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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Okay rockstars, settle down

rockstar!bucky barnes x assistant!reader x rockstar!loki laufeyson / masterlist

summary; having previously worked for loki, it causes a heat to burn within bucky’s already accumulated hate towards the musician / warnings; threesome, smut, mxf and mxm sex, mentions of sex with other characters, oral sex (male and female receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, double penetration, degradation, swearing, orgasm denial, cum eating

“Can’t believe you worked for that wanker.” Snarked Bucky as an image of the well known, musically spread, and acoustically acclaimed, Loki Laufeyson was shown on the screen of the dressing room television, as the other artist stretched his clothing bare arms across the back of the couch. “Come here sweet cheeks.”

At his command, you dismissed the paper work for a moment, trailing over and straddling the inked hunk’s chain belted lap, digging your manicured set of nails into his shoulders, as you seated yourself over his crotch. “I’m happy I work for you now Buck, you treat me so good.”

Punctuating your words, you pressed your teeth into your bottom lip, giving it the appearance of being more plump, as you batted your dark eyelashes up at your employer. “I do, don’t I?” He rhetorically asked, skimming his fingers across the length of your arms, before moving them to sloppily cup your jaw, ensuring that you would not look away from his wild and dilated pupils. “Tell me what I do better than the lead singer of the god of mischief.”

At his words, a small yet peaceful contortion of uncomfortableness split a skin grafted line through the centre of your forehead, stating that you had no wish to do so. And thus, as punishment for your self aversive silence, Barnes braced his knuckles into your skin, causing you to keen out, and tap his shoulders in verification for surrender.

In turn, you lowered your hands, dragging the tips of your nails, absentmindedly running them down the expanse of his waxed chest, conveniently passing the silver hoops that were attached to his nipples on the trail to a less dominant ground. “I prefer the way that your songs have a heavier bass and-“

“Uh uh uh, not the music. Think of something that has you, let’s say, screaming, but definitely not in a crowd. Though, we may have to try that one sometime; show the world how hungry you are to assist me.”

“You, James Bucky Barnes,” he loosened his grip to your relief, which lead to you hugging in spite, “are the best fuck I have ever endured. Loki has nothing on you, he deems himself a god of the arts, but he doesn’t see how you paint me so perfectly with your cum, nor how you bend my body to your whim, as though I am a tool in the midst of your creations, useful, but disposable.”

“I like the sound of that doll. Disposable, now that really does you make you sound like my personal cum dump.”

��That’s was certainly interesting to listen to...”that voice had your body jolting in shock, and it appeared that Bucky too was surprised by the presence, though, he steadied his well versed hands on your hips, claiming you to the intimate spot.

“What the fuck are you doing in my dressing room you greasy haired weasel?” Bucky sneered, his nose turning up at the sight alone of his competition in the lyrical world. Loki, he had graced you with his presence, and you had to look away; he admittedly looked good.

His shirt was open chested, leaving you with the memorable impression of all the times that you had left crescent marks upon that particular surface, a few times you had even drawn blood, but that had only fuelled his mission to fuck you into a propeller of urgency.

“Our new album Laufey has just been released, I can confirm my dear, you shoulda stayed around and knelt in our success. The records are certainly going to have more sales than what was it called again? Ah yes, the red star. I could tell it was about this one, so much passion, a sultry tune, that did little to justify what it means to be with her.”

Loki’s hands waved around as he spoke, and you could only picture the past whence he penetrated your with those long and talented fingers of his. He had drawn orgasm after orgasm out of you, resulting you to be nothing more than a withering mess, as he digressed the option to simply stop. There was nothing simple about him, nor the time that he demanded that he shared you with his brother.

That thought alone had you mindlessly grinding upon Bucky’s covered cock, plucking at your lip with the keys of your teeth, though Bucky’s voice brought you back to reality, causing you to pause your movements embarrassingly, venting a clear out of your head to process the situation that was before you. The two were bickering like two teenage girls, and it was quite exhausting to listen to.

“Answer the question trickster, else I’ll have you fed to the infamous black panther, and let’s just say that he is the best bodyguard I have ever hired. So, are you going to speak, or will I have you dragged out of here like a damned serpent with a noose around its neck?” Bucky threatened, gritting his teeth together, his nose straining in frustration, drawing more attention to the small stud on the right side of his nose.

“Looks like she needs me Barnes, perhaps your reputation does not proceed you. But to answer in full, my band have made quite the rise, and I thought it would be... fitting to pay you a visit. Though I had no idea that this wonderful woman would be here, pining on your lap like some feline in heat. I see she’s fucking you now, after all my suspicions are never wrong. Or we’ll, Heimdall’s train of thought always ends up at the right station.”

“Can the pair of you stop, for one goddamn minute!” Your hands obscured a path into your hair, as you glared back and forth between the pair of rival rockstars. “I am here, dammit! Stop talking about me as though I am not here, a part of me wishes that I wasn’t so I didn’t have to listen to your bitching.”

Without any thought, you clambered from your perch on Bucky’s lap, walking towards the raven haired gentleman, pointing your finger in his face as you accused him. “You’ve got your point across, but I’ll tell you something. If you don’t leave, Heimdall will see me putting my foot up your ass.”

“Does she speak to you like this Barnes? I thought she had loosened up in more ways than one when I allowed Thor to stretch her cunt, but it appears that that mouth of hers has gotten a little out of hand also. You should do something about that, or else you’ll lose her to someone else like a did. Who knows, could be Romanoff, heard she has a thing for brats.”

Natasha Romanoff, a diverse woman in her ways and songs. She was the queen of the rock culture, tormenting her workers with her verbal abuse and it would undoubtedly be no different for her assistant. If you were to be under her employment, it was certain that you would not get out alive, nor work for another talented person for the rest of your life. To cross her, was a vow to sign your own death certificate, it was plain stupidity, yet people still hustled with her and her limits, resulting in their chances of ever getting hired for any job, vastly slim to none.

At the lack of defence that Bucky provided you, you felt small, your shoulders slacked as you were tortured with Loki’s cold and silky gaze, more so when the man stood up, pressing his bare chest against your back. You could feel the rings that hung off the buds that adorned his chest coil and dig into your back, shrouding your demeanour substantially.

A part of you wanted nothing more than for Bucky to abuse Loki’s face with his fist, specifically the right, since it was the bearer to a chunky silver ring. It’d leave quite the print, however, the unexpected unravelled as his enquiring tone was aimed not at you, but Loki instead.

“You let your brother fuck her, hmm. Maybe she should learn her manners by being shared, that way her retrospective spattering of bullshit may be contained, to a limit of course.” It was unbelievably, you could not believe that Bucky was conferring with the enemy! And not only that, they were talking about experiences of having you literally become speechless from their unprofessional administrations upon your body. “I’d get T’Challa in here, but I know she’s already fucked him. Can’t quite fire him for it though, because who could ever say no to those pretty eyes, and that mouth, god, it is definitely one of her most persuasive attributes.”

“Bu-“ you didn’t even get to finish imploring his name off your lips, about to defend yourself and your previous actions, though, you were interrupted, starved from the opportunity of coming up with an explanation.

“No.” Loki told you, the roles now reversed as he was the one with his index finger aimed at you. He tapped your nose with it, as he began to pace in the room, his wild locks remaining in their place as he spun, before facing Bucky, a sly tranquility of a truce veining out from the pools of his evergreen orbs. “You don’t speak a word to me y/n, not whilst I’m having a conversation with James here.”

James. It was too far a polite way for him to address your boss. They were all hot and ready to tear out each other’s throats a moment ago, and now here they were, having a silent conversation without your inclusion. It had you reeling your mind as to why, until Bucky gathered your hair in his hand to the side, sliding you y/h/c locks over your shoulder, and finally deemed it acceptable for you to hear his voice.

Though, he still was not directing his tensive words in your direction. “Since you had dealt with this subordinate behaviour from her, perhaps you’d like to join us; help me train her to become more...” His breath fanned your the top of your ear, making your skin crawl by not only his warm and inviting breath, but also the offer that he had supposed to the other man.

“Obedient?” Loki asked in turn of his wispy ended offer of optimism, his leather, sharp tipped boots taking a prominent, heart clenching step towards you. He reached his finger out, grasping a loose strand that had fallen out of Bucky’s grip and before your face, tugging lightly on it, as his lips came dangerously close to your own. “Rules aren’t your forfeit, are they my dear? The best assistant I ever hired, with all those unique ideas floating around in that independent head of yours, but you’ve always been troublesome. I remember the time that you bit my cock that day you had attitude. I reckon Bucky here could do a better job.”

“Then why doesn’t he?” You hissed as said man tugged on his handful of your hair, instantly making you regret your phrase in the moment. To a halting surprise however, Bucky released you, lightly shoving you to cause you to fumble forwards, and away from him.

“Maybe I will.” He dared, earning a nod from Loki, whom seductively began to unzip his loose trousers, as Bucky descended to the ground, his hands running up his rival’s thighs, as the material dropped around Loki’s ankles. It would seem, that he had gone commando, and as Bucky grasped Loki’s shaft, you felt a pull in your chest inherently demanding that you play some part in this fornication.

“Wait.” Your hand shot out, as though you had some force to stop them from continuing with their war path to exact all of their developed spit onto you. “What about me?” You were ss

“Oh no doll, you are not pulling any strings here, if you wanna do something useful, come here and warm my cock, you can watch me blow your old associate.” A slither of a whimper fell from your lips, it wasn’t exactly what you were prying towards, but you sure as hell were not going to refuse the contact that Bucky was obliged to give you.

Thus you wandered towards him, your pinkies curling around one another, as you sashayed to the ground beside him, watching as he paid Loki no mind for a moment, ruthlessly in a desperation fuelled motion, unbuckled his thick belt, and shoved the material of his leather trousers to be held accountable against his lower thighs, just above his tense knees.

He too, as their exteriors supposed, had forgone the extra layer that kept his cock tucked away, though it was exposed as he tugged those tight trousers down, and the sight of both his and Loki’s cocks bobbing in the same vicinity had you close to quivering.

It was somewhat of a dream portrayed in the viscous space of reality, the two men half undressed in then proximity of yourself, it was something that you had always imagined, even before you had left Loki’s side, and opted to work for Bucky, but the idea was definitely short lived. They hated each other, but apparently they were willing to put all their issues aside to prohibit you from freely running your mouth.

Bucky’s cock twitched as he patted his own thigh, ordering you without the aid of his voice to commence it as a servant’s throne, or in your case, a stool for you to rest on as he tended to intimate needs of the man that you had once worked for. Finally, with the decision of better judgement, you allowed your grey jumper dress to slide down your body, leaving you nude, and the aspect of the two men’s unforgiving and locked gazes.

“No underwear, and you wonder why your men have no difficulty in her allowing them to fuck her.” Bucky took ahold of his cock, squeezing his cock with one hand, whilst his other aided you in sitting on his muscular legs, as he lightly growled up at the opposing rockstar.

From the stiff grip that Bucky affirmed around his sceptre, Loki gasped, his pale lips instantly shutting once the sound wantonly abandoned him. The last thing that he wanted was for Bucky to see him in vulnerable poise, though with that said, it’d be rather difficult considering the smutty circumstances.

Bucky took Loki’s long, alabaster prick into his mouth, starting from the primrose tip and descending down, reciprocating the action that you did yourself as you sheathed yourself onto his cock, but instead with his lips. A grunt rendered along Loki’s length as the man bit back a whimper, the vibrations running through his veins like a transpiring pulse of sorcery.

Bucky opted for bobbing his head, as you endured the liberation of his very slightly gyrating movement inside of you. Though, despite him being almost completely still and leaving you full to the brim with his thick length, his balls resting against the partition where he was delved into you, you remained transfixed.

The motion image, recording first hand through your own eyes, of him blowing Loki was sinful, but you were drawn to it. If that made you a sinner, one endorsed by the graphic scene, licking your lips from the sight of Bucky running his studded tongue up the length of Loki, dipping the ball of silver metal into his slit, then so be it.

Your heart raced as you were met with an opportunity. A globe of saliva, strung by the lapping muscle of Bucky’s tongue dropped down; you practically saw its fall in slow motion. It was done before you could register your actions, you had leant forwards, catching the trickle of spit in your mouth, thinking not for a moment as you gulped the subjective liquid down.

Bucky’s pace increased, he gagged lightly as he jolted him further down his throat. Loki hummed, harshly grabbing Bucky’s dark brunette locks, biting his lip as he reimagined your little catch. It had him feeling close, and just as he was about to finish, precum furiously pooling out of his tip, Bucky pulled back, a smirk marking his features.

“You’re not cumming in my mouth, I don’t mind sucking dick, nor swallowing, but I have to practically listen to you jizz over your own talent, and prowl over my girl.” The name he labelled you with had your heart fluttering, but not nearly as much as when he lightly pulled out of you, infuriating you with the lack of any pleasurable esteem. “Don’t you worry babes, you can finish with me inside of you, like always.”

That used to be him, Loki thought with a brewing rage in his chest. Though he instead shrugged out of his dull patterned striped shirt that was already loose on his shoulders. The fabric hit the floor, leaving all of you barren to the subject of nudity.

“Always doesn’t suppose the past Barnes.” Loki stated, referring to all the various times that he had found refuge in your spongey walls, you willingly clenching around him, and pleading for him to hit a deeper spot within you. “And I do not prowl, I don’t need to. The evidence is there between her legs, coiling in juices surrounding her ever so willing folds, that are prepared to endure the harshest of penetrations.”

“What are you trying to do, write a fucking song about this?” Scoffed Bucky, rolling his crystallised orbs at the guts that this man had. If he so much as wanted to, he could stop this passage into a three way all together, but he did not, at least he had yet to. He was enjoying the way that you were squirming to yourself, thinking that he didn’t notice, squeezing the sides of your thighs together in an aroused matrimony.

“A fucking song would’ve the correct term - literally.” Was the affirmed words of Loki, as he shoved Bucky to be sat beside you, tilting his messy brush of crazed hair, his untrustworthy eyes drifting to you. “Who’d you want to fuck you, you fangirling slut?”

It was truthfully a difficult decision. “Both.” You admitted, your bones jumping as Bucky pinched one of your erect nipples, continuing to hold a sturdy clasp of his pads around the sensitive flesh; you couldn’t jut choose one of them. Not when they were both in such close range, bore in nothing more than their birthdays suits, talking about your quivering and diversely accepting cunt.

They knew that you couldn’t possibly refuse one or the other. You were vastly too hungry to be filled like you had never been before, shagged by two of three most well known artists in the industry, earnestly and mindlessly earning yourself a title within the circle of uptight yet simultaneously chill performers.

Perhaps, if Bucky we to ever potentially fire you, there would be another pursuer for your articulating talents on standby, awaiting for the moment that you walked out of his complex door to swoop you up as though they were a predatory falcon, flying off into a stationed sunset, those around seeing you as nothing more than a shadow of the ambient orb, but the one who had employed you finding you to be a sufficing inspiration.

Large hands swallows your hips, firmly controlling their angle as they grasped you in their strong, almost super human hold, lifting you so that you were tentatively tucked in a reverse cowgirl position on Bucky’s lap. It was the third time that you had been this close to him, it would almost be intimate, if your legs weren’t strewn in an open, all revealing splay, so that Loki could see your boss tease his tip around your entrance before sliding you down his length, extracting a strong wail from your churning throat.

Your own hand resented down, applying swirls of pressure down on your clit; it appeared that they were willing you to continue without interruption. Bucky lightly, despite the power that he was promoted to in this position, began to bounce you on his shaft, spewing small mewls out from your agape mouth.

Fisting his cock, Loki approached, Bucky reachin this seen hands down to spread te lips of your pussy, so that the other man was guaranteed a crude glimpse of you being stufffed. Though, you weren’t quite filled enough, for Bucky raised a brow and prompted Loki to allow himself to be pulled closer by your axed and whining aura.

He brushed his tip languidly against your buzzing clit, dragging through your slick and jab i at your delicate fingers before probing at the base of Bucky’s cock, and pushing inside, right along his rival’s length, the pair moaning out in a pleasured union. On the other and, you had tears falling from the crescents of your eyes, the stretch so much that it was a blistering pain to your cunt.

“Don’t go all meek dear, you and i both know this is far from the first instance where you’ve had more than one cock in this nasty, betraying cunt of yours.” Loki taunted, gripping the vulnerable expanse of your throat from behind, his icy glazed skin sending provocative shivers down your spine, making your pussy pulse from the chill that ran through your body.

And then, i a split instant, both cocks began to piston into your walls, as though you were nothing more than a rag doll, meant o be thrown around and handled in a disorderly fashion. They ere ruthless, groaning out symphonies in the cursive air around you, as your walls engulfed their pricks more than snugly.

You felt so wide down there, they were taking a pirating toll on your body stealing every breath that dared wither from your lips, tweezing their nimble fingered around various parts of your body, all in due retrospect or coerce you into fucking them back, making all actions in the mass of bodies a mutual effort.

