.” Sam pats his friend on the shoulder and points to the lane. Simultaneously, Bucky and the girl stood up from their seats and started for the ball return that sat in between their two lanes. As Bucky’s gloved hand reached for his designated ball--the heaviest one he could find for his vibranium limb, the girl’s fingers brushed his in search of her ball, by mistake.

“I’m sorry,” she says bashfully, looking away and concentrating on the lane now before her. Bucky waltzed up to the edge of the oiled alley before she could, left arm swinging the ball straight down the lane without a second thought. All he could muster was a blink at the sight of the ball colliding with the pins and knocking all ten of them down in succession. An amused smile crawled onto his pink lips at the sounds of amazement AJ and Cass elicit behind him.

Upon spinning back to reclaim his seat, he sends a smile to Sam. “I think I like this game.” Sam attempts to hide his twitching mouth at the sight of the scoreboard, which displayed Bucky merely one point ahead of him.

“Beginner’s luck.” The man mutters to himself, while Bucky’s eyes dart back over to the girl who still had yet to take her turn.

“Y/N just roll it already, you’ll be fine!” Y/N, or so Bucky assumed, took the word of advice from one of the women at the table behind her and stepped carefully towards the start of the lane. After releasing her ball in a moment of courage, she clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut as the ball immediately drifted into the gutter.

“It’s fine, Y/N. You’re just rusty!” Someone else from the table assures. The girl nods, patiently waiting for her ball to be returned for her to shoot again. When she repeats the same motion and swings her arm to and fro, launching the ball down the wooden alley, she gasps in surprise after seeing it--barely--stay on track.

“It’s going, it’s going, it’s--” she pauses, eyeing the damage she did to the line of pins in the distance. “Yes!” She squeals, pumping a fist into the air. “I got one!”

Her friends gave her a few weak smiles and some thumbs up out of pity. Bucky simply turned his head away to focus on his own game in front of him. Maybe her friends are right, he thinks to himself, a few turns in and she’ll get the hang of it. By the third turn, the metal-armed man earned something bowlers call a “turkey” and Y/N was still stuck landing gutter balls each time she was sent up to bowl.

“She’s...terrible,” Bucky whispered to himself in a distaste.

“Yep.” Sam sighed as he took his seat, glaring at the scoreboard to see he was still one point from being tied with his friend. “Just terrible.” He lets out through gritted teeth.

“Maybe you should go help her.” Sarah cuts in with a devious smirk. The man turns to give her a look, shaking his head.

“Absolutely not. There’s a dance to these things. I can’t just--” His reasoning would not be accepted by Sarah or Sam. The excuses couldn’t even finish leaving Bucky’s mouth before his co-worker jostled him in the girl’s direction.

“Woah,” she stumbles on her feet from her stupor as the leather-clad man with who she brushed hands a while ago sidled up next to her.

“Uh, hello.” Bucky cleared his throat, steel blue eyes boring into hers.

“Hi…” The woman’s eyes darted from the man beside her to the set of pins, yet to be knocked over successfully by her. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, it looks like you’re the one who needs the help.” The man replies, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His eyes grow wide at her offended expression.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Well, actually I did. Your form is terrible, your stances are completely off, and at this point, you have a better chance of hitting pins all the way in Sokovia.”

“Where?” She lifts an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Nevermind, forget about it.” The man grumbles, preparing to shuffle back over to his table in humiliation.

“Wait,” Y/N lays a hand on his shoulder, keeping him anchored to his spot on the floor. “You’re right. I’m on a whole other level of amateur tonight and could really use some help. Any pointers?” The man spares a shy glance at her frame, her fingers already inserted into the bowling ball and feet shoulder-width apart.

“May I?” He mumbles beside Y/N’s ear and conjures shivers of delight down the girl's spine. She spares a glance of her own as he is already situating his built body behind hers, placing his right hand, bare of any cloth on her side and directing her to move the ball to her left hand.

“I-I’m not left-handed.”

“Just trust me.” He whispers, cupping the girl’s left hand with his gloved one. Carefully, they mirror each other’s steps and bodily movements all the way to the edge of the lane and swiftly guide the ball to coast directly down the middle of the lane. Y/N can only stare in bewilderment for a few seconds as the ball takes a consistent trail straight into all ten pins and knocks them down without fail. She squeals and perceives her left hand, flexing her fingers, mouth open in awe.

“Oh my god, how did I do that?” She turns her stare up to Bucky, pointing a finger at his chest. “How did you do that? How did we...do that?” She whispers the last couple of words to herself.

“Would you believe me if I told you this is my first time bowling?” Y/N’s eyes mimic that of a doe, wide and curious as they stare up into his blue ones which were twinkling from the various screens and graphics displayed all about the building.

“Not really, would you believe me if I said this is the first time a handsome stranger has offered to help me with bowling?” She takes a daring step closer towards him, minimizing the proximity between their warm bodies. The two exchange flirty remarks back and forth as the minutes on both games dwindle. Neither party tried stopping them, though. Sarah held a smirk as she gazed at the successful matchmaking, while Sam decided to take Bucky’s turn for him and make two slow, pathetic rolls of the ball.

Meanwhile, Y/N’s intoxicated group of pals sat with their mouths agape, absorbing the sight before them with yearning heart eyes.

“No fair, I want a cute guy to help me bowl!” One of her friends whined, pouting her lips out. AJ and Cass shared a glance before the two of them were up out of their seats and leaping in front of the woman for her attention. Their pleas to aid her in her next turn overlapped one another.

“I’ll help! Pick me!”

“No, choose me! I’m way better!”

Y/N and Bucky could only glance over and chuckle as Cass led the much taller woman towards the lane, beside the two of them. “Step aside, lovebirds. It’s our turn.”

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stitch1830 · 3 years

Text

Bets

Happy Mondangst! Here's some angsty Kantoph :)

......

“Da.”

“That’s right, baby girl!” he cheered in his most ridiculous baby voice. “Da da! Da da!”

Lin giggled in her father’s arms, and Toph jokingly scoffed at the two from the couch. She lay on her back with her hands behind her head, enjoying the vibrations of the two through the ball of her foot that she kept firmly on the ground. “You two are giving me a headache.”

“C’mon, Toph! It’s Lin’s first word, how can you hate this?”

“First off, she’s babbling. It’s not even words yet. Second, the fact that she’s making ‘D’ sounds instead of ‘M’ is the other reason.” she explained simply. “If she says ‘Dada’ before ‘Mama,’ that’s betrayal right there.”

“Sorry, Angel. I just have that effect on women, I guess.”

“Gross,” she complained, but pointed a smile at him, and she felt his heart quicken ever so slightly and his voice let out a quiet chuckle at their antics.

And when his gaze turned back to Lin, Toph could feel through the earth how at peace he was at that moment. Complete adoration for their baby, and she silently laughed to herself at the thought of him having to deal with Lin as a teenager. Oh, she would have him wrapped around her finger for all of eternity, Toph just knew it.

His voice broke up her thoughts. “Hey, what if we had a little competition?”

Toph said nothing, but raised an eyebrow at him, prompting him to continue. “What if we compete to find out who Linny walks to first?” he asked.

“What are the stakes?”

“If I win, we start trying for another baby.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she laughed.

“And if you win, Lin’s our only perfect little girl.”

“And if she doesn’t walk to either of us??”

“Then we let fate and destiny take over,” he answered rather smugly.

Toph smirked and sat up from her position, ready to playfully protest this silly competition. “You realize that she’s gonna walk to you, right?”

“We don’t know that.”

“Right,” she responded sarcastically. “Lin, the little Daddy’s girl who shares the same birthday as her Baba and whose first words are gonna be ‘Dada’ and ‘Baba.’”

“Mama could be a close third,” he defended.

“Yeah, sure. I’m going to shake on a bet I’m bound to lose.”

“Just a little fun,” he replied, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “Obviously we’ve got time, but, I don’t know. I think it could be fun!”

“You and I have two very different definitions of fun,” she teased.

“But it’s harmless!”

“Harmless?” she laughed. “I could end up fat and pregnant at the end of this!”

“Only if you want to,” he added.

“So this isn’t even a bet at all,” she commented. “It’s just fake stakes on the table.”

She felt him shrug. “Bit of pride on the line, I suppose. What do you say?”

Toph wanted to continue berating him and teasing him, but his heart sang whenever Lin made a noise or reached out for something, and he adored playing little games like this with her. Perhaps deep down in a place that she barely allowed to admit to herself, she could imagine them having another baby. Even if Lin was almost 6 months old, she thought that maybe, just maybe, a family of four would be nice. And when Lin giggled at her father once again, Toph’s resolve to say no to those two disappeared.

Spirits, they had her whole heart, and she couldn’t help but shake her head as she smiled and extended her hand out to him.

“It’s only a bet if we shake on it.”