Loki lowered his head down meeting Bucky for a sloppy, brash kiss. It was clear they were simply doing that part to fulfil a greedy desire in your stomach, but you were not one that minded. It was, like the rest of their frenzy of collaborations, a competitive mess. They nipped harshly at each other’s lips, ravenously all in the meanwhile ploughing your body with their har girths.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” Your tongue dribbled, earning satisfied, lust induced smirks from both parties that were currently penetrating you, making you writhe harder against their lengths a new flow of moisture weeping out from your hole, lubricating their movements further, it encouraging them to do nothing more than continue what they were doing, despite their better judgements.

The truth was, they were rockstars. They had no better judgement, which is why everyone like them needed someone like you. Their thought were clouded with one mission, and for once in their spent lifetimes, it was not to beat the others, at least not to a certain extent anyways. It was their assignment, delivered by their own hands, to bring you to the edge, and that’s physically what they reformed to do.

One of them were groping your nipples, whilst the other confined the same treatment to your ass cheeks. Loki found your Rocky enables of positive feedback to be icicles and they were beautiful, he stared at them, as though they were divine ploys extracted from the mythical kingdom of Jotunheim, their residence in the realm to be the peacemakers of all bountiful creatures, much like himself and Barnes.

A rich euphoric groan exuberated from Bucky as he allowed himself to spoil, but he tutted whence he watched Loki’s features suppose that he was to follow shortly behind. “Not inside of her.” Bucky growled, sufficing Loki to roll his eyes, and pull out, the man behind you furiously replacing your hand, rolling our clit in his grasp until a sinful scream enveloped the air, commencing them all to the fact that you had just came.

Loki found the show to be unfair, and instead, spilled his priceless seed onto the huffing skin of your stomach, you eyes fluttered shut at the warm feeling pooling onto you. You leant back, drawing your neck into a crooked angle as you swiped your tongue wordlessly over the piercing on Bucky’s right nipple, metal providing a relief to the heat that your body was and had been swarmed with. “ Last chance you’re gonna have t taste her sweet cunt.”

“You do certainly have some faith in this one Barnes, but I do doubt that it will be the last instance in which i am todo so.” His silver tongue pried at your cum soaked flesh, drinking up all the essence that you had to offer, onshore the flavour that Bucky had brought to the table, i the form of a succulent drizzling of Snow White cum.

As Loki finishes swabbing his tongue over your cunt, Bucky adoringly kisses you, much sweeter than he has before. It was sort, and almost chaste, but his blue eyes roamed your face, delicately observing the high points of your face, that were covered with a sheen of great force making you as he would put it, glow.

The pair of you weer exhausted, there was still some swollen was to his lips from where he had sucked off Loki. His hands cradled you around your waist, his feet kicking Loki back as you whimpered from opaque sensitivity. “I guess that was you bidding me a dew.” Sneered the trickster, fishing for his clothes, as he spared you a spark filled glare, to which you ignored.

Once he was situated back into his attire, he left the sex scented room,a hollow smirk chapping his lips as he strutted th a purpose out into the hallway, taking a left instead of a right, and creeping into barnes’ studio to see what the man was working on in the midst of his enduring tour/ He was always the trickster, and nothing different was to ever be expected out of him.

“That was good.” You mumbled, rubbing your ode lovingly across the scruff that coated his jaw. His fingers made small circles upon your tummy, humming contently as he remained sheathed inside of you. He had to admit, he preferred it when it was just him, but his lonesome, sheathed within your walls, feeling the small trembles of your walls around him. It was practically heaven, and he would say so if he believed in such a place.

A deliberate knock ruined the moment, as the man entered,he quarrelled with himself where her to casually look in the direction of the pair of you or to avert his sight around, and blankly at the all. “What is it T’Challa?” Grumbled the man inside of you, quirking a thin brow at the timing of his presence.

“Loki; he managed to get into ur data, and he’s leaked a whole bunch of your music.” Of course, Loki would not come here to simply gloat, there was alas something extra up his green sleeve, and now it was revealed.

“Son of a bitch!” Bucky made a move to stand, but instead prohibited a whimper out of you as hi ships jutted angrily tip on instinct. “Get Odin on the phone, we’re going to have a little chat about his slippery hands son!” Barked Bucky, prepared t do anything to bring his greatest threat down, compiling him into the put of hate industry, until he was forgotten about, unable to ever produce new music again.

“Talk to Sif.” You whispered, becoming the image of his assistant once more, even if his cum lathered cock was prevailing within a rut of required stress relief, growing in the conjunction of your wall with his body guard there. “She loathes him, and rightfully so. He got her kicked out and she has dirt on him that nobody else has ever heard. If you want to take I’m down, she is your in.”

The strict tone grammatically supported by your logical information was definitely turning Bucky on again. He could handle you more than fine without Loki’s aid, he was just a means to an end, as it was clearly shown in his priorities.

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zet-sway · 3 years

Text

I wrote something angsty and spicy.

Rated: "E" for "Extremely Spicy" [NSFT] AO3 Link: "Vantablack" Pairing: Thane / FemShep (Unrequited?) Pairing: Garrus / Femshep (Mentioned) Summary: Alone, as only a drell mind could, moments melded together like droplets of dew on grass. The ghost of his mouth over her neck. The taste of her painted lips on a rim of crystal. Hair feathering over his fingers, the scent of her body, and the thrum of her pulse tugging at his heart with longing.

THIS IS NOT HAPPY SHRIOS. Most of my recent work has been very soft and warm feeling - this is not that. But I want ya'll to know I have some soft happy shrios in the pipeline to make it up to you <3

Inspired by @shut-up-alexa's fic Weightless, I drew upon the moment where Thane takes a sip from a glass Shepard had just been drinking from - as was her intention. The fic itself says he tastes her lip print and sets the memory aside for when he is "alone with himself in the darkest part of the night." It was then I knew I had been visited by the smut fairy. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LETTING ME WRITE FANFIC OF YOUR FANFIC :D

Sleep was difficult enough to claim, most nights.

Thane, ever a man of routine, kept to his nightly rituals like an acolyte. He began with prayer. Verses carved into his mind since his youth, silent and still as he bargained with the gods to mull the chaos of his memories, to forgive his misgivings. Meditation lasted as long as it needed to. Sleep was, after all, fruitless without a quiet mind.

Aboard the Normandy, however, nightly meditation felt like a fool’s pursuit. Shepard, returned from the waves of Kalahira’s ocean, demanded much of a man like him. In her hands, the carefully constructed fortress of his mind was like a house of cards. Reborn into the hands of the enemy, she raged, unable to trust the unfamiliar construct that was her body and searching with grief and heartache for a lover she couldn’t locate. She prodded him with questions, seared him with her gaze and her relentless upset.

Raw, heart-stricken, and reckless, her anger was justified - even if she flung it at him underhandedly. He forgave her always. To be her target was to bear her trust. He could see it clearly; she knew no other way to soothe the guilt and isolation that tore openly at both her body and her mind. In time, he was confident she would heal. Until then, Cerberus was no friend to her.

And thus tonight, like most nights, she haunted him.

At 0300, he decided on a compromise. Troubled sleep was better than none at all. After a calming herbal tea and having tended to his hygiene, he settled into his cot, nude as he so preferred to sleep. If he could sleep at all.

The minutes, and the memories, began to tick by.

"The most important aspect is intent," he’d said to her, watching her eyes follow him while he circled behind her. "A breath of hesitation will get you killed, or worse." Hands alighted on her shoulders - a companionable gesture before they both endeavored to threaten her life.

Shepard didn't flinch when he began the demonstration. Thane flattened himself against her back, one arm winding wide around her shoulders. Pressed into the curves of her body, his sweet torture began. She arched her neck - calm, trusting - offering her throat into the curl of his elbow as he tucked his arm under her chin and sealed his hand on her opposite shoulder. He steeled himself against his lust, breathing in unison with her, taking advantage of his proximity to inhale her scent as he demonstrated the headlock. Carmine hair brushed across his fingers where they were clamped on the nape of her neck, his breath washing over vulnerable, prickling skin.

Thane let the silence linger, writing the lush warmth of her body into his memory, caught in the lethal intimacy of his embrace.

"Weaken the spine by twisting," he murmured, his lips nearly brushing her ear, each word sending strands of hair ruffling on his breath. Thane closed his eyes, enflamed by her closeness, praying for mercy as she tilted back into him - a wordless exchange of scorching intent, however convinced she was to not act upon it.

His voice, barely a whisper, poured forth from intangible parts of him that hadn't known a lover's touch in over a decade.

"Apply pressure in the opposite direction."

Careful, controlled, he flexed the arm around her throat and wristed the palm at her neck. Painful to her, as he knew it would be, but not enough to truly hurt her. Nevertheless, she tensed in his arms, a kinetic shiver flowing from her body into his like the sinful call of a siren. Willing herself to trust a killer's restrained tactile intimacy, a hair-trigger away from dropping her where they stood.

"And snap."

Innate human vulnerability gave voice to her wanting. A single breath escaped her lips when she failed to contain it behind clenched teeth, her carotid artery pounding beneath smooth scales. Thane answered with his own hot rush of air against the back of her neck, a contorted gasp he hadn’t realized he was holding, torn from his throat almost against his will.

He allowed himself a blinding second more before releasing her, but not before stealing a brush of delicate skin across his lips as he pulled away. A parting gift to himself - one he paid for just hours later, when she laid her poisoned trap before him.

With the skin of her neck still irritated from their training, Shepard, mildly intoxicated herself and wrapped in a dark silk robe, presented him with a glass of her own venom. Tequila - amber and potent, an indulgence she knew full well he’d deny -- unless it was laced with his drug of choice. Her.

There upon the rim of the glass was the rosy imprint of her pigmented lips. A well of temptation, spiked with her essence. If this was a test, he'd failed spectacularly. Gods forgive him, he raised the glass to his lips under the pretense of drinking and lost himself to the faintest tastes of her mouth, entranced, savoring the traces of her beneath the mask she painted on every morning to reclaim what little of herself she believed was left. Shepard watched him with a carnivore's eyes, drawn over with night-black daggers as if to warn him. Like a rose garden, she was beautiful and wreathed in thorns. He knew better than to stray too close, but he would gladly take what meager offerings she presented - venomous or not.

This was his penance for opportunity’s kiss, stolen behind her back. A petty theft, to be sure. But even petty sins were still sins.

True to her reputation, Shepard was a fast learner. She played his game, abided by his rules, allowed him to touch her under the guise of training. She wasn’t blind to her effect on him - no. She would use him to find her turian lover. And he would let her. Selfishly, begrudgingly - willingly. What she desired would be hers for however long she allowed him to remain in her orbit.

The temptation of her lingered in his mouth and still, it wasn’t enough. It would never be until he could taste it directly from her lips, sealing his arms around her, a serpent beckoning her to taste of her own forbidden desires.

“What does it taste like?” She’d asked, as he sampled her forbidden offering.

The moment played over in his mind as he savored what little he had of her. Wax and pigment woven through with the fire of her essence. The rubicund flavors of her mouth, lit from within by the burn of tequila. The leash of his desire held firm in her little human hands, ever reminding him that she was not his to hold.

Alone, as only a drell mind could, moments melded together like droplets of dew on grass. The ghost of his mouth over her neck. The taste of her painted lips on a rim of crystal. Hair feathering over his fingers, the scent of her body, and the thrum of her pulse tugging at his heart with longing. Filched moments clutched around and within him, lust coiled like a snake in his gut, rearing its head between his legs. A call of arousal demanding to be answered - painfully, without another to share in his release.

He shifted on his cot, loosely draped in the delicate, tight-woven sheets that slipped over his scales as he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm behind his head in frustration. All the meditation and control in the galaxy would not be enough tonight. Like that sinful sip of tequila, his blood was on fire in a way he could not ignore.

Cool air met his scales as he pulled the sheets back, uncaring when his calves tangled within them. Alone and aroused, he would do as his body willed.

Memories welding together behind closed eyes, conjuring visions to answer his need. A slick tongue traced over his - a kiss. A common intimacy that he burned so brightly for, and had been denied to him for what felt like a lifetime. She might hesitate at the first touch, a breath of uncertainty when she met the split of his tongue, unknowing how much he ached to spoil her with that small perk of interspecies diversity. He drank of her mouth, absorbing her heat as he glided one palm over his length in teasing strokes.

As she so often was on the battlefield, the woman he imagined was demanding. Soft, unblemished hands pushed him back, fisting in his clothes as she, lost in her burdened reality, both pushed and pulled them together. Would she think of her lover? Of endless nights entangled in the long limbs of the famously obstinate Vakarian? In truth, Thane did not care. In his selfishness, it mattered not whose hands she thought of when he finally drew back the long elegant robe she so loved to taunt him with. Watching the fabric slip past her shoulders to reveal skin so bright it was nearly blinding in the dim light of his quarters. She was untarnished, even by the freckles that once dusted the high points of her features. The way she hated her body was something he understood all too well. A product of another's vision, a construct and tool to be used by others, with little regard for her dispositions. A weapon financed and fabricated by Cerberus. She obsessed over her body not out of vanity, but in rage. Such had begun their training.

He wanted fiercely to call upon any memory of her hands on him, but he had precious few. As yet, she hadn't managed to land a single blow on him in all of their sparrings. But little by little, she was getting stronger. Almost imperceptibly so. His grip tightened around his length at the thought - hovering over the phantom taste of her on his tongue, the beguiling wrap of her fingers around the neck of a glass bottle. She knew her strength, knew exactly what she was doing. The way she toyed with him, oh, it made his breath catch. Tempt me, touch me.

He wanted her to overpower him, to trail those supple human fingers over the hard planes of his body as she took her pleasure from him any wretched way she chose. Her soft hand coiling around his shaft, a thumb smoothing his own weeping seed over the head of his length. He gripped himself harder, scales beginning their familiar bite into his flesh.

It wasn't enough. No. He wanted more.

Alone, yet weighted down with the shame of indulgence, he paused and reached beneath his cot, searching the small compartment that contained his personal effects. From it, he produced a single leather glove, turning it over in consideration. He disliked wearing gloves, the material impeding finer sensations he preferred to feel through his bare hands when striking for another's life. But they were a tool like any other in his arsenal. Useful for eliminating evidence and now, apparently, for self-gratification.

He couldn't have her hands on him, but he could have this. Soft and worn from wear, the material slid over his palm and fingers and he reached back into the darkness for himself.

It was different. Not quite what he imagined of her hands, but different enough from the texture of his own scales. He squeezed, a quiet sigh drifting from his throat as he tested his grip, repositioning his fingers, letting the sparse fluid of his sheath accumulate in his palm. Touch me, he willed her. Take from me what you please.

In the long years after he'd failed as a husband and a father, the pull of guilt and desire was but an old companion to him. He bore his sin on strong shoulders, praying to his gods, to his wife, to Shepard, for patience and the gentle hand of forgiveness. But even he, merely a man, could succumb to the base desires of sentience. She was imperfect and wracked with loneliness just as he was.

In the maelstrom of his thoughts, her beautiful, terrible wrath and desire descended on him like a drug.

He found it to be true that Shepard did, as he had heard, “fight like a krogan in a bar fight." That tactic had carried her this far, but there was much more to learn. With each day spent in rigor and training, he showed her how to control her fury. It wouldn't be long before she would learn to recognize an opening when he gave it to her. Beneath the lust of his own touch, he could think of little else than to tempt her with feigned vulnerability, if only just to see how far she would go. To let her catch his feet with a sweep of her leg and knock him flat on his back, all for the opportunity to peel him out of his training leathers and shatter the last barriers between them.

Such a union would destroy their delicate alliance. But here in his thoughts, any perceived fragility was his alone to endure. His mind raced with the thought of her entrapping him on the sparring mat, giving himself over in sweet surrender just as he’d done with her lipstick-imprinted well of liquor. How eagerly he would be her captive, submitting his pounding heart and body to her exploitations until she arrived at the manifestation of his need, screaming for her touch, twitching beneath her hands.

He cared little for how she took him. In his heart of hearts, he wanted to worship her, to show her how even reborn into a frighteningly reconstructed body she was still everything he ever saw in her and more. He wanted to taste her lips, her flesh, to map the broad expanses of her with his hands and tongue, to see her skin darken with the distinct human blood-flush of wanting…

But she would never let him. That privilege was for her lover alone, the handsome turian with indigo clan markings the same color as Shepard's lacquered fingernails. Thane's place was beneath her, and even that very thought lit his nerves afire with wanting as he drew out his pleasure with his gloved hand, aching for her to make him dance in her palm as she did when he bested her in combat drills.

If he couldn't worship her, he would more than willingly submit to her control. How he wanted to be the one to satiate the desperate woman within her. To see the visceral spread of her thighs around him, luscious hips rolling like waves over him as she shook loose her robe, and with it, the shackles of her desolation. His eidetic memory pulled forth every gasp and cry she had unwittingly fed him as they trained together. Her sonorous human voice played over his nerves, singing into his blood with every pump of his hand, a soundtrack to the Shepard he'd constructed in his fantasy. Her wide-shut eyes, wanton in the throes of pleasure, drawing him into her depths to answer the sanguine howl in her blood. The feral woman he knew, unleashed and longing to fill the void of two missing years with just a single shred of affection as she held out for her chosen lover.