His silly cheer caused Lin to giggle more, and after he shook Toph’s hand to signify the start of the bet, he playfully kissed each knuckle before Toph mildly complained as she tried to free herself from his grasp.

~~~

They sat on her living room floor, engaged in small talk while they paid attention to Lin’s every move. The elephant koi in the room became a semi-permanent resident in the Beifong house, but everyone learned to live with it, Toph especially.

Sokka carefully treaded every conversation as he supported Lin to standing on her own two feet. Every now and again, his gaze would turn up to Toph to catch her expression. Today it was unreadable, but she sat on the floor with her legs out and leaned back on her arms, a sign of openness.

That was a good sign, right?

The warrior never knew what was good and what wasn’t anymore, because everything reminded them of him. Of Kanto.

And it was unfair, because Toph deserved to go about her life without having to be constantly reminded of the man she loved and lost to a crazy person. But there was no escape; Kanto was at her place of work, at their home, and he was there whenever Lin moved or breathed or learned something new.

None of that seemed to matter to the universe, however, and Toph and Lin and everyone else that loved Kanto lived with the reminder like chronic pain: constant, relentless.

Still, Toph’s body language was more positive than usual, so Sokka took the opportunity to strike up another small conversation.

“So,” he began by clearing his throat. “What do you and Lin have planned for the rest of the day?”

His friend shrugged in response and a nonchalant wave. “Eh, same old shit, Sokka. Maybe I’ll take her to the park. It is a nice day out.”

“How come you only call me Sokka, now?”

Toph shot him a confused look. “Because it’s your name??”

The man rolled his eyes to himself then said, “Well, yeah. I just mean you almost always called me ‘Meathead’ or ‘Snoozles’ or ‘Captain Boomerang.’”

A quiet scoff fell from Toph’s breath, and she dug her knuckles into her earthen floor. “Yeah, well nicknames are for fun times, and I haven’t been in a jovial mood as of late—”

“Toph I just mean—”

“So forgive me if I don’t feel the need to call you by some dumb nickname that reminds me of all the other stupid ones I called him.”

Sokka shut his mouth, but still held onto a bouncing Lin and stared at Toph. Her expression contorted into one of regret, and she let out a tired sigh.

“I’m sorry, Sokka. That was rude.”

“No, Toph, it’s okay,” he reassured her. “I just—” Sokka paused before he continued. What he wanted was to help his friend and hoped she would return to her old self soon.

But the idea seemed silly after a second thought. How could she go back to her old self? Going back wasn’t an option, only forward, to a different Toph Beifong who loved and lost and learned to adapt to this difficult change.

So instead of saying I just want to help you get back to your old self, he amended his statement. “I just want to help you.”

“I know,” she sighed again as she moved to lie down on the ground. “I know you’re all trying to help.”

And Toph did know that. The whole group seemed bent over backwards in helping her through this mess of her life, and she not only wanted, but needed their help. However, figuring out things that did help seemed to be a challenge, for it all required talking or thinking about him.

She really couldn’t do that at this point, not even nine months after his death.

Saying his name sent her down a spiral of thoughts of longing and regret, the feeling so strong that it tempted her to visit their bedroom again. But she hadn’t stepped into that room since she was dragged out by Sokka, because she wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to leave it a second time.

Instead of visiting their shared bedroom or speaking her dead almost-fiancé’s name or figuring out what could possibly help her through this, she lay on the ground, focusing on the earth’s humming while blocking out all other erratic and uneven vibrations. It was soothing, being completely one with the earth and ignoring everything else. Her mind wasn’t racing, her heart wasn’t hurting, and she felt a feeling that strangely resembled tranqui—

“Toph?”

Her focus was broken, and as annoyed as she was, Toph responded to her friend and asked, “What is it?”

“Are you okay?”

“Stupid question.”

“I just mean—”

“Mama!”

Lin’s interruption pulled Toph further from the earth, and so she waved her hand in the air and exclaimed, “Mama’s right here, Lin. Just wallowing in self-pity as a widow does, although I’m not even sure I can call myself that.”

“Toph,” Sokka began, but Toph continued her useless ramble. “Probably not, since he didn’t even ask me to marry him. Kind of a requirement to be in the mopey widow club, don’t you think? Pathetic, really, I don’t even have a dead fiancé, just a dead baby daddy.”

“Toph—”

“You know what, guess it doesn’t matter I could just—”

“Toph!”

Sokka’s exclamation startled her, but she didn’t move from her spot. She waited for him to continue with whatever was so important to interrupt her self-deprecating monologue, but he didn’t speak again.

Instead, she felt little, uneven, and heavy footsteps toddle toward her. Toph sat upright in an instant, completely shocked at the sensation of Lin walking.

“Go Lin!” Sokka cheered.

Toph cheered as well and held her hands out excitedly to catch her daughter. “C’mere, Lin! You got it!”

And with a few babbles and shouts for Mama, Lin made her way into Toph’s arms.

The earthbender pulled Lin in for a tight hug and smothered her cheek with kisses. “You did it, baby girl! You took your first steps!”

“She’s a natural, Toph! Gonna be running tomorrow,” Sokka teased.

Toph grinned at the thought, and moved to balance Lin’s tiny feet on her knee. She felt Lin squirm in her arms and crane her neck, as if she was looking for someone.

“Dada.”

And with a single exclamaion of Lin’s favorite word, Toph’s heart shattered just as quickly as it soared a moment ago.

…….

Sokka’s grin faded slowly with Toph’s as he watched her realize what Lin wanted. In a second, one of the greatest feelings and feats of Toph’s baby girl turned into a situation of pure grief. And All he wanted was for his best friend to have a single fucking moment not be ruined by the memory of losing Kanto.

But that was impossible. Every accomplishment was tainted with this memory, and there was nothing to do but accept that harsh reality.

He watched Toph suddenly become overwhelmed by the grief. She bit her quivering lip as she combed through Lin’s hair over and over, fixating on a few curly strands at the top of her head.

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, all the while Lin kept asking for her dad. Sokka was about to intervene, but then Toph let out a quiet breath and answered Lin.

“Yeah, Lin. Dada would be so proud of you right now.” She formed a small, sorrowful smile at Lin while tears fell down her cheeks. “I’d rub it in his face, too.” Toph choked out a chuckle, then continued, “But Baba isn’t here anymore, baby girl. It’s just you and me.

“Don’t worry, kiddo. All your aunts and uncles will be around to bother us, especially this Meathead over there, okay?”

When she pointed a finger at Sokka, Lin turned to see, and smiled at him. And Sokka found himself grinning back at Lin for only a second. For when he turned his gaze to Toph, he saw her tear-stricken face and any signs of happiness left Sokka’s face.

He saw Toph hastily wipe at her eyes, then stood up with Lin in her arms. “Thanks for uh, coming by, Sokka. But Lin and I are gonna spend some time together alone.”

She walked out into the backyard before he could even protest.

Sokka didn’t move from his spot, however. He just sat there, thinking and wondering and hoping there was something he could do to help his friend. But she was a silent sufferer, carrying the burden of grief everywhere she went and barely let on what hurt the most about it all. As a bystander, it hurt Sokka to see her shoulder it all. What was he to do, though?

He let out a tired sigh. Sometimes there was nothing to do but be there, even if it made him feel useless.

……

“You’re a terrible listener.”

Sokka ignored her jab and sat down next to her, Lin bouncing gleefully in her spot in front of her mother. He gave her elbow a light nudge and replied, “I know, but I know you don’t actually want to be alone.”

“I just said—”