Even if she overlaid him with vivid imaginings of turian plates and talons, Thane trembled to be the vessel of her desperate need. How badly he wanted to give her this. Heart pounding, he painted her in his mind with too-smooth skin the color of sun-soaked Rakhana sands. Speckled with tiny beads of sweat that carved trails down the valley between her unbound breasts with every rise and fall of her body. Her hair stuck to her dampened, vulnerable throat, still wrapped in a delicate lace of scale-borne irritation from their training. Her eyes fell closed, darkened lashes sweeping across flushed cheeks as she reached between her legs to galvanize her pleasure.

He lost himself to the vision of her face as she used his body to reach her peak of ecstasy. She was wild, clawing back her humanity through animalistic impulse that shredded her reality for what few blissful seconds her biology would allow - and it finished him. Buried to the hilt inside her, he surrendered with every nerve in his body. He choked back a shout, neck pitched back, vicious sparks of need pouring through the conduit of his lust and claiming her in a torrent of screaming, feral possession. For a split second of eternity, he was lost, trembling before the avatar of his own carnal lust, wondering if he could ever be forgiven for wanting her so savagely.

And then it was over.

Minutes drifted by as he laid still, assuaged yet afflicted with the sin of indulgence. Gods forgive him, he wanted her. And perhaps even more forbidden than the pleasures of her body was the thought of holding her.

Indeed, the simple intimacies of loving someone seemed by far the most out of his reach. To stroke the sweat-slicked skin of her back, nudging his face into her damp hair as she laid atop him panting, satisfied, permeated with his essence and high on his venom. The rosy, burning flavor of her venomous gift lingered in his mouth. So close and yet nearly further away than she had ever been, pushing and pulling him in heartache.

Slowly, as he tidied himself, his phantom lover evaporated. Away she wisped, searching for the embrace of her wayward lover, wherever he might be.

His heart rate slowed as the seconds slipped by. 0400. Training in two hours.

#zet writes things #shrios #fshrios #thane krios #ITT: thane has a very angsty fap #don't hate me i promise im still writing soft shrios #lkfsdjflskfjsldfjsldfs

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kosmosguk · 4 years

Text

5 days of spooktober~ #3: purity

day #3: angel hoseok x reader x demon yoongi

word count: 2.1k

summ. it seems like mortal beings, too, can fall from grace.

warnings: smut, dubcon/noncon themes (mindbreak), yandere themes, 18+, blasphemy/sacrilegious acts, violence, abuse, explicit language, kidnapping

a/n: this was lowkey rushed (so lemme know if I made any spelling/grammar mistakes) because I’ve been super busy and I caught a mild cold because I was outside in freezing weather for several hours, but I hope you guys like it. Less than one week until Halloween <3

You were kneeling in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary, your hands clasped in prayer, and your eyes firmly closed. Your lips moved, softly and then rapidly, and a soft breath left them whenever you closed the last syllable of a word for the prayer. Even then, you could feel the marble eyes of the benevolent statue in front of you on you, watching you with serene eyes as a stone snake wrapped around her bare feet.

“For the strength to resist temptation, and for purity so that I may live clean of sin. Blessed mother, look upon me and guide me.”

You pushed yourself up onto shaky legs. When the door of the chapel shut clicked behind you softly, the building returned to a hush…

Until the eyes of the angel in the stain glass blinked open and the tongue of the stone serpent by Mary’s feet flickered out.

The convent was the safest place. As an orphan abandoned by your parents on the front steps of the building, you were left under the care of Benevolent Sister Bernadette and the other nuns of the convent. There, you had grown up, sheltered from the cruelty of the outside unforgiving walls, biblical scripture leaving indents in each bump of your tongue.

It was to no surprise that you had never encountered a man before. The sisters had told you, along with each of the girls you had grown up with, that God was your husband and that looking at a man with impure eyes would put you at the level of sinners banished to hell. So, it was a surprise when the sisters had let in two men.

They were travelling holy men, and they were seeking rest during their tiring journey. And they were handsome young men too, the kind that attracted the innocent-minded young girls of the convent’s school and left them giggling and whispering softly when the sisters had their backs on them.

You were at the back of the crowd, your fingers rolling on the beads of the rosary you kept firmly clasped in your grip at all times. You had no time to be giggling hopelessly about men who had sworn their own vow to God, not when you were only a few steps away from swearing yours. Having safely passed adulthood, you had made the decision to become a sister yourself.

You stepped back from the crowd and moved back to the sanctuary you found within the pews of the old abandoned chapel no one frequented. As you walked away, the echo of your footsteps on the cobblestone grounds drowned out by the hum of frivolously murmuring voices, you did not pay heed to the contemplative gaze that lingered on your retreating back or the lecherous eyes pinned to you.

“What was the sin of Eve? What had tempted her to be lured in by the Devil’s words?”

The ear-scraping echo of Sister Antoinette’s voice resounded in the walls of the nearly silent room. You propped your chin up on the palm of your hand, your eyes pinned to the carefully dried ink of the Bible in front of you. You had heard the creation story hundreds if not thousands of times to the point where you had memorized each verse and could recite it blindfolded and upside down.

The same situation would happen once more. After Sister Antoinette’s question, a girl would raise up her hands and answer in the same old way: “Her sin was that she did not know her position in the world. She was to be man’s wife.”

And like always, the words would leave a bitter taste in the back of your throat that you would swallow as you watched Sister Antoinette smile, pleased. And you would move on because moving on was the only way to don your habit and continue living a safe, sheltered life.

One of the younger girls was called on instead. You waited for the usual answer, but this time…this time was different.

“Sister Antoinette, I believe Eve had no sin. She did not want to live a life in which her position would be unequal to man, in which she would be trapped in a role subservient to him just because she was made from his rib. That was why she was tempted. She was not tempted by the apple, but she had been tempted through freedom.”

You couldn’t help the curve of your smile, and you shielded it with a careful hand. There was a sweeter taste in your mouth, but it quickly went bitter at the harsh sound of leather meeting tender palms.

Your eyes were drawn to the outside of the window, to the lush blue sky and the gray walls that shielded almost everything. Even then, your fingers couldn’t stop rolling over the wooden beads of your rosary.

Freedom, freedom…was it worth the cost of instability? In that very moment, for the first time in your life, you couldn’t help leaning on the side of agreement.

You were in the chapel again, your knees turning numb on the worn-out cushion as you recited your prayers. You were alone once more, until the soft swing of the door broke the soft hush of silence, and you swung around to look at the intruder.

There was one of the men that the sisters had let in. He seemed kinder than his counterpart, a warm smile brightening his features, and he shook his head softly as you got up to leave.

“Sorry, I did not mean to disturb your prayer. I was simply searching for a quieter place to meditate. Continue on and pretend that I’m not here.”

You nodded silently before turning back and clasping your hands back together.

“What’s your name?’’ his voice broke once more through your peace. “I’m Jung Hoseok.”

Your eyebrows crossed in agitation before they smoothed out. God would not want you to be angry at anyone, especially if they were one of his holy men.

“Reverend, it is the sanctity of the house of God that we as mere mortals of His creation do not dare to break. If you wish to know my name, ask me when we leave. But there can be no more earthly matters that exist while we are in His house.”

You heard him chuckle, the sound strangely dark compared to the light voice he had, and you heard him come closer to you.

“It must be lonely to be in here, no one by your side. How about we become friends?’’

“Hoseok, what are you doing here?’’ you heard another voice break out in your silence. This voice was richer than the Reverend’s voice, a deeper timber that sent unsettling shivers down your spin. While Reverend sounded like warmth, this voice sounded like a chill.

You did not make a peep to answer his question nor a move to look at the second intruder. Instead, you silently got up and bowed respectfully towards the Reverend and his counterpart before you swiftly left the chapel.

Your dreams were plagued that night. Soft hushes of low moans brushed your ears, and you felt hands curve around your breasts and brush the place that the sisters had warned you to never touch with impure intentions. Your fingers wrapped tightly around the sheets, a haze in your mind as you panted out hopeless cries to be touched, to be fucked. Your back arched as you felt a tongue swipe at your pussy, lapping up juices as you twitched in lustful agony, and your lips, stretched out in moans, was covered by another mouth.

“Give in, (y/n). We’ll take care of you,” a voice purred into your ear, gentle and sweet and God you were melting.

You woke up in a cold sweat, shivering, and you startingly realized that your fingers had been buried deep within your forbidden heat. You pulled them out, shame flickering against the heat deep in your stomach, and they made a soft schlick sound. You frantically wiped them against your sheets and tried to go back to sleep, but the heat of lust never seemed to cool.

You were disoriented when you woke up for morning prayers. You felt something sticky stain against your inner thighs, and your mind was in a haze. Every touch from another human being left sparks that seemed to build the heat of desire within you, and it wasn’t until you were back in the chapel in the middle of the night that you dared to let out a breath.

You kneeled in front of the statue, ready to pray once more, but your hands slipped from their position and slid down until they were pulling up your skirts. Your body didn’t feel like it was yours anymore, and you were slipping one and then two fingers and then three. Your eyes burned in shame, but your body didn’t care. It begged to be touched, and the plea seemed to grow even more insistently when you couldn’t get relief.

“Ah, what a whore you are.’’

Your head spun around to look at the intruder. Instead of feeling ashamed and pulling your fingers out to restore some kind of dignity, you could only spread your legs wider, whimpering for relief.

“Yoongi, I suppose it is part of our fault that she’s been dragged to such a state. Why don’t we help her?’’

Your vision was blurry, but you felt a cooling touch on your feverish body and grabbed at it desperately, trying to press it down to where it was the most hot. You heard a low chuckle, and you only grew more desperate.

Your memories spun together, your thoughts dizzy, and before you knew it, your skirts were ripped off, and you were on someone’s lap with their cock so deep in you that you could only press closer.

“Yoongi, isn’t she so pretty?’’ you heard a voice call out, and a part of you that was still rational realized it was the Reverend.

The man underneath you laughed, the sound rich, and you let out a muffled cry when he pulled you up off his cock and slammed you back down onto it. He was pounding you, and the Reverend behind you was nipping brutally at your neck and leaving bruises on your flesh.

“Hey, hey, recite your prayers for us, won’t you? Pretty little angel, why don’t you—,” you heard a grunt that choked the remaining words,” Why don’t you—fuck she feels so good—why don’t you recite them?’’

Your brain was automatic; you had no more control over it. You could only obey the commands of the two men that you had once perceived to be holy men.

“For the s-strength to—ah...! Resist tempt-tempt…temptation!’’ you cried out as one particular thrust pried open your walls and pressed against your cervix,” And for…for purity nngh! So that I…So that I may live…oh my God, please, please, harder! L-live free from…sin!’’

He was spilling his cum within you, filling up your womb, and you could only twitch as he let out a husky moan. When he finished cumming deep in you, you let out a breath of relief as the heat within you cooled down, but just a few seconds later, it was coming back, and the Reverend was pulling you off the man’s cock. You let out a startled cry between clenched teeth as you were spread back open on another cock.

“Please, please! Ooh, it feels so good…,’’ you were drooling now, looking ever much like the whores that the sister had disdainfully warned you not to become.

You met eyes with the statue of the Virgin mother as you were being bounced on the Reverend’s cock and, just like Eve, fell into the temptation of freedom.

It had been years since your disappearance from the convent. Another girl pried open the door of the abandoned chapel and carefully walked in, her footsteps sending clouds of dust in the air. She scanned the chapel building, and her mouth fell open in surprise as it lingered on the stained-glass window that strangely seemed new.

The stained-glass window had a depiction of a young maiden, just like her, with a snake coiled around her neck and a white dove perched on her wrist. Her hands were raised up, an apple the color of blood gingerly clasped in her hand with a bite taken out of it.

Marked on the glass were the words of a prayer:

“For the strength to resist temptation, and for purity so that I may live clean of sin. Blessed mother, look upon me and guide me.”

And as the girl finished reading the words, the door clicked open.

#yandere bts #yandere #bts x reader #yandere smut #bts smut #bts yoongi #bts hoseok #yandere yoongi #yandere hoseok #yandere yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #yandere hoseok x reader #bts fic

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guqin-and-flute · 4 years

Note

I love the Yanli/JGY verse so so much, so in the hopes that a prompt might help there be more of it: JGY, being a very observant genius and all, figures out Something Is Up with WWX's core, and since what A-Li wants is to take care of Her People, and because what A-Li wants, JGY will make sure she gets, he and Yanli work together to deal with it?

[Ahhh thank you so much!! Well, THIS went off in a direction I didn’t expect, but thank you THANK you for the fascinating prompt! TW for: canon-typical alcohol use, mention of an injury, heavily implied offscreen self harm, but for a very specific reason? It’s not for self injury/mental health reasons]

[First post in Yaoli/Peony to Lotus!verse]

Wei Wuxian stared moodily out at the sunset drenched lake, sprawled on one of the docks with a jug of liquor cupped in his hand, listening to the cicadas drone far off in the trees, the crickets sing in the grass, the frogs croak in the reeds, the people far across the lake shout and laugh. Everything was so noisy. The clamor used to be such a comfort--and to most of him, it still was, filling him with the warmth of soup and long days in the sun. But there was a new ball of darkness that had tightened a cage around his heart. That sometimes sang in his veins. Reminded him that, in the Burial Mounds, there were only moments of silence and of screaming and that both were equally dangerous.

Reminded him of the unnatural quiet that lived at his core, now. Sometimes, the pitch of the insects would rise to such an edge that it would become too human, become something he had once heard in the darkness. Or uttered himself.

He splashed the alcohol into his mouth, reveling in the burn. At least it wasn’t night quite yet, the last vestiges of bruised purple-blue light clinging to the tops of the trees, brightened by the heavy moon. There were footsteps on the dock behind him, approaching light and even and he paused without turning. Then relaxed.

Jin Guangyao stopped next to him at the edge of the pier, clasped his hands behind his back and looked out at the moon that was held in a thousand little cups of the lily pads, tiny silver coins tucked beneath the lotuses. Wei Wuxian glanced up at him, saw the pleasant, directionless neutrality on his face and sat up with a grunt, leaning his elbows on his knees. He liked the man and his presence--had even grown quite fond of him over the many months he’d lived with them, but right now, he’d rather be alone with the frogs and his drink. He opened his mouth to greet him, but Jin Guangyao spoke first. “I was in the kitchen, just now, and,” he clucked his tongue against his teeth despairingly and turned his arm out with a grimace. “I cut myself by accident. I managed to focus some energy to keep it from bleeding too heavily but I have to admit that I don’t have the same schooling as you all do. It isn’t completely….”

Frowning, Wei Wuxian quickly got to his feet, taking the proffered arm in his hands with a sympathetic hiss between his teeth as he studied the wound. It was indeed not very deep, an irregular crescent on the side of his wrist, but his sleeve cuff had bloody blotches on it and the skin around it was stained with more blood than just this would have produced. “Yowch. Jin-xiong, we should get this cleaned. I can wake the doctor--or where’s shijie--”

“Actually, I was hoping that you could help me, Wuxian.”

It was Wei Wuxian’s turn to grimace. “I don’t know all that much about medicine, I wouldn’t leave this to me.”

Jin Guangyao’s smile managed to be at once anxious and reassuring as he looked away from his injury, finally, and up into his face. “I would think all you needed to do was channel some spiritual energy into it, right?”

The bottom dropped out of Wei Wuxian’s stomach, but he managed to hide the sudden queasiness behind a throwaway smile. “Ah, I’ve never been very good at that--Lan Zhan is much better. If only he were here, eh? Listen, I’ll go get--”

Jin Guangyao’s face fell into a gentle pleading. “Please, it’s so embarrassing; I don’t want anyone knowing I can’t handle a knife properly. We can handle this here, can’t we?”

“Look--”

Jin Guangyao sucked in a quick, protesting breath, but only gazed at him imploringly, eyes round and mouth twisted in discomfort. Wei Wuxian groaned and spun on his heel, dropping back to the dock with a thump beside his jug. “Ah, so particular. If you're so picky, you must not really be so close to dying, huh?” His insides writhed like snakes, his skin alive like a storm on the horizon. He wanted to leave. He wanted to dive into the water and let the silk of it swipe away all the restlessness. Stop forcing it, Guangyao….

For a moment, there was silence above him, then the soft rustle of clothing. Then, Jin Guangyao spoke in a voice very unlike the one he had just used, even and conversational and light. “I have not been able to verify any reports that say Baoshan Sanren's mountain is in Yiling. It's miraculous that you were able to recall so faithfully something from so young an age.”

At this, a surge of cold flooded Wei Wuxian, quickening his heart, tightening his chest and his fingers on the neck of the liquor jug as he looked up at him sharply. “Jin-xiong.”

Jin Guangyao looked down at him with a mild smile. Except Wei Wuxian hadn't had anything to say--he had just wanted him to stop. This wide eyed man was slyer than he had ever given him credit for, damn him. Did he…? Was he…? Fuck. Fuck.

“There has also never been a report of someone recovering after being tortured by Core Melting Hand,” he continued in that same friendly, casual tone and the liquor soaked stone that was Wei Wuxian’s stomach officially plummeted with a sick swoop.

Fuck.

“...Have you told Jiang Cheng?”

“About?”

Wei Wuxian curled a half-scowl and clicked his tongue against his teeth. He was unable to look him in the eye, though he kept him in the corner of his gaze. “You know what.”

“I haven't anything to tell. I'm only mentioning a few interesting details from my studies.”

“Is that so,” Wei Wuxian said, sullenly, flopping back onto his elbows, jaw cocked mulishly even as his fingers flexed and tapped the rough wood beneath him. “So why were you studying it, then?”

Jin Guangyao sighed breezily, rolling his neck once as if to loosen it. “Because you are troubled. Because A-Li worries. Because I have an eye for patterns. Because we are family.” He let that rest a moment before looking down at him once more, eyebrows slightly raised, mouth in the barest of smiles. “Are we not?”

“We are,” he grunted reluctantly. “Though now I regret letting someone so nosy under my roof.”

Jin Guangyao hummed a single, polite laugh in acknowledgement of the non-truth of the statement and allowed the silence to lie a few moments more. And while Wei Wuxian might be a habitual chatterbox, he surely wasn't going to help the conversation he desperately didn't want to have. “I’ve considered it, you know,” Jin Guangyao continued, suddenly, turning back to look out across the lake. “Telling someone. A-Li, Jiang Wanyin. But I thought it best to not...surprise you. Given the state of things.”

Wei Wuxian found his fingers wrapped around Chenqing stuck through his belt, the edge digging into his palm like the slow bite of an implacable serpent as his racing heart sped dangerously. That seeping ache spreading….“Meaning?”

“Wei Wuxian,” his tone was gentle reproval. “You cannot tell me you don't see how A-Li is affected by all this.”

With an effort, he peeled his hand away from the flute, batting down the prickling, caged anger. Cornered. Trapped. He heaved a sigh and sprawled further on the deck, propping his head up on his hand, squirming as if to get comfortable--more to allow the restless energy some outlet and trying to convince this man that this was simply...what? A misunderstanding? Not that big of a deal? Jin Guangyao was proving even now, in front of his eyes, that he was not in any way stupid. “I suppose I should be grateful that she has a husband who dotes on her so,” Wei Wuxian grumbled. “But does it have to be at my expense?”

“I don't know,” he countered lightly. “Does it?”

Wei Wuxian scoffed in exaggerated, dismissive disgust, but said nothing, his stomach roiling. As the silence lengthened, the restlessness grew, the nervous energy was crawling through his limbs like bugs. Why now? This was supposed to have lasted for years. No one else had looked that closely. No one else considered that there might be a reason beyond his own arrogance, his own blind bullheadedness that would lead him to dance with corpses and amulets that tore him up inside. Why did he need to look closer?

Of all the people to see him, why did it have to be him, why couldn’t it have been--?

He snapped off that line of thinking and leaned over, aggressively swishing his hand through the water, splashing it onto lily pads, up the struts of the dock, soaking his bracers. It was still warm from the heat of the day. “And so what are you going to do, then, Jin Guangyao? Because this feels an awful lot like a threat,” he demanded, all at once flipping over and sitting up with a scowl, staring at his calm face. “I don't appreciate being manipulated. Bad things tend to happen.”

“This also feels an awful lot like a threat.” When Jin Guangyao smiled back down at him, nothing noticeable in his face had changed and by all rights should still be classified as pleasant, dimples and all. But there was something--maybe the eyes--that all at once had a weight that was not there a moment ago. And maybe a warning. “Are we threatening each other? I wasn't under the impression that's what we were doing.”

For a moment, Wei Wuxian’s hackles fully rose, that restless darkness housed in his chest eagerly shifting to press against the back of his gaze. No one can make you do what you don't wish to, anymore. There is no one who can force you ever again. There is nothing you cannot do.

As if in response to these private thoughts, Jin Guangyao tilted his head, just so, smile still perfectly affixed, growing no wider and no sharper but now ever so slightly wrong for the length it sustained its unwavering stretch. For the briefest moment, Wei Wuxian’s fingers flexed.

But no. No.

He let out his breath, shoved that darkness back and away, roughly. This wasn't the Burial Mounds where the heat of that rage kept him alive. This wasn't the Sunshot Campaign where such darkness could be harnessed to help. This was wounding. This was danger.

Those things didn't belong in Lotus Pier.

Anger always felt better than fear, but that didn't mean that he had to choose it. Nothing made him turn into a fox gnawing off it's own leg in a trap in a panic. Maybe this was a mercy killing. Maybe this was even...a rescue. He rubbed his face with his palms, letting the tension fully seep out of him until he let himself wilt to the side and sprawl across Jin Guangyao's feet. “Jie-fuuuu. Jin-xioooong, why do you torture me with this? Can't you just leave well enough alone?”

Jin Guangyao huffed out a quiet, amused breath above him and the tension bled out of the night, leaving it cool and sticky once more. Crouching down, the edges of his robe brushing over Wei Wuxian's prostrate form, Jin Guangyao laid a hand on his shoulder. "If it was well enough, don't you think I would?"

"Ugh. You’re terrible."

“Mm,” he merely agreed, indulgently.

Wei Wuxian scoffed and closed his eyes, breathing in the wet, green scent of the lake. He did not want to do this. Not tonight and not any night. “Do we have to do this now?”

Jin Guangyao sighed. “I'm telling you this so you have time to prepare and have some control. But I am not going to keep this from A-Li and she will not keep it from Jiang Wanyin. I wanted to be…considerate.” The mildly thoughtful tone in his voice sort of seemed to imply that there were times he had not been considerate which Wei Wuxian found hard to picture.

He had never seen Jin Guangyao anything but patient and elegant, courteous and nonthreatening. Though, he corrected, thinking of that tacit warning he had just seen in his gaze, maybe that was not entirely true. Maybe this was something he could watch for. If not directed at him and his own, it might even be fun, this unassuming man that had the presence of someone you could fit into your pocket with ease. Perhaps he was a bit sharper than he seemed, in all respects. “I’m drunk. I don’t want to do it now.”

“You’re not drunk,” Jin Guangyao said, easily, a smile in his voice. “It would take something much stronger to get you drunk. Right now, you are numbing. That is well enough. For now. If not tonight, when?”

“I don’t know, I don’t plan things!”

“Perhaps you should. I think you would find the alternative quite unpleasant.” His tone was nothing but knowing sympathy, but the words were quite firm in their message.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.”

“Mm. If you say so.”

Wei Wuxian opened his eyes to glare up at him, his pale face sideways and framed by the stars winking on overhead. His expression was understanding and benevolent and there was no more hint of darkness in his eyes, this man who was outmaneuvering him with annoying deftness. “Don’t be funny. I’m suffering.”

His polite smile grew real and crinkled his eyes at the corners. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Wei Wuxian heaved a huge sigh, and then again for good measure. “I hate this,” he said, voice smaller than he had intended, staring up past his brother-in-law’s face into the vast darkness of the sky. “I hate this.” The anger and restlessness was gone, leaving his throat to swell and his eyes to prickle with helplessness and the brutal fucking unfairness of it all.

Jin Guangyao was silent for a while, eyes hooded and face still, before he fully settled himself on the dock arranging his dark purple robes just so around him, allowing his feet to still be Wei Wuxian’s cushion. “I would imagine so.”

The frogs shrilled their chorus around them as Wei Wuxian sniffed and swiped at the few tears that escaped his eyes, making a run down his cheeks for his ears as he lay, absorbing the thick night air. Jin Guangyao sat beside him, quietly, hands folded in his lap.

“Jiang Cheng is going to hate me,” Wei Wuxian said, finally, voice rough.

Jin Guangyao shook his head, slowly. “Be incensed; yes. Hurt; yes. Feel inadequate and insecure and violated; yes. But Jiang Wanyin does not hate you. Could not, for this. A-Li and I...we will help.”

“I don’t know what the hell to say.”

“I find, if you forgive my immodesty, that I can be very good with words.”

“...I think I’d like that.”

Jin Guangyao smiled. “Whatever you need, Wei Wuxian.”

After a few minutes of frog and cicada and cricket thick silence, Wei Wuxian all of a sudden looked back up at him. “Did you really slice your damn arm open just to prove a point?”

This seemed to startle a laugh out of him and he shook his sleeve back and glanced down at the wound with mild consideration, turning it this way and that. “To confirm a theory, but I suppose the spirit is the same.”

“You aren’t really bad with knives, are you?”

His eyes still on his arm, that smile grew just a bit more sharp and just a bit more knowing. “No. I’m not.”

#Me @ me always: you can have a little dark!JGY with your soft!JGY. As a treat.#my fic #wwx #jgy #my stuff #yaoli #text #ask #Hope you enjoy!#It's so much fun writing characters that look at JGY and think 'oh. tiny. how cute and polite'#while inside JGY is just like 'i am not to be fucked with :3 '#sparklespiff #peony to lotus #Also 🐝 anon I think your pier/dock setting was lurking in my brain for this so THANK YOU FOR YOUR FIC

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

A hundred percent (Part 2 of Crashing into you)

It looks like the same bottle you had reached for before all hell broke loose. You found it lazing on shore, in that space between water and dry land where objects greet the wet sand but still submit to the waves. Along with the plastic container, you’d encountered a wet blanket you’d immediately laid out to dry, a corkscrew and the ice bucket that had accommodated the champagne you turned down during the flight (you’d gladly have a glass or four now, but alas the Champagne bottle wasn’t accounted for in your scavenger hunt). All things considered, it’s a relatively good inventory; it seems the currents were in your favor.

It makes sense actually, that the waters would shepherd the lightest of items to you. Yet your heart remains heavy with doubts and fears. You’re not versed enough in geography to have the slightest clue as to whereabout you’ve strayed in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. And with that comes the big question: if you don’t know where you are, how the people meant to save you will? Then how much time will it take for them to figure it out and will you be able to hold on for that long?

Everything is a big question mark as of now, and you hate it. You’re resourceful and quick on your feet, but you like to be prepared; you usually study the situation ahead and plan in accordance for every potential contingency, positive or negative. This however, never in a billion years would you have thought, much less prepared for the appropriate M.O. to follow in response to a freaking plane crash.

If anything, it makes you twice as grateful to have Harry by your side. Once for obvious reasons; the mere thought of associating his name with death in the same sentence could make you physically ill. But also, if there were one person that could make this ordeal that much bearable and give you the strength to withstand the pain for that much longer, it was him. He’d done it before; granted times weren’t as critical as they may be now, but he’d always been your beacon of light in the darkest of times. You’d just have to be his as well this time. Like a planet reflecting back the light of the star it revolves around.

Speaking of stars, the sun is unbearably warm. It feels like it is sitting right on top of your shoulders and breathing down your neck, as opposed to hundred millions kilometers away from your sweltering form. You’ve been pacing up and down the shore for over two hours, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so uncomfortably hot. Your skull is throbbing from the heat,(though the brutal impact of the crash and your brief encounter with death probably have something to do with it as well) and your top is positively drenched in sweat. Harry’s shirt didn’t fare much better and is now rolled and folded atop is head in a makeshift hat. You’re both very aware that a sunstroke is highly likely in this sort of climate, and very much the last thing you need in your preexisting predicament.

"Think we should head towards the forest before this heat grills our skin to the crisp, love." It’s the first thing either of you have uttered in a while, but you’re quick to agree to Harry’s proposition.

"You’re right. Let’s see if we can find a water source nearby," you nod towards the stretch of green wildness awaiting you, before shooting one last glance at the ocean behind you.

Harry is closely watching you before putting a hand at the small of your back to usher you both out of the beach. "We can always come back later and see if there’s anything new on the shore," he guesses the reason for your hesitation. You swear this man can read your mind sometimes.

As soon as you cross the border into the forest, the sound of the waves quickly fades to be replaced by the chirps, squeaks and buzzing of the jungle’s inhabitants. It sounds like the all jungle community is in conversation, and you gulp as you wonder what kind of animals are also roaming this place. It’s clear the smartest option is for you to set up camp closer to the beach so you can be safe both from the wildlife and the unforgiving sun, as well as be in plain sight in case rescue is scouring the vicinity. For now though, you have no choice but to wander the very much alive woods if you count on fending dehydration off.

As you weave through the thick and luxurious foliage, Harry is staying glued to your side, not willing to let is sight off of you. His shirt finds its way back over his torso to protect his smooth skin from the somewhat hostile vegetation. From the way nature seems to prevail over every inch of this seemingly impenetrable space, it is clear this land has never witnessed the wrath of human activity. The realization is rather unsettling as it weakens your hopes of finding civilization in this godforsaken place.

Once again, you feel indefinitely grateful for the man walking by your side. You’d always felt lucky to have him in your life, but that soft tug in your chest from his hand grazing your shoulder blades as your tread the muddy earth, has never been so strong and comforting than in this moment.

"Careful, love," he is quick to tug you against his broad frame when you’re about to step on a small snake. The creature hisses as your footsteps disturb its tranquil existence but apart from shooting what you could swear is an annoyed glare, the serpent remains put and lets you go on your merry way.

It takes a second for your heart to calm down from the sudden movement and you realize your fist is still clenching the soft cotton of his shirt. You mutter a small but genuine ‘thanks’ as you quickly remove your hands from him, and despite the tropical heat you find yourselves in, Harry can’t help but feel a coldness on the spot your hand just abandoned.

An hour goes by and you’ve yet to be successful in your quest. The sun is finally starting to relent some of its intensity and the air feels slightly easier to breathe. At least in theory. In practice, every minute that ticks by without you encountering even the smallest of water source, feels like a new brick dropping in-between your ribcage to crush your lungs. You are running out of time for the day and the anxiety that comes with that realization is not one you can gulp down and just ignore.

As the sun slowly retires, so does the light of your surroundings, and it’s enough to have your own light start flickering before finally shutting down. You need to make your way back to the edge of the shore and set up camp before darkness engulfs everything in its black coat. Your hand find Harry’s before you shift your body towards his. "We should head back before it’s too dark," you utter dejectedly.

He nods with the same despondent expression before wrapping an arm across your shoulders and directing you both towards the beach. "Come on, then," a small kiss is pressed against your temple and your heart leaps back out of its gloom for a moment. You’re not a total stranger to gestures like this one, but they’re usually spurred by a drink too many or they occur for these special occasions where joy is so exuberant it pigments your cheeks and leaves you no choice but to show your affection in a more physical manner. You relish those moments as much as you can, wrongly assuming they mean more to you than they do him.

You don’t day anything back as you wrap your arm around his waist and start making your walking again. You’re both in need of comfort right now, is how you rationalize it. Still, it doesn’t stop you from staying as close to him as humanly possible, your body molding his curves better than a puzzle. He doesn’t seem to mind, on the contrary, his grip on your arm tightens briefly, and though you don’t see it, his lips also twitch in a side smile.

You arrive just in time for what must be the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever witnessed in your life. The ocean has calmed some, waves now gently licking at the sand and in the far distance, a large sphere of tangerine flares, rests upon a blue canvas whose only bounds stretch to the horizon. "S’beautiful," Harry softly comments before your eyes meet for a minute. You answer with a small smile, admiring the tenderness of his gaze. It’s partly due to tiredness at this point, which is what you surmise, but you’ve been on the receiving end of this gaze countless and non-tired times before, unbeknownst to you.

Fifteen minutes later, you are trying your best to light a dry piece of wood on fire while Harry endeavors to built some kind of shelter. It takes you both a few attempts and a lot of cussing, but eventually you find yourselves sitting under a makeshift branch-made roof in front of a small fire. Thankfully, the blanket you’d recovered from the crash had dried entirely - one of the few perks of the scalding sun, you suppose - and is now wrapped tightly around you both. If the situation wasn’t so critical, you’d rejoice at the opportunity of being cuddled up with Harry so closely. Every intake of breath he takes you feel against your ribs. Your bones ache from tiredness, thirst and hunger, but as your head lays on Harry’s shoulder, you also feel lightness in your heart. Things will be all right. Tomorrow you’ll go back to explore the jungle and you’ll find water, maybe even catch a fish or two and you’ll repeat the process until the rescue team comes to get you. Soon.

"How’s your leg?" Harry gently breaks the silence. You’d almost forgotten about your respective injuries, and the question has your eyes shift to the cut on your shin. There wasn’t much to do anyway, your fateful time in the angry waters had taken care of all the cleaning that could be done without proper medicine. It’s uncomfortable and the sort of wound that would linger on your mind if you were back home, but there and then, you’d minded the sting for all of 5 minutes before more pressing matters needed your undivided attention.

"It’s fine. I was too distracted to notice the pain, I guess," you answer just as quietly even though you are the only two souls breathing for hundred miles around if not more. The mention of your injury also reminds you of his, though you don’t quite need as vocal a reminder as the gash above his eyebrow is much more conspicuous. "How’s your face?" you decide to return the question even though you have a feeling his answer won’t me much different from yours.

"Itchy but it doesn’t hurt."