“Listen, Toph. We don’t have to talk about it, about any of it. But you’re like me, okay? I don’t like talking about what’s bothering me, but that doesn’t mean solitude is the answer.”

Toph bit her lip as she considered the offer, but made no outright objections to his presence. So they sat there, silent and contemplative about everything and nothing in particular.

It wasn’t until minutes of silence (and little babbles and single words from Lin) that Toph finally spoke. She chose her words carefully, as if saying the wrong thing would send her down a rabbit hole of despair. But Sokka watched her and steadied her with a reassuring hand to her shoulder.

Toph gave a sad smile as she spoke and played with Lin’s wavy hair. “We, uh, we made a stupid bet.

“He liked these silly games and it made him so fucking happy, I didn’t think twice about them. And it gave us a reason to be competitive, and you know how we would get with this shit. Still, they were harmless.”

She hastily wiped her eyes then continued, “But then he wanted to have a bet on who Lin would walk to first, and he said that if Lin walked to him, we’d try for another baby. If she walked to me, no more kids.”

Toph let out a sorrowful chuckle as she slightly hung her head low and let the tears fall in her lap. Sokka’s eyes grew misty at the thought. A silly bet turned into a reminder for Toph, and it felt cruel.

But then Toph took in a deep breath and brought her head back up, pointing her gaze toward the warrior. “You know what’s even crazier? I was gonna let him win. Under the illusion I was upset, of course.”

Sokka softly chuckled at that.

Lin cried out and turned to face Toph, who gently rubbed her daughter’s chubby cheeks. Sokka still sat there, hand on Toph’s shoulder, and watched through his blurred vision his best friend continue to open up to him.

She sighed again. “I’d let him win all the silly games if it meant—”

Her sentence was left unfinished, but nothing else needed to be said. Toph pulled in Lin to an embrace, breathing deeply into her hair as the gravity began to weigh heavy on the pair.

Toph mindlessly played with Lin’s soft curls. “But I guess all bets are off, or I win them all now.

“I don’t feel like the winner, though, Sokka.”

Sokka’s grip tightened on Toph’s shoulder as his sign of support, because he truly had no words. All he could do was sit and stare and hope that there would be something on the horizon to look forward to.

And yet, in that very same moment, he couldn’t help but silently admire Toph’s strength. Her ability to carry on and raise Lin while facing practically an insurmountable amount of grief was something that couldn’t be overlooked. He’d seen his friend show great feats of strength and resilience in the past, but in the back of his mind, he thought that perhaps this was the greatest one of all.

Still, he’d be damned if he was going to let her face this mountain on her own. So they sat there silently once again as Sokka’s hand remained on her shoulder, reminding her that he was there no matter what. He would be there to help her and to hold onto her through it all.

She deserved that. She deserved that and much more, but this was their reality. It would have to do.

#kantoph #toph #toph beifong #kanto #lin #lin beifong #sokka #atla #lok #writing #the long winding road to you #the chief and dep series #like a boomerang i always come back to you series #mondangst #hope it fits the angst bill ope #(amanda's is better haha!)#srsrly tho go read it

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papa-rhys · 3 years

Text

Thoughts on Jack and His Borderline Personality Disorder and How It Shows Through His Behaviour - Because I Cannot Stop Analysing Things That Ultimately Aren’t Important

Symptoms/behaviours under the cut because holy hell this guy has a lot of them. Like, honey, are you okay?

Okay, so I’m pretty sure I can trace Jack’s BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) back to his grandmother. His mum abandoned him, which shows a reckless/irresponsible behaviour and her mum had fits of rage that didn’t correlate at all with the trigger (ie; drowning Jack’s cat because he didn’t make his bed). So I think he has a family history of it, with both his mother and grandmother having BPD and passing it down to him.

Either way, Jack definitely has it. In fact, he’s a textbook case of it.

Impulsivity

Spending sprees: he bought a pony made of diamonds because he was bored and throws money at all kinds of ventures to keep him occupied and because he wants to. I really don’t know how else to describe this one lol. He bought a pony. Made of diamonds. Because he could.

Gambling: won some of the things on his trophy shelf through poker and owns an entire casino. Hunting the Vaults themselves were a huge gamble too, especially the first two, since he wasn’t truly sure that they existed. He was prepared to sacrifice a lot in order to come out on top in both his career and his social standing. All in all, he’s reckless.

Binge eating: he doesn’t even like pretzels, but still eats them because he’s either bored or stressed. Talks about food quite a bit in conversation, too, especially his cravings.

Substance abuse: admits to being high on uppers for the duration of the pre sequel (and his time on Elpis as a whole) and tells further anecdotes about drugs and getting high in tftbl.

Promiscuity/unsafe sex: nothing about having sex with Nisha is safe lol. But in all seriousness, there’s no way to prove this one. He does strike me as the reckless sex sort though. No proof, just 7 years of knowing him as a character.

Emotional instability

Inappropriate trigger response: he strangles a man to death for simply mentioning his wife, stabs Lilith for talking about Angel, and tries to kill Rhys for not being sure about his grand plan (more on this later). His response to triggers is disproportionate, often resulting in extreme anger over small things that don’t warrant that intense of a reaction. He gets big angry about almost everything; there’s no middle ground. His reaction is never really “you’re annoying me a lot” or “don’t talk about that, I don’t like it.” His reaction to almost everything is “oh my god I will murder your first born child how dare you-”

Quickly changing mood: aside from being prone to fits of rage at the flick of a switch, Jack also flicks back to “normal” pretty quickly, too. He flips between telling you to kill yourself after surviving the train and then talks casually about his day. He’ll be filled with rage after Angel’s death and then suddenly he’s laughing about you jumping into lava and having fun tricking you into visiting his grandmother. He can be intensely angry or sorrowful one moment and then nonchalant and sociable the next. His moods don’t last very long.

Idolisation/devaluation

Jack does this with numerous people across the games, but the two shining examples are Moxxi and Rhys; Rhys being the most notable. He idolises Moxxi, complimenting her on how attractive she is and how smart she is and including her in his circle of close friends/teammates. Then the inevitable happens and she lets him down and he instantly changes his opinion on her as if he’d never thought she was good to begin with. The same happens with Rhys. Throughout tftbl, Jack is best friends with Rhys and seems to form a one-sided connection with him where he idolises him and thinks they’re going to be best friends for ever and that they’re the perfect team. You cannot make him mad at you in tftbl (trust me, I’ve tried). He’s encouraging to Rhys the whole way through, like they’re brothers. Then the second Rhys displays doubts about something Jack is passionate about, Jack reacts violently and completely devalues Rhys, claiming him to be his mortal enemy and trying to kill him. People with BPD do this often. They have strong convictions and have a tendency to feel betrayed by people who go against those convictions. Jack does this regularly and it leads to the breakup of a lot of his relationships.

Paranoia

He vented a room full of scientists into space, just in case. I mean, that pretty much sums it up, really. Jack is under a lot of stress at this point in the game and stress-induced paranoia is a particularly difficult symptom of BPD. With him already feeling the pressure, the mention of a possible mole is a huge trigger for Jack. Especially since he’s reeling from the recent betrayal from a friend. His brain is already working over time, planting uneasy feelings of distrust and being unsafe. So when he’s presented with the idea from an outside source, he runs with it. Betrayal goes on to become a big button to push in Jack’s life to the extent that he actively betrays people before they get a chance to betray him (ie; killing Wilhelm). Paranoia feeds into a lot of Jack’s bad decisions, particularly in the pre sequel era.