Your eyes once again focus on the cut, making sure that no dirt made its way on the damaged tissue. Your lips curls slightly to the side when you take in the probable reason for the itch. "C’mere, your hair keeps falling into it," you say while your hand reaches up to tuck the rebellious curl behind his ear. The strand goes straight back to its previous spot as it lacks a bit of length to obey your ministration. You reach up again, this time running your fingers towards the back of his head to get the curl out of the way. Harry doesn’t dare move an inch, air caught up in his throat as he revels in your tender touch. You’re oblivious to his intense stare, as always, while you inspect the cut. "Shouldn’t leave a scar, I don’t think," you offer in reassurance.

"Well, that’s a relief," Harry answers almost absentmindedly though there’s humor lacing through his voice. He couldn’t care less about a scar, not after everything you’ve been through. Hell, you’re both lucky to have escape the crash with just superficial wounds. Besides, he’ll take a thousand scars over having your unconscious body under his palms again.

The conversation feels much lighter than the ones you’ve entertained all day, so you keep the playful tone going. "I know right, can’t have permanent damage on that Grammy winning face," you quip back with a smirk. Mischief is distinct in your eyes and Harry has never been more thankful to see that sparkle lit up your iris. If he focus hard enough, the sand beneath him can disappear to morph into the fluffy cushions of his sofa back home, and this can just be a regular hang-out where you pretend to watch movies and banter over every character’s decisions.

That’s why it’s so easy for him to indulge in the oh-so familiar back and forth; it’s a dance he could do eyes closed. "My career would be over," he retorts with a faux distraught expression.

You giggle and give him a smile before copying is fake air, "the end of the world."

He chuckles and for a moment there is nothing but silence between you two. You can feel the playfulness dissipate as Harry’s eyes don’t waver from yours. They suddenly hold a fervor that tells you he’s gonna say something serious. And of course he does, you know him so well. "I think my world would have ended today if you hadn’t woken back up on that beach." The statement is uttered barely above a whisper but it echoes like a hundred church bells chiming Cinderella’s midnight in your head.

"Harry…" Needless to say, you are speechless. Neither of you have ever shied away from voicing your affection towards the other, but this, coupled with the intensity of his stare, has your heart stopping for the second time today.

"You have no idea how terrified I was," he continues quietly, like his own heart is threatening to jump out of his throat if he dares speak louder. It’s obvious it’s painful for him to remember, perhaps even more painful than it was for you to actually endure. "The longer you wouldn’t-"

"Shh, stop, stop," you quickly halt him with a hand to his cheek. "Don’t torture yourself with the could haves. I’m here, alive and breathing. All thanks to you. And you are too. Alive and breathing." You say it all in confidence though you have the same chocked up feeling he did when you think of the alternatives. "That’s all that matters right now. You have me and I have you and nobody’s losing anyone." Your thumb is drawing soothing circles onto his skin as he nods at your statements as if to make their truths stronger. A second passes and your eyes shift to the ground before you gulp, "my world would have ended too. Had you not made it to the beach."

It seems the sentiment strikes a chord in his chest too, as Harry pinches his eyes close as if to make sure he is not hallucinating your words. His body is taken by a strong pull to kiss you but he knows his lips can’t quite fall on their most desired destination. He settles for a harsh forehead kiss instead, taking your head between his two shaking hands.

When he leans back, his eyes frantically search your face and you can see his breathing picking up from the motion of his chest. "Y/n, I…Fuck it’s…" the more the words escape him, the more frustrated he becomes, running a hand through his wild curls even though they’d stayed in the place you had brushed them last.

"Shh it’s okay. Harry, you’re working yourself up," you try to calm him down with a hand on his heart. Just as you suspected, the organ beneath your palm is jackhammering against his skin, but Harry shakes his head at your suggestion.

"I just have something that I need to say," he gulps, "and it’s terrifying-"

You can’t stand the way his voice wavers ever so slightly. He looks exhausted despite the wild look in his eyes and you realize that’s probably not helping tame the stormy thoughts in his mind. "M’not going anywhere, Harry," you reassure him, "we can talk tomorr-"

"No. No." He shakes his head forcefully between your hands. "I need to say this now because I already should have done it a long time ago, and as much as it is scary for me to say, today was a hundred times more scary."

You take in his adamant look and realize this is far more serious than you were led to believe. "Okay, you know you can tell me anything."

He nods at your reassurance before taking a deep breath. "You’re my best friend, y/n. The one person I don’t ever want out of my life, the one person that understands all of me and that is besides me for everything." You try to remain impassive and not wince at the f-word as you listen to his sorrows. "And I can only hope that will never change, because like I said, my world wouldn’t be the same if I had you any less in it. And that’s the thing that is scaring me, because as much as I need you as my best friend, I’m also in love with you and that has the power to change everything." He barely pauses before carrying on, still locking eyes with you. "I used to be able to pretend, but earlier on that beach, when your life was hanging by a thread in my hands, all I thought was that I couldn’t ever look at myself again if you left and I was too much of a coward to tell you the truth. I don’t want to be that guy anymore, because now I know. Being that guy is more terrifying than telling you I love you."

The words are buzzing in your mind. Ones you’ve heard before in daydreamings and fantasies but that you never thought you would get to receive in the realm of reality. At least not from the person you wanted them from. "Harry," is all you can muster to say without tripping over the rest of your words. You realize your vision is getting blurrier by the second, and you could swear there were droplets pearling at the corner of his eyes too. You let out a nervous chuckle, quickly wiping a tear from your cheek with the back of your hand. "Fuck, you dumbass, making us cry when we’re already fighting dehydration." The exclamation has him mirroring your smile as his thumb replaces yours at the crease of your eye. "I love you too, Harry," you say shakily through your grin. "So much it is the scariest thing to feel for a best friend. But you’re right, today was much scarier and I don’t want to be that girl anymore either."

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy and he makes a note to call his Mum as soon as his back on civilized land, to tell her she was right. Love does work in mysterious ways; sometimes you need to be the most lost to finally find it. And part of him hates that he wasted so much time with you everyday he wouldn’t say anything, but the other part of him also feels like it was worth the wait. "Fuck, promise? You’re not concussed from the crash and you really l-"

"I love you, Harry," you don’t let him finish vocalizing any doubt about your feelings. "Hundred percent sure."

"A hundred percent?"

"A hundred percent." He loves how confident you are when you reiterate the affirmation, looking straight in his eyes. Your faces a barely inches apart and your bodies still tightly embraced in the flimsy plane blanket.

"Christ, this is the best day of my life," he marvels before kissing the wrist of your hand still cupping his face.

You raise a brow at the statement, "the day you were in an air crash and found yourself stranded on a desolate island is the best day of your life?" You tease him in humor though you know exactly what he means by it and share the sentiment equally as strongly.

"The day I made you mine," he proudly explains with a smirk.

"Mmm am I?" you tauntingly bite your lip, though you’re not fooling anyone. You are absolutely and irrevocably, a hundred percent his. Knowing this perfectly well himself, Harry doesn’t even give you the curtesy of an answer and kisses the sass right off your mouth. It’s a fierce contact at first, as though he was kindly telling you to just shut up. Then he eases into a slow and emotional kiss, as your lips wrap around each others. He doesn’t pull back until you’re both out of breath and he’s had a proper taste from licking your supple lips. When he does, you only want to dive in for more, and it seems he shares the same desire as he barely retracts from your face.

"You most definitely are," he asserts with that same teasing smirk.

"Hundred percent?"

"A hundred percent, darling," he acquiesces before giving you the second best kiss of your life (the first having occurred a mere minute earlier). This time he drags his hand away from your face to wrap his arm around your small frame. "C’mere, come closer so we don’t freeze." It feels like close enough will never be an achievable concept for you both, but you’ll content yourself with the weight of his limbs intertwining with yours as you lay down besides the small fire. He brings the blanket high enough beneath you so you don’t have your heads directly on the sand, and you don’t realize how physically exhausted you were until your head is tucked underneath his chin and all your muscles loosen up some.

"Comfy?" He inquires as he hears you sigh in relief. You nod against his collarbones a small ‘yeah’ whispered against his skin and the feeling has him shoot a smile to the stars. He’s quite comfortable himself if he may say so.

"Good, now gimme a kiss."

"Making demands already?" You keep teasing him because let’s face it, you’ll never get tired of watching his reactions to your taunts. The cute crease between his brows, the twitching of his button nose or even better, the small pout enhancing the cherry color of his lips are probably the things that made you fall in love with him in the first place.

"You’re not complaining."

You laugh at his self-assuredness, sad not to see his precious pout though the newfound spark in his eyes makes up for it and then some. You can’t help but to confirm the bold statement, "yeah, a hundred percent not," and he smiles at the now familiar words, like it has become an inside joke that only belongs to the two of you.

For a while you just cuddle in silence, reveling in the embrace you’ve shared a couple times in the past but that now beholds an entire new meaning. You’re just about to surrender to Morpheus’ arms when Harry muses aloud, "imagine this was all a dream and we just wake up in LA tomorrow morning."

Paradoxically, the suggestion forms lump in your throat. Had he asked an hour ago, you would have let a wistful sigh and longed for a reality where you didn’t hop on a doomed plane and landed both yourself and you best friend in what can only be the hardest trial of your life. And yet, now you find yourself unsettled at the idea that your very much reciprocated feelings wouldn’t be out in the open if none of this had happened. You wouldn’t know the taste of his lips had you not plummeted in the sea only to wash up on a desolate shore.

"It doesn’t matter. I’ll still tell you." You affirm confidently. Now that you know; not about the mutuality of your feelings, but about how scary it is to find yourself on the precipice of forever regrets, you’ll take the chance every time. Wiser from the same tribulations, Harry just smiles softly before returning a faint ‘me too’.

"Yeah?"

"Not that guy anymore, ‘member?" He is quick to remind you, eyebrow cocked upwards, to which you simply respond with a whispered ‘good’ against his chest. Harry kisses you on last time and then you both let your unconscious take over at last, still wrapped in each others’ arms and not even caring about your perilous surroundings anymore.

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #Harry Styles #creative writing #reader insert #harry styles fluff #best friends to lovers #love #ou #part 2

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misiwrites · 3 years

Text

Beyblade Week Day 4

i'm sorry i'm out here still posting things so late but here's my fourth and final 4kingdoms-verse oneshot for @beybladeweek2021, mostly this is late because i was out of town last week but these prompts were also the hardest to make a oneshot about, somehow i managed to make a quirky little story about max anyway.

this takes place probably somewhere right before the beginning of the main fic, or close to it anyways. and i feel like this needs the small explanation that 4kingdoms max looks a bit different because the north has no sunlight (don’t ask me how that works. it’s fantasy)

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Fears / Animals / Winter

“Aaugh!”

As patient as Max is, the strange sound of Giancarlo’s sudden scream followed by a soft, barely audible thump of something hitting the floor in the walk-in closet is enough to snap his attention from the game console in his hands. He casts a curious look across his bedroom to witness the striped leg of a plush toy sticking out through the narrow crack of the closet door.

Now he can already tell what has happened. Regardless, he drops the game on the couch and jumps to his feet to see what his knight has gotten himself into in the closet.

“You opened the forbidden door!” Max gloats at Giancarlo, now standing ankle-deep in a sea of plush toys. “I told you the games are in the second from left, not from right.”

“Is this why you call that door ‘forbidden’?” Giancarlo asks, one hand still on the handle of the closet door that the avalanche of toys descended on him from. “I expected something more... I don’t know... scandalous... or personal.”

“This is personal. They’re all mine.” Max crouches over to pick one of the plush toys up, the yellow mascot character of a popular Eastern children’s game franchise. “Oh man, these take me back. I haven’t really seen them since Mama ordered them to be put away. She said I was too old to keep them in my bed. But I refused to have them taken out, so I got this closet for them instead.”

“Aha. I don’t mean to judge your decisions, but I think there’s a few too many for a closet of this size.”

“Well, they fit in just fine before you opened the door like an idiot.”

Max lets his eyes scan the colourful blast on the floor, admiring the chaos of all the scattered shapes of different stuffed creatures, some more nostalgic than others but each and every one so familiar to him; some expensive and store-bought, some hand-made by his father or someone else, he hardly even remembers at this point; it’s been so long since he was gifted these toys, and at least a couple of years since Judy wanted them sealed away.

And then one of them catches his eye over the rest, one that makes his heart skip a beat of bittersweet joy and longing. He tramples and kicks his way past other toys to get to the middle.

It’s a plush dog, one whose tattered, worn-out shape isn’t particularly distinguishable as a dog. It has an elongated body and small stubs for legs, folded ears – well, one ear, as the other has come off and been lost to time – and a small, thin tail that’s also on its way to come off its stitches but is barely hanging on, miserably drooping down from the back of the caramel brown animal that’s so thoroughly covered in dirt and dust that it looks grey. The dog’s black button eyes are intact, at least, and it still has a red little tongue sticking out of its mouth.

Max is momentarily frozen in place staring at the dog. This toy brings back so many memories, some of which threaten to turn his stomach as the long-forgotten anxiety rushes back in one tidal wave, it climbs up the ladder of his spine like an unwelcome visitor from the past; but at the same time, he loves this little dog so very dearly, his childhood favourite.

“Look at these, Your Highness!” Giancarlo suddenly yells, snapping Max out of his thoughts. “Really fitting, aren’t they? Doesn’t it make you think of something?”

Max turns to see his knight holding three plush animals on his arms: a snake, a fox, and a miniature horse. Max does remember all of them, but none were his favourites. They must have been gifts from his earlier childhood, he has no memory of actually getting them or ever feeling particularly attached to them.

“Umm,” he says, “no, not really.”

“Don’t you remember? The fairytale? A guy talks to a fox, a serpent, and a horse...”

“No, can’t say that rings any bells.”

“Really?” An idiotic grin spreads on Giancarlo’s face, the same one he flashes every time he gets to feel smarter than his young king. “It’s a traditional Northern folktale! Each animal represents one fear that the dude has, and he has to face them one by one. Well, I don’t really remember the details, but it was something like that.” He lifts the tiny horse closer to his face, as if to study it more closely – or to face it, to stay true to his own words, Max assumes. “Was the third one really a horse? I think it was. I guess horses can be scary to some people. They’re big animals and all.”

Max rolls his eyes, truly wishing that Giancarlo would shut up for once and clean up the mess he’s caused in the walk-in closet – or just do anything else and leave Max be, to sort out the sudden, fairly uncomfortable onslaught of memories caused by the discovery of his old stuffed dog toy.

Instead, Giancarlo keeps talking, as he always does.

“If there was a story about my fears, it would probably be... hmm... never eating cannoli ever again... and never going on another date...”

“Some incredible fears you have,” Max comments. “Tells a lot about your psyche.”

“And what are you scared of, Your Highness? What would you face if you met this guy? Nei-i-i-igh.” Giancarlo waves the tiny horse at Max, truthfully not the embodiment of terror by any stretch.

“Me? Well, nothing, really.”

“Come on, now, no need to be shy. You can tell the good old Gianni.”

“I mean it – I have my magic, so there’s no reason for me to be scared of anything.” There’s nothing that Max can think of that he wouldn’t be able to shield himself from with his magic powers, especially his ability to turn invisible. If nothing can catch him or do as much as touch him, what reason would he have to be afraid? If anything, he loves the thrill of almost being caught but disappearing out of sight on the last second. Max prides himself in being bold and resourceful, the master of stealth, and the youngest Genbu-ou with the ability to summon the holy beast of Genbu in the known history of his kingdom.

As long as he has his magic and the golden locket of Genbu around his neck, he cannot think of anything that could cause him fear; and as the king, he can have all the materia he could ever want, so he never needs to worry about running out of cannoli pastries or whatever else.

“Okay then, tough guy,” Giancarlo snorts. “And what’s that you got there?”

Max’s gaze returns to the dog on his arms. It stares back at him with its pitiful button eyes, black and lifeless.

“This used to be my favourite,” he replies, finding the words coming out of his mouth with slight hesitation. “Papa made it for me...”

“Oh? Prince Tarou knows how to sew stuffed animals? Well, I guess that makes sense, since he’s such a talented craftsman – but still... It’s hard to imagine a burly man like him making something like... that thing.” Giancarlo forces down an obvious cackle, raising a hand to his mouth to hide his amusement. “I mean...”

Max knows what he means, the puppy with a hot dog-like physique is a pathetic sight, but he cannot help feeling just a little insulted by Giancarlo laughing at it. This puppy brought him so much comfort during a time of turmoil, and it was specifically made by his father for that very purpose. Tarou most likely stitched it together over a single night all those years ago.

“You mean what?” he challenges the royal knight, his tone arrogant.

“Uh... Well, you know... Oh, never mind.”

* * * * * *

When he was younger, Max had no objections over his sheltered life in the Snow Glory Palace, as it never even occurred to his child’s mind that it could be anything but; and the thought only came to him as he entered the rebellious years of puberty and by the questionable ideas that his whimsical knight planted in his head, the thought that it would be exciting to sneak out of the palace every once in a while and wander around the royal capital out of sight.