Delusion

Jack wasn’t lying when he told us that he’s the hero. He absolutely was not the hero at all, but he wasn’t lying about it. Because lying about something implies that you know it’s not true, and Jack genuinely believes he’s a good person. The best person, in fact. It’s not a lie because in his mind, it’s the god given truth. He’s massively delusional, even before the events of the pre sequel. He’ll spout all the cheesy 80s movie lines about saving the moon and being the hero and he thinks he’s the protagonist of his own big adventure. We know that’s not what’s happening, but Jack doesn’t see it that way. Another delusion is the idea he has about how much everyone loves him. He thinks Moxxi is obsessed with him and he thinks Angel is being forced to work against him. He cannot conceive of a world in which people don’t like him or agree with him. Because why wouldn’t they agree with him? He’s the hero. Everybody loves the hero...

Intense but unstable relationships

Moxxi, Angel, Lilith, the Vault Hunter; I could go on. Jack’s relationships with people are volatile and rocky, even when they’re seemingly on the same side like with Moxxi or even Nisha (who he forms a tight bond with very quickly). People with BPD feel all emotions intensely, which causes a roller coaster. Jack really likes Moxxi, but then he doesn’t want to talk to her, but then he wants her on the team, but then he gets mad at her for calling him a pet name and beign friendly, and then he’s telling her she’s sexy, and then he’s cursing her, and then he’s hanging pictures of her in his casino. It’s the same with Angel - he subjects her to physical torture, then he loves her, then he’s mad at her for helping the Vault Hunter, then he’s doting on her, then he’s manipulating her, then he’s grieving for her. Everything is a whirlwind.

Distorted self-image

Oh boy. Jack has this physically and mentally. Mentally in the sense that he thinks he’s a good person when he actions are abhorrent and also because he’s massively insecure. BPD often comes with a lack of identity, which causes insecurity to begin with. Throw that in a pot alongside some childhood abuse, betrayal, work place bullying, and grief, and you got yourself a big pot of insecurity soup. Put plainly, Jack doesn’t really know who he is at his baseline. His personality and interests and ideas and needs all change on an hourly basis. He morphs to suit his circumstances. He can be open, honest and down to earth when he’s trying to trick Rhys. He can be full of worry and desperation when he needs you to head to grandma’s house. He can be cunning and clever when he’s tricking you into killing Wilhelm. He can be fatherly, he can be nasty, he can be torturous, he can be laid back, he can be clever, he can be ignorant, he can be sheepish, he can be cocky. He’s everyone and no one all at once and this probably leaves him feeling very hollow and empty; which is another symptom of BPD. In the physical sense, Jack issues with self image are pretty clear. He wears a face over his face to hide his face. Yup. And he does this because he thinks he’s disgracefully ugly. This scar he’s so vehemently protective of is something that defines his whole persona going forward. He literally claims himself as Handsome Jack, forcing people to adhere to the idea that he’s so attractive that it should be his title. Even though he doesn’t feel that way and does everything he can to hide the real him. He thinks he’s hideous and he struggles between loving himself and hating himself because of it.

Fear of abandonment

Aaaand here we are at the crux of the problem. BPD boils down to the intense fear of abandonment and this is probably what guides Jack for most of his life. His father died, his mother literally abandoned him, his grandmother neglected him, his first wife died, second wife left, girlfriend and friends betrayed him, and daughter killed herself to get away from him. Abandonment is practically coded into Jack’s DNA at this point and every time it happens, it confirms his fears more. He clings to Moxxi after she betrays him - taking her ideas to try and rile her up and even going as far as to recreate her entire bar in his casino because he wants to keep her presence around. He fights tooth and claw against Angel’s rebellion, begging both her and you to stop what you’re doing and leave. The only time he begs you is when he’s facing perceived abandonment, that’s how strong the fear is. His final words to Angel are “I’ll still forgive you.” Jack isn’t a forgiving man by any stretch, but he’ll say anything he has to in order to prevent her from leaving him. He’ll stalk people, he’ll manipulate them, he’ll lie to them or keep them physically locked up - all to prevent them from abandoning him. The worst possible thing that could happen to Jack is that, and we see the spiral he slips into after Angel. After Moxxi. After the Meriff. After his wife. He can’t bare the thought of someone leaving him and he’ll do anything and everything to prevent his fears becoming a reality.

So yeah! There it is, I finally got around to posting it lol. There’s probably a lot more little details that I’ve forgotten, but I cannot think of them right now. I’ll probably update if I think of any more! The tl;dr is that almost all of Jack’s behaviour can be linked to massively untreated BPD. He needed meds and therapy, but he didn’t get them and he spiralled as a result.

#handsome jack #borderlands #borderlands 2 #borderlands the pre sequel #bl headcanons

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scullydubois · 3 years

Note

What about a time when mulder meets up with scully to go for a walk with queequeg?

i may have gone overboard here, but how could i not? this prompt is so precious, thank you.

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Friday Night with Queequeg, 2.4k--set in season three

“I can’t, Mulder,” his partner insists, her voice dialed up a few intervals for dramatic effect. “I’ve got Queequeg to worry about.”

Mulder drops his Washington Nationals tickets on the desk in disappointment. How lame to be overshadowed by a dog. “That fluffy little guy?” he whines. “Or girl, I'm not sure.”

“He’s a boy.”

“Okay well, he reminds me of one of those Tamagotchi things, have you seen the commercial?” Mulder rambles while shuffling various stray papers from his desk into a single incoherent stack. He’s careful not to sweep the tickets into it. “It’s a pocket pet--”

“I know what it is, Mulder. I have a godson.”

“And is Queequeg not just a glorified version of one of those?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. He needs food and attention and care. But, in case you didn’t know, he is also real and capable of giving much of that back to you.”

“Eh, reciprocated affection is overrated,” Mulder jokes, though life would be a lot damn easier if he believed that. “And it’s one of the few Fridays where we’re not traveling or jet-lagged or wholly tired of each other.”

Scully purses her lips. “I see significantly less of Queequeg per week than I do you,” she mutters, and Mulder wonders whether some of her feigned contempt might be genuine. He’s used to being subtly disliked, but the thought sure makes him sad.

Seeing the passion in his face dissolve, Scully realizes that he’s backing down. It’s not like him to back down, no matter how frivolous the issue is. She knows this about him if she knows anything. It’s as if he’s giving up, and that strikes her more than anything.

“Haven’t you ever had a dog, Mulder?” she asks, ignoring the chair in front of her to perch on the edge of his desk.

“Once. After Samantha.” He laughs out of pure scorn. “I think it was my parents’ way of trying to replace her.”

Scully frowns. She should know by now that any journey into his past will turn into a probe of his eternal wound, and that’s no fault of his own.

“What was its name? And were you fond of it?” Scully feels like a therapist--hopefully a kind and supportive one.

“Sparky. I’ve got no clue where the name came from, or the dog for that matter. He was just kinda there one day when I got home from school. And then in a few months, he was gone in the same way. Taken to my uncle’s cause my parents couldn’t stand all the upkeep.”