Max has always been adored by commoners, as the only son of their beloved (by now former) king, the strong yet beautiful and hauntingly intelligent Mizuhara Judy, the only female Genbu-ou of their lifetime; and as much as Max loves the attention and savours the constant awareness of his status of importance that doesn’t escape anybody in his kingdom, he’s equally entertained by the idea of walking among all these people on a lower social ladder without their knowledge, freely entering spaces where his appearance would normally cause a considerable brouhaha. The complete control over whether he’s perceived or not gives him a great amount of satisfaction.

And, most importantly, his ever-so-predominant mother has no idea about it happening right under her nose. As much as Max loves his parents, like any teenager, he has an innate need to break free and seek independence from them, do as he pleases without their scrutiny, without any adult paying attention to him...

at least sometimes.

How many times has he traversed the narrow streets of the ancient royal capital, heard the snow crunch under his shoes without anyone seeing it’s the young king leaving a trail of footprints on the ground covered in white? And when the snow is quietly falling from the sky, the shield of magic around him reflects his surroundings, camouflaging him from other people’s line of sight, he blends perfectly into the arbitrary dance of the snowflakes in the dark.

Then, sometimes, when he finds a suitable corner or shade or hideout for himself, he plans a delicious little display of seemingly appearing out of nowhere into the spotlight. And all the attention is once again drawn to him.

It’s borderline addicting, that calculated spectacle, the thrill of a surprise and act of rebellion that Max is perfectly aware he’s not allowed to do. That his ice queen of a mother would be absolutely furious if she knew.

Now he’s again walking down a cobblestone street, the stone fence of a cemetery on his right-hand side. There’s a layer of powdery snow on the stone, like the icing of a sugar cake.

A cake, oh, a cake sounds excellent to him; and he’s now across a bridge, and the familiar sight of a cosy little coffee shop greets him some feet away. It has a sign outside, a metallic one, shaped like a kettle that’s hanging above the entrance, the shop’s name written on it in cursive.

Max walks over to one of the shop windows and takes a peek inside, bathes in the golden light coming from the other side of the glass. As expected, nobody pays him any attention, none of the people sitting around the lovely little tables inside see him.

He’s ready to be seen, however, and decides to step inside, greeted by the ring of a bell attached to the coffee shop’s door.

“Good evening!” he says cheerfully upon his entrance, flashing a wide grin to everyone in the shop.

People turn to stare at him. Nobody is smiling back at him.

“Er, good evening,” replies the person working behind the counter. Their voice is polite but wary, they stare at Max like everyone else in the shop, with an expression of wide-eyed confusion.

This is not what Max expected. Where are all the delightful gasps, all the “Oh, Your Highness!” and “It’s the young king!” and “This is such an honour!” – all the surprised smiles and the rush to be the first to shake hands with him? He darts some quizzical glances around the shop, eyebrows raised, but his grin remains.

Maybe he’s come here a few too many times. He should have gone somewhere new instead, not the closest place he could think of.

A bristly feeling that he’s very much not used to suddenly spreads all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes: embarrassment. He’s embarrassed that his magic trick failed, the trick he was so confident in, so proud of.

He needs to get out of here.

And the next moment, he’s walking down a different street, this time in the heart of the city of Resting Palace. The lights here are so bright that they illuminate the black sky and give it a hue of light purple instead, almost a dirty tone, it looks dusty and devours the stars and even the Moon.

He’s walking past numerous people, but nobody turns to look at him. Nobody does as much as grant him a smile of acknowledgment, no faces light up with recognition when he passes by.

He stops to stand in the middle of the street. Someone immediately bumps into him from behind.

“Oh, sorry,” the stranger says and hurries away without looking at him. He doesn’t even have the time to say it was his fault for stopping so abruptly.

Max turns on his heels, lets his eyes wander aimlessly in the scenery. There’s a hotel to his left. There are people everywhere, but none of them are looking his way.

Now another person bumps into him. This is an older man, staggering on his feet and visibly losing his balance for a moment, and he turns to stare at Max with a sullen face.

“Hey, kiddo,” the man groans, “stop blocking the walkway, will ya?”

Max only stares back, not knowing what to say or think. Kiddo? What is this? Why is this person talking to him like this? He’s so dumbfounded by this behaviour that he simply hangs his mouth open without making a sound. Nobody in his entire life has acted this way towards him, and it’s making his blood run cold under his heavy cloak.

On a bewildered whim, he suddenly turns to whoever is passing by his left-hand side on that very moment. “Did you hear how that person talked to me just now?” he asks the passer-by. “How dare he?”

The person he’s talking to casts him a look of utter confusion. He can immediately tell this person doesn’t recognise him, either.

“No, I’m sorry,” the person mumbles hastily and hurries away. Max stares after their disappearing back.

What is happening? What is happening? How could this possibly be happening to him? Now panic is seeping into his heart, he arbitrarily grabs the sleeve of whoever happens to pass by him next.

“Excuse me,” he says breathlessly, “you know who I am, right? Right?”

Another astonished stare, but at least this passer-by is polite. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Are you perhaps lost?”

“No!” Max’s words now escape as a desperate eruption of discomfort, “I’m the king! The Genbu-ou! Don’t you recognise your king?!”

The stranger’s expression changes slightly – to that of pity, to Max’s horror.

“I’m sorry, boy, I don’t have time to play around with you,” the person says, and the next moment he’s gone.

Max spins around, glancing wildly in every direction, looking for anybody who recognises him. This is the royal capital, isn’t it? It definitely is, he knows the exact street he’s on, but for some reason nobody knows him, he’s only a mile away from the Snow Glory Palace and nobody knows that he’s the king, how could such a bizarre thing ever happen?

“I look like the Genbu-ou, don’t I?” he asks yet another stranger, this time a younger person, a teenager just like him.

The person stops to stare at him, evaluates him with her eyes for a moment, as if she has to think about it first.

“I guess you do,” she finally says, “a little. But Genbu-ousama has spots of black in his hair and skin as clear as snow.”

What? What?

Max drops down to his knees into the snow and now he’s on the riverbank; he hauls his shaking self closer to the aquamarine glow of the water, and he crouches over to look down at his own reflection on the surface.

His hair is yellow like the Sun, bare, the splashes of black brush strokes gone. But his face – his face is covered in something – small dots everywhere, his skin is infested with them, they spread from the centre, the bridge of his nose, in every direction on his skin, he lifts his hands to his face and—

* * *

He opens his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom is covered in cotton candy clouds of pink and purple, they rotate ever so slowly around the axel of the chandelier in the middle, with stars blinking in and out through the veil.

He rolls over in the four-poster bed that feels like an entire ocean to him. The pillow under his head is wet, it feels gross and he grabs it with two tiny hands, tosses it away as hard as he can and it lands on the edge of the bed. It knocks a couple of his plush toys to the floor.

He can hear voices from behind the bedroom door. It’s Mama and Papa, they are yelling at each other again.

Max rubs his tear-stained eyes and crawls out of bed, wrapping his enormous blanket around him like a cape, he drags it along across the carpet as he makes his way to the door. He stands on tiptoes and opens the door as softly as he can.

He makes his way to the hallway’s railing just in time to see his parents walk into his view downstairs. They’re not yelling anymore but still arguing, in quiet voices now, Max can tell they are spewing arrows of poison at each other even if he can’t make out the words.

He’s staring through the narrow hole in the railing as Papa spots him, it’s probably a subtle sniffle that gives him away up there.

Seconds later, Papa has climbed the stairs and has knelt down to talk to Max in a voice that’s meant to be soothing but is seeping with recently suffocated agitation, and it makes him uneasy.

“Are you having trouble sleeping again, buddy?”

“I don’t want Papa to go away,” Max says, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his orange sleeping gown.

Papa gives him a lopsided smile, pats the top of his head. “I’ll come visit you often, I promise. And – this is only temporary, okay? I will keep talking to Mama, and maybe I’ll be back home in a couple of moons. Papa will bring you lots of presents then, but for starters...”

Now something appears from behind Papa’s back, he’s holding a plush toy dog that has a silly face with a tongue drooping out, its body so long that it nearly matches Max’s height. Papa hands it over to him.

“I made this for you, to help you sleep better. I call it Sleepy, but you can call it whatever you want.”

Max stares down at the dog’s face. It has plain black buttons for eyes, and a third one for a nose.

He presses his own little nose against the button, immediately smearing the dog in the snot and tears of a six-year-old.

“Take me with you, Papa,” he says, the words muffled against the dog’s snout. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“You won’t be alone, Max, Mama will be here.”

“She’s always working, she never pays attention to me.”

“That’s not true...”

“I don’t want to be alone, Papa.”

* * *

He opens his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom is velvet blue, with the silver sickle of a crescent Moon glowing faintly in the night’s silence.

His heart is beating in an anxious rhythm inside his chest. He quickly sits up in the bed, driven by the panic of the lingering terror of his nightmare that makes his fingertips tingle and his stomach turn, and he gasps for air.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

The momentary urge to rush to his feet, to check that he actually is who he’s supposed to be in the mirror, recedes quickly upon the realisation that he’s in his own bed, in the royal palace, exactly where he should be. He’s covered in sweat, the blankets feel uncomfortably sticky against his skin, he tosses them aside.

Then he notices three shapes in the darkness, sitting at the end of his bed. A row of three plush animals is staring at him from a distance.

A fox, a serpent, and a horse.

#my writing #4kingdoms stuff #LetItRip2021 #iconic that i had to stop in the middle of posting this bc i saw a spider and was too fucking scared to sit down again

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massensterben · 3 years

Text

@gepanzrt said: The dry scrawl of pen on paper falls silent as his hand stills. Word half-formed, ink blooming in the fibers of the stationery where the nib is still pressed downwards, his gaze drifts to the side, wandering like an errant traveler from his report to the man seated next to him. Reiner holds his breath in his lungs, as if it were the smoke that stretches its acrid tendrils up from the ashtray in the middle of the table. It's not until he looks away, back to the administrative hum and drum that commands his evening, that he releases his chest of the burden. Tentatively, he reaches his free hand over and rests it on the table between them, palm upwards — a silent invitation, if Bertholdt wishes to take it.

It isn’t peaceful. You’d want it to be. With the steady, gentle ticking of the grandfather clock that stands sternly by the door, a wooden overseer. With the rustling of paper, an industrious melody that trickles like warm fingertips down along the ridges of his spine. From outside, dusk presses its fine dark hairs against the windows. Somewhere in the guts of it, this curling, furred serpent, the distant eyes of tiny lives wink in and out of existence, windows somewhere else. Noise happens, as it is wont to do, in those places.

The absence of noise here does not mean that there is calm instead. Bertholdt watches his fingers, rather than the pen, as he fills out a questionnaire that asks after his condition. A well-versed somnambulist, he ticks the correct boxes, meanders his way through a jungle of pitfalls. (Do you keep a regular sleep pattern?) He hasn’t slept last night, certainly not the night before. He was shipwrecked on the stained carpet of his apartment, logging miles on the tiny island of it, spelling out SOS with his tangled feet. (Yes. Six hours. Every night.) He listens, strains for it, for the whisper of the pen next to his own. His handwriting was never as neat as other people’s. Odd, considering—

(Recount a misstep in your career.) It’s been about a month, he thinks. A month like this, and the warmth radiating from Reiner’s shoulder is driving him insane. Needles under his skin. He still can’t get up from the office floor. He is still standing in the light-bloated kitchen, hand braced on the creaking chair. His palms have frozen over with the chill in the air. Frightening, to think that one day he might be expected to open them and present what he has to show for all their emptiness. The downside to never being asked for anything is that in the end you realize it’s because you have nothing worth giving. (It is my life’s purpose to bring glory to our motherland of Marley. Any day I do not serve her as well as I should have is a failure.) And anyway, what’s the use of hands like his?

Even now the old bats rattle in the attic of his head, disturbing cobwebs. The black feathery thing is patrolling its maze again, horns scraping along the iron walls. Bertholdt listens to his own topography as much as to the scratching of the pens, the flipping of papers. Every other day he is the scene of a new creation myth. It is a concern, overcrowding. He knows what happens when the prisoners start rattling the bars, begging for scraps. Bertholdt can’t stand to listen to begging. He always feeds them when he shouldn’t. He wants something to lick blood off his fingers. At last be grateful for what he has to give. At last no longer flinch from his touch, flinch from his flinty stare that no one can stomach.

Feed me need and I will gnaw on it for weeks.

He is sick to death with every foul impulse he keeps trapped behind the snare of his teeth. One of these days he must put his head through a wall just to make some room for it all. Open up the skull. Let the bats out. It’s the least he can. ‘Don’t punish yourself’ is an easy demand to make, not to follow. Bertholdt doesn’t know the next thing about abstinence. It all turns to neglect between his ears. He clicks his pen in a nervous, agitated rhythm. It’s the silence that does him in. It doesn’t feel proper. There is a stirring in the air.

Cool eyes flicker to life, briefly ignited. Struck only once to spark. Bertholdt glances down. An open palm sits between them, fingers curled like the waiting teeth of a crocodile. Bertholdt stares, dumbstruck, at the glint of it, at the luster of light that gleams on the heel of Reiner’s hand. The fingers unfurl, invite, like any glinting fang. There is a right way, they entreat. Be the deer or the bird. Size is a choice.

—A trap. A test. A trick.

Reiner does not look to see what he will do. He has barely looked at him all night. Bertholdt draws his hand away, curls the offending digits in, make room. Worse, he figures, if it isn’t any of it. If this is how Reiner obeys his base impulses, strikes a compromise. Don’t hurt yourself. Don’t trust me. Bertholdt does not trust himself. His pulse pounds in his fingertips. Blood runs backwards through his veins. Such a feeling, the sliding of it.

The hand remains open, waiting, the maw of it, the pale silver of it. Bertholdt’s pen has stilled upon the page, bleeds black ink into the fiber. For a moment he forgets himself, listens to the backwards thrumming in his wrist tendons. All spring long there was a thawing between them, a warning that steadily waned: Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. ...Yet.

Tongue mangled between his teeth like any other lump of meat, Bertholdt flexes his hand in return, warms it up. He will do it wrong. He thinks he is set up for failure, like so many times before. He thinks Reiner will run out of patience before he can make up his mind. Like every time. It should not be such a grand demand of him. Be decent, be gentle. Touch without torment. Fingers are not fangs. You won’t lose your hand for offering it.

Why are there teeth marks on everything you think about?

Bertholdt wills the lead in his arm to shift. He does not stare now. He looks at his paper, and continues to write. He answers ‘yes’ and slides his fingers across Reiner’s palm. He answers ‘yes’ and his fingers interlace. His skin glows like red metal. The heat melts through his pulse. What was frost melts to water. What was snapping jaws dulls to mother-of-pearl.

He holds his hand and the world doesn’t end. He holds his hand and the blood doesn’t spill. Bertholdt inhales through his nose and his shoulders broaden with the labor of the bellows in his chest. It isn’t like last time. It isn’t the office floor, the cracks in his mind, the splinters. It isn’t cigarette smoke, it isn’t red-rimmed eyes and sweat. It is a hand. Neither of them shies away. Bertholdt breathes through the exercise, through the birdwing beating of his heart.

It’s a start.

#gepanzrt #no readmore we scroll like men #;;v. god of destruction

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dokuhebi · 3 years

Note

Everything is theoretically impossible until it’s done.