A thought pops into Scully’s head that is evidently shared by her partner. “No, he didn’t “go live on a farm’ or whatever, I was old enough not to fall for that,” Mulder insists. “He really did go live with my uncle. Lived like seven more years.”

Scully raises an eyebrow. “But did you like him? Were you sad when he was gone?”

“I was sad about a lot of things at the time, Scully.” He opens his desk drawer and pops a piece of gum in his mouth. He’s out of sunflower seeds. “But about the dog? Eh, he was fine to have around but it wasn’t a quintessential boy and his dog moment. He was already a couple years old and well into his grumpy old man phase, if I remember correctly. And he was a mutt, so I think my parents hated him because he didn’t match the furniture.”

“Mmm.” Scully rolls her tongue over the roof of her mouth. It would be a shame to put Mulder through this whole conversation only to insist that she can’t attend the game. But she wasn’t just making excuses. Queeqeug has been home alone all day. and she always takes him for a walk when she gets home from work. He’s used to their routine now, sitting there at the door when she unlocks it like he’s got an alarm set. He gets his dinner when they get back home and falls soundly asleep. Scully’s convinced this is the only thing keeping him from rebelling for being on his own for ten hours a day, and she doesn’t want to test that theory.

Mulder glances at the office clock. 5:46. First pitch is at 7:05.

“How about this...” He props his feet up on the desk to give himself the air of confidence that he’s lacking. “I’ll run over to your place, walk him, make sure he does his business...the whole shebang. You can finish up here then take a taxi to the park, and I’ll meet you there. Sound good?”

The edges of Scully’s lips turn downward. Mulder notes that today, they are brushed over with a very nice coral. Must be a new shade.

“Do you really care that much about me attending this game?”

Mulder shrugs. Yes he does, but he’ll be nonchalant about it. “I bought the tickets cheap through a newspaper ad. I just thought it would be nice for the two of us to do something that’s not chasing phantoms.”

“Phantoms?” Scully’s left eyebrow arches. “Have I finally broken your spirit?”

Mulder smirks. “Sorry, I thought flattery might get me somewhere here.”

Scully taps a heel against the ugly linoleum floor. He’s so adamant about this...boyhood loves stick, she supposes.

“If it means that much to you, go ahead. But don’t come crying to me when you’re late for the start of the game. Queequeg takes his time.”

Mulder claps his hands together. “That’s fine, that’s fine!” Surely he can hurry the canine up. “You take one ticket and head to the seats, and I’ll find you.”

Scully pulls her lips into a thin line, a hint of humor gleaming in her eyes. “Okay, Mulder. Do you have your key?”

He nods, pulls on his jacket, and edges toward the door. “See you there, Scully!”

“Bye.” Scully smiles at the empty office. Her partner’s enthusiasm is endlessly endearing.

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

Mulder has no time to register that he has no clue where Queequeg’s leash is, or if he’s supposed to bring some sort of bag to pick up any...ehm, droppings, or if there’s some special trick to walking a dog that makes it look easy when it’s secretly hard. In fact, he can’t recall ever walking Sparky. Thirty years old and never walked a dog before...surely that qualifies him for the Guinness World Record books.

Queequeg is alert at the door when Mulder opens it, and he’s glad the thing is more teddy bear than canine--he doesn’t have to deal with any barking or biting. He checks the coat rack for a leash, then begins rummaging around in the front table when he comes up short. It’s all old issues of girly magazines he never would have expected Scully to subscribe to.

Begrudgingly, he looks into Queequeg’s beady eyes. “Where’s your leash, boy? You wanna go for a walk? Show me where your leash is.” He uses a baby voice he didn’t even know he had.

Queequeg does nothing but paw the ground in annoyance.

“I know the feeling,” Mulder quips. He pulls out his phone and chooses Scully’s name from the speed dial list.

It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail. Mulder ends the call, grumbles, then tries the office number instead. She picks up after one ring.

“Hello?” her dainty voice projects through the line.

“Scully, you haven’t left yet?”

“I was just locking up the desk. Is there a problem?” she asks like she knew there would be.

“I can’t find Queequeg’s leash.”

“It’s by the pantry, next to his treats.”

Mulder sighs, heads into the kitchen. “And I suppose I have to take his treats too?”

“Uh-huh. And there’s plastic grocery bags in there that you can use to clean up after him.”

Mulder opens the pantry, sees the hoard. “I feared so.”

“We always go left down the block,” Scully tells her partner. “There’s a patch of grass that way he likes to chew on.”

“And how much does he pay you for such indelible service?” Scully doesn’t listen to a word he says, but she’s at the dog’s beck and call apparently.

There’s a bit of silence as Scully decides not to reply with a smartass remark. Then--”I’m leaving the office now,” she murmurs into the phone. “Better hurry up or I’ll beat you there.”

During this teasing, Mulder attached Queequeg’s leash to his collar. Now, as he tries to lead him into the living room, the dog refuses to move.

“Uh, Scully?”

“Yes?”

“I put his leash on, but Queequeg won’t budge.”

“Do you have the treats?”

Mulder shakes the treat bag and makes kissy noises to encourage the canine. (How humiliating.) Still, nothing.

“He doesn’t want to come with me,” Mulder says. “Even the treats won’t lure him over.”

“Are you sure it’s the right treats?” Scully asks.

“Since when are dogs picky about their treats? Treats are treats. And these are the only ones in the pantry.”

“Huh.”

“If you’re rolling your eyes, I can’t see it,” Mulder mutters.

“I’m not rolling my eyes, I just--we’ve never had this problem.”

“Has anyone else walked him?” Mulder wiggles the leash, which does nothing.

“My mom.”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t like men,” Mulder remarks.

“He lived with Clyde Bruckman…”

“Exactly.”

Scully takes a quick exhale. He has a point. “I’ll head over, okay? But I doubt we’ll make the game.”

“We’ll see.” Mulder sighs. He’s being...well, cockblocked isn’t the right word for it--but something like that--by a dog.

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

Scully arrives half an hour later to find Mulder crouched on the kitchen floor rubbing Queequeg’s belly.

“Am I interrupting something?” she teases. The dog rolls over and leaps into excitement at the sound of her voice, abandoning Mulder altogether.

“Hi buddy.” She scratches his ears and dodges his attempts to lick her face. “You ready to go for a walk?”

Queequeg whimpers and sits as if she commanded him to.

Scully looks to Mulder with a brilliant, taunting smile. “I think he’s ready.”

Mulder stands up, every disk in his back rebelling against him. “That thing--” Mulder jabs a finger in Queequeg’s direction--”has a Jekyll and Hyde situation going on.”

“Really, cause you seemed to be having a great time until I came in.”

“No, no, no, don’t spin this. I had to get down on the kitchen floor because he wouldn’t move! What was I supposed to do while we were waiting for you, ignore him?”

Scully shrugs, tries to hide her smirk. “Well, if you were so bothered by him…”

“Whatever, whatever. Let’s just go for the walk, okay? I don’t want to miss this game, it’s against the Red Sox. It should be good.”

Scully takes Queequeg’s leash from her partner, gestures for him to go ahead. “After you.”

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

It’s a beautiful spring night--the perfect occasion for a baseball game, Scully will give Mulder that. The sun is drifting down the cloudless horizon, and the chill that has hung in the air for months is finally admitting defeat. The sidewalk is crowded with other dogs and their humans, eager to end the week on such a lovely note.

Queequeg trots blissfully in the usual direction. Scully lengthens her stride to keep up with him--for once she and Mulder are walking at the same pace.

“So this is DC on a Friday night, huh?” Mulder says, glancing around at their fellow pedestrians and bicyclists.

Scully nods. “If you got out of the office before seven, you’d know.”

“Doubtful. My usual impression of DC on a Friday night is the traffic on the 14th Street bridge, and I’m pretty sure I can witness that at all hours.”