SCIENCE SUNDAY SENTENCE STARTERS // @peepingtoad . Ouroboros Verse. ‘ Everything is theoretically impossible until it’s done. ’ Those were his words when they said the illness was terminal, that it was impossible to survive. Those were his words signifying his trust in the serpents abilities. To nurse the young orphan back to health, to find a way to prevail over an illness that was deemed fatal in this era of war torn poverty - one that in the serpents real time and era, was cured over a decade ago. They visit the child, fevered yet trembling, red hair sticking to his even paler skin, seeking comfort from Jiraiya’s constant attendance. Orochimaru however, is in such a different spirit altogether. Here was their chance, to let the boy die. It wouldn’t be by their hand. Yes, they hadn’t intervened and assisted with his care when they rightfully could, yes it was their tampering with time that had rendered the boy coming in to contact with something he likely never would have had time run its natural course... but there is no blade in their hand, nor blood on it. A passive assassination at worst. And yet. It is more than the fact that Jiraiya places trust in their skills as a medic to nurse the boy back to health, it is more than the fact that they can physically feel the ache of his heart when the boy splutters or coughs, or whimpers or cries. It is because when their golden gaze lands on the small trembling body bundled under so many bedsheets, his pain somehow becomes theirs. They see Mitsuki, when he had first feebly been released from his tank, or when his emotions compromised his physical health, or when he was rushed home for them to doctor, because he had pushed too hard too fast and was in dire need of their aid. They see a child. A small life. A fragile existence. Violet eyes looking to them with the most primal instinct of youth, looking at them, the adult, the replacement guardian in his orphaned life, to banish cruelties he is too young to face on his own. And so they take the duty Jiraiya asked them to, and they formulate on borrowed time, the medication that would give his body the tools needed to start conquering the internal battle. Little by little, day by day. The more he gains his strength however, the more the serpent loses their nerve, the more they see Jiraiya’s killer. A moment of emotional weakness, listening to the their heart - what if it cost them everything? The rain is volatile on this evening, banging aggressively at the roof and windows, threatening to tear the slatted top right off their cabin home. Managing to damage enough wiring that the house only gains light from various candles. Jiraiya is tucking Konan and Yahiko in to bed, while the serpent is left unattended in the lounge, young Nagato given the separate bed of their and Jiraiya’s room. For it had seemed more urgent at the time that he had a private space, away from the other children, while still resting in the most comfortable location possible. The couch and a sleeping bag had served fine for the two Sannin. Accustomed to more dire sleeping arrangements. And it is with this nauseating feeling that they had made a terrible mistake, that they go to see Nagato, as quiet as a housecat. Quieter still, when slender fingers coil around the vial of medication, and hide it in their kimono. Taking back what good they had done, rolling back time in some sense, once more. They are ever careful to not awaken him, and to return to their place in the kitchen to feign they had been tidying up all along. So very easy a task, when everyone under this roof trusts them. They offer Jiraiya a smile when he exits the childrens’ bedroom, and as they watch him move from one duty to the next. Going to check on Nagato they know, for it would be time for his medication soon. They hear his question about where the medication is, they answer with a masterfully quick and confident lie, “check the dresser, where it always is,” It is only when Konan emerges, evidently woken by the rain after Jiraiya had left her slumbering form, that the serpent abandons the task of dishes and lying. “It’s terribly loud, isn’t it dear?” they reassure, moving to guide her back in to the room after gently scooping up a candle on a porcelain saucer, their other hand lightly placed on her shoulder. They set it next to her bed, before urging her to try to sleep despite the noise, despite her obvious worries. Shuffling aside paper origami to make room for the candle, and to clear anything flammable from the candles temporary spot. Now it is their turn to sit with the girl until she has found it within herself to sleep. Not before convincing her of course, that her dear friend would be fine. Not before she, in her ever childlike innocence, in her trust in Jiraiya, and her misplaced trust in the serpent, says she is glad they came back. The more restless movement from the next room is what finally prompts them to leave her side, a brief moment spared to check she is correctly tucked in, before arriving in Nagato’s room. Before watching as Jiraiya, without quite giving away whether he was under any stress - for how he always made attempts to not worry them - mentions the missing medication. For weeks they had told themself their conscience would rest easier if these three children were erased. For weeks they waited, sought, an opportunity to rid this world of their beloved’s killer. But it is one moment, the very moment that they had long awaited for, that they realize something had changed, “I’ll help you look, it has to be here somewhere” they say quietly, a final lie, a far more forgivable one, as they move to place the medication within the room with effortless stealth. So fluid in movement, so trained in hidden and secretive tasks. They then feign a little bit of searching, before letting Jiraiya himself scope the part of the room where the medication would now be seated. When his midnight eyes move to theirs with bottle in hand, their gaze illuminated and reflecting the rooms single candlelight, that they offer him a reserved smile, and a nod of their head to confirm they had been right. “See, there it is. If it had been a snake, it would have bitten you, hm?”

#peepingtoad #詩 Ouroboros; peepingtoad #毒蛇 IMMORTAL; the curse is broken (post war)#sorry for the wait on this~#蛇 QUEUE; lie to the liars; steal from the thieves

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werezmastarbucks · 4 years

Text

Whitmore Guy - party animals

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Part Six Part Seven

Kai Parker x fem!Reader slowburn

word count: 1600

warnings: Y/N’s bitching about people misinterpreting skate punk culture

music: neck deep - serpents (mark hoppus remix), good charlotte - i don’t wanna be in love, metro station - wish we were older, sum 41 - in too deep

The party was a success. The people did remember early Fall Out Boy, and they did still love them. Gerard Way’s name was still ringing bells in people’s hearts – the only thing Y/N was unhappy about was the fact that they completely mistook the idea.

“I mean… this is not an emo party”, she repeated for the thousandth time. Damon was at her side, just as he’d promised. He was at the very best disinterested in her youth’s culture. In fact, she remembered him mention once, Damon started feeling really tired exactly in 2006, and this outburst of depression made him migrate to north for some time, before returning to Mystic Falls. His silver-green eyes were snapping from one shape of human to another, he wasn’t really listening to her.

“They’re all misdressed…” she gasped. “Except… ah! That’s Mal. He always looks like he’s about to break his nose on the asphalt”.

“Why?” Damon asked absent-mindedly.

“Because he’s about to go skating��.

“That’s the guy?” Damon nodded at Mal, eyes focusing on him.

“Yeah”.

Music was blasting, and people were dancing. They were shaking, thrashing their heads. A couple of immortal hits already made the whole place sweat a little, their cervical vertebrae did not feel good about that.

Mal was chatting with a girl. The system Y/N was remembering people was, she remembered the kind of troubles they were in. This one, Cindy, or Sandy, she once failed to submit not five, not six, but ten papers in a row, and a group of teachers was very unhappy with her. Y/N could not really help her, except to say that she should probably stop partying and go study. Not a lot of time actually has passed since she was a student at a college herself; but she was never a party animal. She had problems with her studies because she had a cluster of minor disorders, from eating to insomnia.

From the looks of it, he was all over the girl. Wide smirk, and the way he bent to her slightly; his eyes were watching her expression closely, and the thin silver chain he always wore under shirt gleamed faintly in the blue lightning.

“I thought you said he was stunning”, Damon sneered.

“I never said stunning. I said adorable”.

“He’s very, very usual, Y/N”.

“Well, compared to you, maybe. Not all people tend to look like fucking Renaissance statuary, Damon”.

Damon sniffed, ruffling his invisible feathers.

“So, what don’t you like about him?”

“He looks like a man with a plan. I don’t really know what’s going on in his head”.

Damon turned to her and eyed her with the usual oily look of a hungry lizard.

“Man. I thought your intuition is kicking in. And you just wanna hit it up with a guy”.

Y/N rolled her eyes.

“Please, please, just for once, just do what I ask you to. Just check him out. Did you find anything about Martha Hopps, by the way?”

“I did, stalker. She is a real human person and she lives in Mystic Falls. She moved in recently with her parents and two sisters. Which is, whatever, considering she’s almost twenty four, and they all live in one house”.

“They’re millenials. It’s normal for us”.

“You don’t live with your mum”.

“Yeah, because I don’t talk with my mum. So, is her family crazy?”

“They sure look lame. Hopps papa seems to have complete control over his daughters. Obsessive type”.

“Oh, god. What if he really is the bad guy?”

“They’re a bunch of boring Christians. Martha is not even that pretty”, Damon clicked his tongue and started looking for the table with the punch. “I think her sister, Laura, is way more interesting”.

“Who cares”, Y/N said tiredly. She felt awful for spying on Mal’s girlfriend, second-handedly. “What you think. Let’s go find something to drink”.

“What do you mean, find?” the vampire went indignant in a moment, “didn’t you organize the whole thing?”

“I did, but Caroline moved all the tables in the morning. I didn’t manage to monitor everything”.

Together, they moved through the crowd, floating like two ships in the sea of shaking heads. Damon led Y/N by the elbow to keep her on her feet, because In Too Deep came on, and the crowd went wild. Mal was still flirting with Cindy/Sandy as they left. Minutes later, Damon abandoned Y/N at the table, to observe and have fun, and set off to look for the guy.

His face was showing in the crowd here and there, shooting Y/N glances of confusion. Mal seemed to have vanished, and the vampire couldn’t find him anywhere. He shook his head in amazement; the music was irritating him. He listened to different stuff; Salvatore’s heart belonged specifically to indie rock of the latter decade. For some unknown reason. In a way, Damon was an essence of the Mystic Falls town.

Soon, Damon disappeared, too, leaving her behind. She didn’t mind much; they kind of fell out in these last months. Y/N knew that Damon always had her back regardless, but they just didn’t talk much these days.

A song came in, the kind of it, that usually makes you see yourself from aside, standing alone, at the table with beer and punch, while everybody grabs their dancing partners by the waists. The sick lamp went from orange to pink even, and then an interesting turquoise shade flooded the hall; people all looked like sparkling fish, in their hats and pins and bright ribbons.

Something pushed her in the back, and moved the table, and Y/N jumped off just in time not to be stepped on.

Mal came round the table. He looked troubled, and his hair was ruffled. There was an even blush on his cheeks, making him look like he was no more than nineteen.

“Is that sex hair, Mal?” Y/N snorted, refusing to empathize with his wild gaze.

“She’s here”, Mal uttered, “dance with me”.

They took each other by the hands. Y/N downed her cup and threw it back on the table. Mal combed his hair with one hand, looking above her shoulder, and pulled her closer to himself.

“Who’s here?”

“Martha”, he said without expression. The eyes on his face were incredible, pulsating, like he was extremely horny, or very distressed; Y/N saw eyes like that on vampires after they’ve just eaten. His hands and face, on the opposite, were sturdy, mechanical.

I gave her my heart, she didn’t want it,

Took it anyway, put a dark spell on it,

Since then I haven’t been the same…

He looked down at Y/N like he’s just realized he was holding her.

“Go talk to her. Or nah?”

“Nah. I have nothing to say to her”.

“Really?” she went on with distrust.

“She doesn’t know I’m here”.

“You mentioned. You think she’ll scream or something?”

He snorted. His eyes warmed up just a little.

“Nobody’ll hear her. It’s a loud party”.

Mal put his hand on Y/N shoulder and let it rest.

“You’re a good friend”.

“Been training for years. Still not sure though”.

“I think I saw Demi here”.

“Who?”

“Your ex-crush whom I disapprove”.

“Dude”, she grinned, “he left”.

“Very impressive individual. Masculinity and bulllshit oozing out of him. God, his balls must be huge. Looked like he wanted to chat, but I Houdinied the fuck away”.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably, unable to stop herself from picturing everything he said. Mal was not completely wrong, and yet, the way he spoke about the older Salvatore was so poisonous you could die from listening too closely.

“Don’t like him, huh”.

“Don’t know him”, he nodded, “don’t really care. Just don’t let him hurt you. Why would he leave you alone? even I understand it’s not nice”.

“He didn’t come here to dance”.

“Why then?”

“Masculine stuff. Wanted to talk to somebody. Or check up on me. I don’t know”.

“Uhh, Y/N”, Mal sighed, sincerely enough. She got a desire to give him a hug, like a human, as a friend. Just because she hasn’t hugged anybody for a while. Because it’s been a month, and they got pretty close, attracted to each other like two wandering bog lights. So, she just did it. Wrapping her arms around him, Y/N pulled him close, and laid her head on his shoulder. Mal didn’t push her away, but the song ended, so they just stood. Mal smelled like candy again, and his skin, clean and white, had a trace of female perfume. Y/N didn’t know what to make of him. She wasn’t really jealous. She wasn’t really anxious. Their embrace existed outside their world. Mal still smelled of trouble. Y/N never for a second supposed that there wasn’t something utterly and vividly wrong with this guy. She just didn’t care enough.

“All that heart trouble”, Mal said suddenly, “just makes me wanna dance. Let’s get smashed. It’s Good Charlotte, isn’t it?”

“Back it up now, you’ve got a reason to live. Say, I don’t wanna be in love”.

“I like me a gal who knows all the lyrics to all the shitty songs”, Mal grinned wide, and they separated a little, but did not leave each other’s sight.

“This song is not shitty”.

“Nah”, Mal yelled, as the dynamic, loud part of the verse started, “some music is crap, and it’s good. Remember the motto of your favorite dudes”.

Y/N laughed. A little bit more of music, less light, and they were dancing like monkeys, waving their hands and thrashing their heads, a couple of happy, careless children. They managed to trick the whole college into listening Metro Station for fifteen minutes straight.

#kai parker #kai parker x reader #kai parker imagine #damon salvatore #vampire diaries #legacies #tvd imagine #tvd #whitmore guy

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mygalfriday · 5 years

Text

basically: crowley has tattoos and every few centuries, aziraphale discovers a new one. features pining crowley and oblivious aziraphale ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

{ao3}

i can’t say the words, so i wrote you into my verse

i. chest; greece, 615.

Aziraphale has a particular fondness for the Greeks - most especially for their liberal use of ingredients like honey and olive oil. In a little room he’d rented for the night right in the heart of Athens, he sighs happily to himself as he gazes down at the simple, delicious spread on the table before him. Dolmadakia stuffed with ground lamb and rice, vegetable soup seasoned with vinegar and herbs, and feta wrapped in phyllo pastry, drizzled with honey.

Breathing in deeply the rich smells of his meal, he whispers a prayer of thanks and reaches eagerly for his plate. A spoonful of grape skin, lamb, and rice halfway to his mouth, he startles at a succession of rapid knocks at the door. With no one around to see, he allows himself a moment to visibly deflate as he slowly lowers the spoon back to his plate.

“Bugger,” he mutters, casting a mournful glance at the steam still rising from his food. He flinches at the sound of a palm slapping impatiently against his door and musters his patience. “One moment, please!”

A low, familiar voice replies dryly from the corridor. “Take your time, angel.”

Aziraphale stands so quickly his chair scrapes across the floor. “Crowley?”

He hasn’t seen Crowley since they shared oysters in Rome nearly a century ago and Aziraphale can’t deny the idea of seeing him again is more than a little pleasing. He pauses briefly before he opens the door, struggling to rein in the delighted smile on his face. There aren’t exactly guidelines for the sort of relationship he has with Crowley but Aziraphale is fairly certain he shouldn’t be so happy to see his natural enemy.

Honestly, he chides himself. Imagine if Gabriel saw you.

Even with that sobering thought in mind, he can barely keep his facial expression in check as he swings open the door. Crowley stands draped against the doorframe like he’s forgotten he has bones to hold him up. Suppressing an unexpected wave of fondness, Aziraphale forces a scowl.

“What are you doing-” He pauses, taking in the droop of Crowley’s short hair, the sweat beading on his brow, the way he hasn’t bothered to adjust the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Just as he’s about to reprimand him for showing up already drunk, Aziraphale spots the bright red stain darkening the shoulder of his linen tunic. He breathes out, horrified. “Crowley, you’re bleeding.”

Wearily, Crowley arches an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Get in here.”

Crowley puts up only a token protest as Aziraphale ushers him inside and shuts the door, sinking into the vacated seat at the table and propping his injured arm up beside the abandoned plate. As Aziraphale hovers anxiously behind him, Crowley leans in and sniffs curiously. “What, no apple?”

Watching blood seep into the tablecloth, Aziraphale stifles a noise of concern behind pursed lips. “They’re out of season.” He snaps his fingers and a bundle of medical supplies appears on the table. “Let me see, please.”

Crowley sighs, as though terribly inconvenienced, and shrugs out of his tunic. “S’just a scratch.”

If that were true, he wouldn’t have shown up out of the blue, weakened and in pain, to knock relentlessly on Aziraphale’s door. Rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, Aziraphale pauses as his eyes skitter from the supplies spread out on the table to Crowley’s exposed chest. To his shame, the first thing he notices is not the deep gash cutting a bold line across Crowley’s shoulder and bicep but rather the black ink scrawled down his left pectoral.

Aziraphale blinks as it slowly dawns on him exactly what he’s looking at. Crowley has a tattoo. Well, another one anyway. Unlike the small serpent curled just beneath his temple, this one takes up far more space. It’s a sword, strikingly similar to the one Aziraphale used to carry before he gave it away all those years ago. Instead of flames enveloping the blade, however, a snake curls sinuously around the weapon like a lover. A slender, forked tongue brushes the hilt of the sword.

All of this takes mere seconds of study but Aziraphale flicks his gaze away guiltily anyway. Swallowing, he redirects his attention to the gash on Crowley’s shoulder and hopes the demon hadn’t noticed his stare. Luckily for him, Crowley is far too preoccupied with commandeering the wine Aziraphale had left out.

Leaning close to study the ragged cut seeping blood onto the tablecloth, Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly. “What happened?”

Crowley shrugs. “Wrong place, wrong time. Bloody Thessalonica.” He grimaces, watching Aziraphale reach for the antiseptic. “Can’t you just-” He waggles his fingers, clearly attempting to convey an angelic miracle.

“Not before I clean it.” Aziraphale frowns, prodding at the wound and ignoring Crowley’s answering hiss. “If it’s already infected, closing the cut won’t do you any favors.” Without looking up, he pushes the wine toward Crowley. “Drink up.”

As Crowley drinks deeply from the bottle, Aziraphale takes his arm and makes more noises of disapproval over the wound but it’s mostly for show. A weak attempt to distract himself from the warmth of Crowley’s skin beneath his palm and the mystery of his strange new tattoo. Even as he cleans the gash thoroughly, his gaze wanders curiously back to Crowley’s chest. The snake, wrapped seductively around the sword, seems to be staring back at him.

He clears his throat. “Couldn’t you simply heal yourself?”

“If I could, I’d have done it, wouldn’t I?” Glaring into the middle distance, Crowley mutters something under his breath about stupid kids getting themselves into trouble and would have looked bad on the paperwork. Catching sight of Aziraphale’s soft expression, he scowls. “Oh, just shut up and work your magic, angel.”