Scully allows herself a sidelong glance at her partner. She had never realized someone could be too dedicated until she met Mulder.

“Have you ever considered getting a pet?” she asks tentatively.

His gaze snaps to her. He chuckles and sticks his hands in his pockets. “My complex has a hefty monthly pet fee. Rent is already bad enough.”

“Well it’s not like you go out often…” Scully starts, knowing this is short of a compliment. “You’re not a big spender, surely you have the extra cash on hand.”

“Ha, thanks,” Mulder responds. “Should I put that on my resume?”

“I just mean that…” Queequeg finds his beloved patch of grass, and they pause to let him chomp at it. “...you could use the companionship of a dog. Or cat, if that strikes your fancy.”

“I have enough companionship, Scully. More than I know what to do with. Have you heard my answering machine?”

“A woman from an 800 line is not companionship, Mulder. And you never actually answer any of your messages. Friends don’t count if you never see them.”

“Ouch.” Queequeg finishes up, and they resume the walk. “And what are your plans this weekend, Scully?” he asks, hoping to catch her in her own hypocrisy.

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to visit my mother tomorrow afternoon.”

Mulder busts out laughing. “You’re a real party girl!”

She ignores him, focusing on Queequeg. “But you get my point, don’t you? It’s not good to be alone all the time.”

“I seem to recall being told that we spend more time together than you and your dog,” Mulder wisecracks.

“That’s different,” Scully swears. “That’s work.”

“That’s the bulk of modern life, my dear.” He delivers this statement in an old-timey mid-Atlantic accent like some leading man of the 40s. It makes Scully smile.

“I have an idea,” she says, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh boy.” Mulder glances at his watch. 6:51. Damn it. “We’re gonna miss the game.”

Scully nods. “Let’s go to the animal shelter instead.”

Mulder stops. It makes Queequeg, and therefore Scully, stop too. “What?”

“You could make some dog very happy, you know. And Queequeg would have a playmate...I think it would be really good for you, Mulder.”

“Come on, I can’t just adopt a dog on a whim.”

“I did.”

“Shit.”

Scully laughs. “You’re realizing there’s no way out of this, aren’t you?”

Mulder grins. “Yeah, I--” He looks down and sees Queequeg taking a dump in the middle of the sidewalk. Scully readies the plastic bag she brought, then bends down and scoops the pile up like it’s nothing.

Mulder screws up his face. “On second thought…”

“Nuh-uh.” Scully ties the bag and taps it against Mulder’s arm. “You’re empty-handed, take this. It’ll be good practice.”

Mulder frowns but takes the bag. His partner’s huge smile is not lost on him, and it makes him smile despite himself. She knows how to get what she wants, and he has a feeling this one will benefit him too.

#txf fic #txf prompt #the x-files #txf #mine

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idreamofplaid · 3 years

Text

My Omega

Square Filled: Omegaverse for @spnkinkbingo & Wincest for @spnabobingo

Characters:alpha!Dean x omega!Sam; Sam x Brady (past)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Dom/Sub; punishment; butt plug; paddling; orgasm delay; jealous Dean; mention of sex clubs, cock ring, orgasm denial, voyeurism, name calling; praise; handjob; hurt/comfort; aftercare

Summary: Dean is not very pleased with Sam’s past activities while he was at Stanford. When he acknowledges the role he played in what happened, he has a change of heart.

Word Count: 2510

A/N: This is smutty, angsty, fluffy Wincest. Dean safe words out without saying the word. It’s unbeta’d. Any mistakes are mine. If you’re interested in being a beta for any future Wincest, message me. It’s a specific taste, I know. The same for A/B/O. Message me if you’re into A/B/O and would be interested in beta reading for me.

Created for @spnkinkbingo & @spnabobingo

“You did what?” Dean put down the gun he was cleaning and turned to stare at Sam with a hard and disbelieving look.

Sam continued to work on engraving a devil’s trap into the bullet in his hand, looking up only briefly at Dean. He was unfazed by his Alpha’s disapproval. It wasn’t that Sam was a rebellious Omega, just the opposite. Pleasing Dean was his top priority, and he was a dutiful and submissive Omega; but he hadn’t been Dean’s Omega when he was at Stanford.

Sam repeated, “I went to sex clubs.” His statement was nonchalant at best and defiant at worst to Dean’s ears.

Dean sat back in his chair, his head shaking back and forth and his mouth hanging open. “You got up on a stage and let people look at you being fucked by...by….” Dean flung his hand up into the air and let it fall back to the chair arm with a thud; his eyes began to darken with an intensity that meant he was ready to punish Sam for what he’d done and his attitude about the whole thing.

Sam heard the tone in Dean’s voice, causing him to look up from what he was doing and see the dangerous expression in Dean’s eyes. He made an attempt to right his mistake, knowing he was walking a very fine line. “I didn’t say I was an exhibitionist, Dean. Just because you go to those places, doesn’t mean you perform for the crowd. Even if I had, you weren’t my Alpha then. We were still denying that.”

Dean stood, moved into Sam’s space, and somehow managed to tower over his 6’4” brother. “What did you say to me? I have always been your Alpha, Sam.” Sam knew he was in trouble, and it was causing the slick to begin to pool in his pants. “If anyone touched or saw what’s mine, you should be punished, shouldn’t you? Did that happen, Sam?”

Dean’s voice had dropped into a deeper register, and Sam had dropped the bullet he’d been holding. He lowered his head. “Yes, Alpha, it did.”

Dean put his hand under Sam’s chin and tilted his face up. “I think you know what that means.” Sam’s eyes were already pleading for Dean’s forgiveness. “Go present yourself on our bed and wait for me.”

The walk through the bunker to their room seemed longer than usual to Sam. Anticipation was humming through his veins, and his cock was hardening more with each step. By the time he’d stripped, climbed onto the bed, and positioned himself on all fours his breathing had gotten faster; and his heart was pounding. He knew whatever Dean had planned for him was going to hurt, and it would make him come unbelievably hard.

Sam lowered his head so his cheek was resting on the bed and reached back to spread his cheeks and wait for Dean. By the time his Alpha entered the room, his cock was bobbing in the air, and the slick was running down his thighs. He shuddered when Dean spoke. “Look at you. So gorgeous, Sam. Needy and waiting for me to do whatever I please, whatever I think you deserve.” Without warning, Dean pushed two fingers into Sam’s opening. Sam was so wet, he took them with little resistance, and Sam gasped. “You like the way that feels, my Omega?”

Dean found Sam’s prostate and rubbed it, causing his brother to keen. “Please, Dean.” Sam wanted to all out beg, but he knew better. He was being punished; that meant taking what Dean gave him and nothing more.

Dean pulled his fingers from Sam’s body as abruptly as he’d pushed them in. “Did I tell you that you could say anything?”

“N...no, Alpha.” Sam was still holding himself open for whatever Dean wanted to do to him next, and he dug his fingers into his own skin when he felt the blunt head of the plug against his hole. He had a good idea of what was going to happen next.

The plug was wide, not nearly as big as Dean’s knot, but it was stretching Sam nicely and pushing into his prostate. He bit his bottom lip to keep from crying out. If Dean wanted to hear him, he’d say so. “Drop your hands, Sam.” Dean’s voice had gone quiet and heavy with purpose. He was an Alpha intent on reclaiming his Omega and teaching him a lesson. Sam let go of his ass and placed his hands palms down on the bed on either side of his head.

Dean cupped Sam’s right cheek in his hand and squeezed. This ass belongs to me, Sam. It belonged to me when you were at Stanford. Do you know how I like my ass, Sam?” Unsure if Dean actually wanted an answer, Sam stayed quiet. It was the right decision because Dean kept talking. “I like it a nice dark pink and sore from my spanking when I fuck it.” Dean gave Sam’s ass a practice swat with his hand, and then added a few more to warm him up.

When the first strike of the paddle came, it was right over the center of Sam’s ass and pushed the plug deeper into him to crash against his prostate. Dean varied the location of the blows to get an even color over the entire surface of both cheeks, but wherever the paddle came down it always hit the plug, stimulating Sam’s prostate. “Don’t you dare come, little brother. Your orgasms belong to me too, and I’ll tell you when you can have one.”

Sam’s ass felt like it was on fire, and his cock was throbbing by the time Dean stopped. He’d thought again of begging his Alpha for release, but it wouldn’t have done any good. Everything was up to Dean, his Alpha. Dean dropped the paddle on the bed next to Sam’s head. “Omega, I want you to tell me exactly what it was you did in those clubs. How many times did you go? Who took you there? Who dared to touch what’s mine?”

Sam had clawed at the sheets the entire time Dean was spanking him and taking him right to the edge of orgasm without giving him that gift, and he was grasping a fistful of the bedding in both hands. It kept him from reaching back to rub his well paddled backside to try and soothe it. “It was only a c...couple of times. Brady took me there. It was him.”

Dean’s next words sounded tight, in a way that let Sam know he’d been clenching his teeth. “What did you let him do to you there, Omega?”

“We were in one of the private rooms. A few people were there, and they watched.” Sam closed his eyes and attempted to block out the memory. He had known he was Dean’s, knew Dean was his Alpha from the time he was fifteen and his first rut had hit him. That’s when he’d smelled it, Dean’s scent. He’d taken that smell all the way to California with him; he couldn’t run away from it. Sam woke up at night smelling cedar, bourbon, and vanilla.

That scent was heavy in the air right now, and Sam inhaled it deeply. He wished he could wipe those days with Brady away, make it so they had never happened. He couldn’t, but he could show his Alpha his loyalty through his submission now. “What did they watch, Sam? What did you allow him to do to you?”

Sam took a deep breath. He wanted to cry, not because of how much the spanking had hurt or because he needed to come so bad his balls ached. Sam wanted to cry because he was ashamed he’d let Brady do those things to him when he had known he belonged to Dean, even if Dean hadn’t claimed him yet. “I let him tie me up and fuck me while they watched. I let him use me while I wore a cock ring and never got to come. I let him humiliate me. I let him call me names. He said I was his slut.” Sam’s voice broke when he said this last because he believed it.

His eyes were still closed, and he wasn’t expecting to feel Dean’s fingers brush his hair from his face and comb through it. “Open your eyes, Sammy, and look at me.” Sam slowly opened his eyes and saw that Dean’s expression had totally softened. “You are not a slut, Sam, and you never belonged to him. You’re my Omega, only mine.” Dean put his hand over Sam’s that was still holding tightly to the sheet. He rubbed his fingers over Sam’s clenched hand. “Let go, Sam.” Sam let his hand relax. “You were so good for me, Omega. You are always so good.”

Dean stretched out onto the bed next to Sam, his hand still over his Omega’s, and whispered to him gently. “Lie down on your side, Sammy. Let me take care of you.” Dean helped Sam settle on the bed beside him, their faces only inches apart. Dean saw that Sam’s cock was just as red as his bottom, and it was leaking pre come that was running down the side of his shaft, making it unnecessary for Dean to use Sam’s slick as lube.

Dean circled his hand around his Omega’s cock and started to stroke while he touched his lips to Sam’s in the tenderest of kisses. “Don’t hold back, my ‘Mega. Let me hear you. Come for me whenever you’re ready.” Dean speeded up the motions of his hand, causing Sam to moan deeply and call out his name over and over when he came. The come spurted from the end of Sam’s cock in long ropes that painted the flannel and t-shirt Dean was still wearing in white stripes.

Sam blacked out from the force of his orgasm and didn’t hear Dean tell him he was a good Omega, but when his eyes fluttered open and he saw the look on Dean’s face; he knew. Dean didn’t say the words “I love you” much out loud, but the way he looked at Sam said it every bit as effectively; and Sam felt it.

Dean took off his shirts, dropped them to the floor, and leaned down to kiss Sam’s temple. Sam was in a sex blissed haze, and there was only one thought in his mind. “Knot me, Alpha.”

Dean kissed his forehead again. “I will, baby. There’s nothing I want more, but let me finish taking care of you first.” Dean moved behind his Omega and pulled the plug from Sam’s ass; Sam moaned as the plug left his body, leaving him open and ready for the knot he wanted. Next, Dean took the salve from the drawer in the drawer in the bedside table that he kept there for times like these. He rubbed the cream into Sam’s flaming behind to ease the burn and lessen the heat.

The Alpha stood and removed the rest of his clothes before he walked back around the bed to take his waiting Omega into his arms. Dean kissed Sam, tasting him, moving his tongue around Sam’s, and touching every spot in Sam’s mouth until Sam was saying through the kiss, “Alpha, knot, please.” Dean entered him fully with one smooth thrust and continued to kiss him up until the moment he filled his Omega with his seed. That’s when Dean broke the kiss, panting and growling. He put his mouth over the claim mark at the base of Sam’s neck and closed his teeth around it, but he didn’t bite him hard.

Dean let go of Sam’s neck when his knot started to inflate, locking them together while more of his semen pumped into his Omega. He nuzzled against Sam’s scent gland and inhaled the rich sweet smell of caramel, coffee beans, and cinnamon. “You okay, ‘Mega?”

“I’m sorry, Alpha.” Sam’s voice was tinged with sadness.

Dean lifted his head so he could look into his mate’s beautiful golden green eyes. “Why, Sam?”

The emotion was raw in Sam’s eyes. “I never should have let Brady touch me. It was wrong when I knew I was yours. What kind of Omega does that?”

Dean cupped Sam’s cheek in his hand. “Hey, don’t blame yourself for that. You would have never been with him if I had claimed you like I should have. That’s on me. I wasn’t the Alpha you needed.” Dean paused, and his gaze held Sam’s. “I wasn’t faithful to you either back then.” Dean’s knot was still at full size and caught on Sam’s rim. Dean was thankful for that right now, afraid that those words that reminded Sam of how Dean had rejected him and what was between them to turn to a meaningless string of women would make Sam want to pull away from him.

Sam responded in a whisper. “I know, Dean. That’s why I left. I couldn’t stand to see you with someone else, knowing you were taking them to your bed. It hurt too much.”

Dean could feel his knot beginning to shrink. If he could have willed it to stay the way it was, he would have. He wanted to keep Sam close, prove to him it was different. “I’m faithful to you now, Sam. I have been since I claimed you the first time we were together. I’ll always be faithful to you, Sam. I promise you that.”

Dean’s knot had completely deflated. It was time for him to separate his body from Sam’s, prompting the first words from his Omega. “Stay, Dean. Please don’t move yet.”

“Okay, Sammy. I won’t. I’ve got you. It’s okay now.” He ran his fingers through Sam’s hair some more; it calmed them both. “The way Brady treated you? If he was still alive, I’d want to kill him. You deserve so much more than that. I was just jealous before, Sam, but I didn’t have any right to be. I can’t stand the thought of anyone else being near you.”

“I have more than that now, Dean, so much more.” He kissed his Alpha on his full lips, and when Sam pulled away Dean’s deep green eyes were shining with love. “And I feel better now. I didn’t think about using my safe word even once. Every time you mark me, I like it. I wanted you to do what you did.”

Finally, Dean slipped from his Omega’s body. Sam closed his eyes, and Dean kissed his eyelids with feather light kisses. “I’ll be the Alpha I’m supposed to be for you, Sam, the one I always should have been. I should have protected you from people like Brady.”

When Sam opened his eyes, Dean could see the peace in them. “I feel safe now, Dean.” Sam was so open, so trusting, just like he had always been. Dean heard those words, and he felt forgiven.

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