Smothering a fond smile - mostly because he has a feeling it would only irritate Crowley to see it - Aziraphale sets aside the bloodied cloth and presses a gentle hand over the wound. Crowley stiffens at his touch and as Aziraphale begins to will muscle and skin to knit itself back together again, he grimaces. In an effort to distract him from the sting, Aziraphale finally address the elephant in the room. “So…that’s new.”

“Hmm?” Looking dazed, Crowley follows his gaze to the tattoo prominently displayed on his chest and grunts. “Oh. S’a tribute.”

Aziraphale hums, watching Crowley’s skin heal over. The gash disappears and with a little nudge, so does the scar left behind. Shiny, unblemished skin is all that remains. Unable to help himself, he strokes a fingertip over his handiwork and feels Crowley shudder beneath his touch. He pulls away as if burned, suitably chastised. “A tribute?” He asks, hoping Crowley doesn’t notice the flush of his cheeks. “To what?”

With an evasive shrug, Crowley leans back in his chair to examine his healed shoulder and says, “My origins, of course.” Before Aziraphale can prod any further, he nods his thanks and reaches for the wine once more. “Are you going to share that bloody pastry or what?”

ii. ribcage; versailles, 1785.

Strolling the gardens of the Trianon Palace, a copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther tucked under his arm, Aziraphale breathes in the warm summer air and allows himself a stolen moment to miss the Garden. Standing in the twilight, surrounded on all sides by trees and sweet-smelling wildflowers, the sound of a trickling waterfall in the distance, he can almost imagine he’s back there again. Standing guard over the Almighty’s beloved humans and doing his best not to laugh at any of the serpent’s jokes.

Speaking of the devil himself…

He freezes, grip tightening briefly around the spine of his book, as he spots Crowley wading out of the stream just ahead of him. He isn’t surprised to see him, of course. They’ve both been guests of the Queen for the past several weeks, dining on roast duck and swilling champagne, skirting the edges of her extravagant revelries and catching each other’s eyes from across the room.

While Aziraphale had come to Versailles in hopes of softening the violence of the revolution he can smell coming, Crowley had insisted he was only there for the parties. Aziraphale isn’t entirely convinced but he doesn’t press the issue. It’s rather nice to have a familiar face around.

So no, it isn’t surprise he feels as he watches Crowley emerge bare and dripping out of the stream and onto dry ground. The setting sun casts him in warm shades of red and orange, setting his copper hair alight and doing something rather spectacular to his eyes; turning them a molten shade of amber that’s almost luminescent. Droplets of water glisten on his chest, catching the sun just enough to appear like glowing drops of light. Unmoving, his traitorous human heart seemingly lodged in his throat, Aziraphale fancies for a moment he might be looking at Crowley before he Fell - ethereal and beautiful, bathed in the light of heaven.

Not surprise at all, he thinks, wrenching his gaze away. Something else entirely; something he has not the courage to examine properly.

Aziraphale unclenches his fingers around the binding of his von Goethe, letting out a slow, uneven breath. Pasting on a smile, he forces his numb legs to move in the direction of Crowley rummaging on the ground for his clothes. His old friend hasn’t noticed him yet, fastening his trousers and running a slender hand through his damp hair. He scans the ground, clearly looking for something, and mutters aha when he finds his tunic drooping from the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree.

As Crowley lifts an arm to snatch his tunic from the clutches of a wych elm, Aziraphale’s gaze catches and holds on the sight of black lettering inked down his ribcage. A few more quiet steps and he’s just close enough to make out what it says:

doubt that the stars are fire

doubt that the sun doth move

doubt truth be a liar

Hamlet had written those very words to Ophelia. Crowley pulls his tunic over his head, effectively hiding the tattoo from Aziraphale’s curious gaze but not before he notices the final verse is missing. But never doubt I love. He might have wondered why Crowley omitted that particular line but on reflection, it’s easy enough to understand. Love is hardly a demon’s territory but doubt? Aziraphale imagines Crowley must be old friends with the concept by now.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, not even glancing at him. As if he’d known he was there all along. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have waited.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, fighting back a blush at having been caught staring. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Crouching to fetch his boots from a patch of wild lavender, Crowley glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Tempting an angel to skinny dip? Would have gotten a commendation for that one.”

Grateful to the ever-fading light for hiding his pink cheeks, Aziraphale scowls. “Very funny.”

Crowley snorts, sinking gracefully into the grass to pull on his shoes. “There’s a masquerade tonight,” he says, brushing a smudge of dirt from the supple leather of his boot. “You going?”

Eyeing him uncertainly, Aziraphale admits, “I hadn’t decided. Why? Up to no good again?”

“Oi, I can’t help it the whole ‘let them eat cake’ thing was taken out of context like that. The humans did that without any help from me.” Crowley lifts his head, his gaze softened and imploring without his dark glasses to hide his eyes. Aziraphale wonders if he knows he’s very nearly pouting. “Come on, it’ll be boring without you. Just standing about fending off Lamballe and watching Her Majesty make eyes at von Fersen the Younger all night.”

Shifting uneasily, Aziraphale darts his gaze out over the trickling stream and the forest beyond it, unwilling to let on that he had decided to go the moment Crowley had asked it of him. It just wouldn’t do to reveal how eager he is to spend time with the demon. “And you’ll behave yourself?”

“Merely a spectator.” Crowley eyes him soberly, placing a lofty hand over his heart. “On Satan’s honor.”

With a huff, Aziraphale relents, “Oh, fine. But only because they’ll be serving those scrumptious little tarts with the raspberry filling.”

It isn’t technically a lie. He does have quite a soft spot for Marie’s decadent taste in pastries.

Crowley grins at him and busies himself with pulling on his other boot, looking as pleased as though he’d accomplished some sort of temptation. As if Aziraphale had ever been tempted to do anything but what he’d asked in the first place. Aziraphale doesn’t mind. Letting him believe he’s getting away with something is far better than the alternative.

Hovering over his shoulder, Aziraphale lets his gaze linger briefly on the loose-fitting tunic Crowley wears, damp and clinging to his skin in some places - hiding another of those tattoos he seems so fond of. He bites his lip. “I thought you preferred the funny ones.”

In the middle of tucking his trouser leg into his boot, Crowley stills. His jaw clenches so tightly a muscle in his cheek twitches. He looks away, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s bewildered stare. For a long moment, he almost believes Crowley isn’t going to say anything at all but after a tense beat in which Aziraphale wants to shove his foot into his mouth, he finally replies. “Still do.”

He offers no other explanation and Aziraphale hasn’t the nerve to question him further, watching in silence as Crowley climbs to his feet and brushes the grass from his clothes. He runs his fingers through his hair one more time and turns on his heel, striding away. Aziraphale stares after him, wondering if perhaps Crowley had changed his mind about the masquerade after all.

Silently admonishing himself for opening his mouth in the first place, he almost misses the way Crowley pauses and inclines his head. “Come on, angel,” he calls over his shoulder. “Before they run out of those tarts.”

iii. ankle; soho, 1956.

Dante’s Inferno is in the wrong place. Someone - possibly a customer, or possibly (probably) Crowley - had moved it into the non-fiction section. Balancing a stack of wayward poetry in one hand, Aziraphale reaches for the slim little volume, intending to stick it back where it belongs, when the ruckus nearby reaches a level verging on unholy.

Well you said you was high-classed, well that was just a lie…

He sighs, leaving Inferno where it is and dropping the rest of the poetry as well. Concentrating on inventory when one has a demon only one room away, warbling drunkenly along with the music playing on the telly is quite simply impossible. Dusting off his hands, Aziraphale abandons the task altogether and moves toward the source of the noise.

Crowley had shown up this afternoon with a bottle of wine and some of those indecently expensive chocolate biscuits from Waitrose that Aziraphale likes so much, using them as bribery to slink inside and commandeer the sofa. From what Aziraphale can discern by the sheer noise, Crowley had also taken the initiative to move the small television - kept mainly for his use anyway - downstairs from Aziraphale’s tiny flat.

Ducking his head into the back room only confirms his suspicions. Sprawled across the sofa as though he has no control over his own limbs, Crowley lounges with a bottle of wine dangling from his fingertips as he stares at the television and croons along with the man on the screen. His bare feet wiggle on the coffee table, as though he can’t keep them still. He isn’t the only one, apparently. The audience on the telly is going wild. A few of the young ladies seem to be having some sort of fit.

Aziraphale really can’t see what all the fuss is about. Though as he watches the dark-haired young man onscreen gyrate his hips to scandalized applause, he has to wonder if he and Crowley had ever met. “Must you listen to that racket quite so loudly?”

Looking well past tipsy and on his way to belligerent, Crowley glances up with a frown. He shifts to look at Aziraphale properly and one trouser leg shifts just enough to reveal a flash of his ankle. And another tattoo. A feather of all things, glittering white and silver as it curves and curls delicately over the fine bones of Crowley’s ankle.

Aziraphale stares at it, momentarily hypnotized.

“Oi, he’s the next big thing, I’ll have you know.” Crowley grins broadly, sudden and sharp. “I’ve made sure of it.”

Aziraphale scoffs, forcing his eyes away from the tattoo. “This newfangled…bebop you’re so terribly fond of is nothing more than a flash in the pan, my dear.” He steps around the coffee table and takes the bottle from Crowley’s slack fingers, miracling a pair of glasses instead. He pours them both a generous measure, pointedly refusing to ask the question he wants to ask.

Why a white feather? Why not black?

He can only assume it must be another tribute - perhaps to who he was before he Fell - and bringing it up might spoil Crowley’s lazy good humor. As curious as he is, Aziraphale isn’t willing to risk it. As disruptive as Crowley’s visits tend to be, he prefers them infinitely to the ringing silence when he leaves.

The flash of delicate white at Crowley’s slender ankle lingers in the corner of his eye but he does not give in to the temptation to look at it again. Instead, he settles on the armchair across from the sofa and sips primly at his wine. Gaze fixed determinedly on the television screen, he says, “Mark my words, Crowley. In ten years, no one will even remember this Presley fellow’s name.”

Crowley squawks, laughter in his voice as he sits up to argue with him. His trouser leg shifts again, hiding his ankle - and the feather - from view once more. Aziraphale, caught up in the easy familiarity of bickering with Crowley, forgets all about it. Really.

iv. lower back; dowling estate, 2013

Mrs. Dowling’s plants look nothing like the ones in Crowley’s flat, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts. He pokes at a lackluster Russian Sage and tries to remember the tips Crowley had given him, carefully ignoring the more ominous ones such as don’t show the little bastards any weakness. As far as he can tell, he’s doing all the things he’s supposed to do but it isn’t quite enough.

Aziraphale sighs mournfully. He hadn’t been very good at looking after the last garden he was in charge of so he has no idea what made Crowley think the role of gardener would suit him. Luckily for the roses, he isn’t above a miracle or two to keep them from wilting. “Not to worry,” he murmurs to a particularly ill-looking bloom. He presses a fingertip to the drooping petals, watching as the color brightens. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

“You can’t make me!”

Less startled than he should be by the childish outburst, Aziraphale glances wearily across the yard as Warlock hurdles past at speed. He glances over his shoulder, as if to make sure his nanny is still following, before he takes off around the side of the guest house and disappears. Sure enough, Nanny Ashtoreth isn’t far behind. Aziraphale smothers a grimace the moment he spots Crowley stalking across the grounds.

Their little charge has been particularly…hellish today and Aziraphale suspects Crowley of harboring illicit fantasies of luring the boy out to the pool and pushing him in. Normally perfectly composed and impeccably dressed - not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her jacket - Nanny Ashtoreth looks a bit rattled this afternoon. Hair askew and curls going limp, she looks quite simply murderous. Jacket long since abandoned, her expensive blouse has come untucked and the normally starched collar is rumpled beyond hope.

Hissing irritably about little boys who refuse to take a sodding nap, Nanny Ashtoreth pauses to scoop up a Loki action figure left abandoned in the middle of the yard. The rumpled blouse slips momentarily up her back and that’s when Aziraphale spots it. Just there, at the small of Crowley’s back - a little dove with its wings spread in flight.

Hidden behind the roses, Aziraphale allows himself a moment to stare.

What does a demon possibly need with a dove tattoo? A symbol of peace and hope is hardly Crowley’s forte. It is a lovely depiction, though. The bird is plump and pure white, completely perfect. It reminds Aziraphale of the ones he so often liked to use in his magic tricks when he practiced. Crowley had always rolled his eyes but he’d never said no to a demonstration. Perhaps he had a soft spot for the creatures after all.

And then Nanny straightens, toy clutched in an angry fist, and the tattoo disappears beneath fine silk once more. Aziraphale blinks, feeling his cheeks heat as he glances away a moment too late. She spots him lurking behind the roses and stifles a smirk. “Brother Francis,” she mutters, giving a stiff nod. “How’s the garden?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, too rattled to bother with the accent. “Just…pipping.”

Eyeing a drooping azalea Aziraphale had missed in his earlier miracling, Nanny Ashtoreth adjusts her sunglasses and fluffs her hair. With a dainty sniff, she leans in close and purses carefully painted lips against soft pink petals. Aziraphale stares, bewildered. And then her lips curl back in a vicious snarl and she hisses ferociously. The azalea trembles and quakes. Aziraphale imagines if it had a mouth, it would have shrieked.

“Crowl - Nanny Ashtoreth, please!” Aziraphale shoos her away, patting the flower with consoling fingertips and refusing to admit that the petals do seem to have perked up a bit. “I refuse to garden with fear.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself, Brother Francis.”

With one last warning glower at the azaleas over the rim of her glasses, she turns on her heel and marches away after the missing Antichrist. Aziraphale turns away from her retreating back, forcefully shoving thoughts of doves and nannies far from his mind. “Hush now,” he says, crooning at the quivering flora around him. “The wily old serpent is gone, I promise.”

v. hipbone; mayfair, 2019

Despite the certainty that he would never admit even to the Almighty that he had ever imagined such things in the first place, Aziraphale quietly admits to himself that actually being with Crowley is not quite what he’d thought it would be. It’s far, far better.

Even in his fondest imaginings - succumbed to only when alone and well into his cups - he had been sure any encounter would leave him feeling at once deliciously fulfilled and vaguely guilty about falling into temptation. And the first part is certainly true. Everything about falling into bed with Crowley had been delicious; more than any delicacy he’s ever dined on. But Aziraphale is quite relieved to discover not a smidgen of guilt. With Crowley’s arms around him and the soft, sweet sound of his even breathing, what on earth and in heaven is there to feel guilty about?

Head on Crowley’s stomach, Aziraphale hums a few bars of Moonlight Serenade and tries to come up with some other way to celebrate their first night of freedom from Above and Below. Happily, nothing else at all comes to mind. Nothing else could possibly compare. He turns his head, nuzzling Crowley’s belly.

Above him, Crowley hisses out a content sigh.

Aziraphale bites back a smile, opening his eyes and blinking at the ink etched neatly into Crowley’s hipbone. A series of numbers and decimal points listed seemingly at random. He lifts a hand and traces a fingertip over it cautiously. Quietly delighting in the knowledge that after years of turning away and clenching his hands, he can reach out and touch whenever he likes.

At this point in the evening, there isn’t truly a bit of Crowley that he hasn’t touched yet but he’d been careful so far not to pay particular attention to any of his tattoos despite his fascination with them. It had always seemed to be a subject Crowley broached with reluctance in the past and he hadn’t wanted to be the cause of Crowley pulling away from him.

Now, he feels Crowley tense beneath him as he finally musters the courage to ask, “What’s this?”

“S’a tattoo.”

Aziraphale holds in a sigh. “Yes, dear. I can see that. But of what?”

“Coordinates.”

“You’re being terribly enigmatic.” Aziraphale prods a fingertip into Crowley’s bony hip and hides a smile when Crowley swats at him weakly. “Coordinates to what? Or where, rather?”

Crowley heaves a put-upon sigh and avoids his gaze, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “Home.”

Realizing he won’t be getting any more hints from Crowley, Aziraphale begins to mentally review every location he can think of. Hell? Definitely not. Eden had never really been a home to either of them. His flat here in Mayfair is hardly lived-in. If he thinks back far enough, he can remember a little villa in Spain that Crowley had been relatively fond of…

“Oh, for someone’s sake - I can hear you thinking.” Crowley groans, shifting beneath him. “Don’t make me say it, angel.”

Keeping his hand curled over the tattoo on Crowley’s hip, Aziraphale lifts his head with a baffled frown. “Say what?”

Crowley clenches his jaw so tightly Aziraphale can almost hear his teeth grinding together. A high spot of color appears on his cheekbones and he breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring. Just when Aziraphale is about to apologize for prying and attempt a go at kissing him back into good humor, Crowley growls softly and admits, “The bookshop, all right? It’s coordinates to the bloody bookshop.”

Home.

Aziraphale stares at him, utterly poleaxed. “You-” A sudden thought occurs to him, even as warmth floods his veins like heavenly sunlight. “The sword and the snake-”

Crowley sighs. “You. Me. Our beginning.”

“The Hamlet verse-”

“You liked that one.” Crowley sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and admits with a mumble to the ceiling, “Liked me for making it a hit.”

“I liked you anyway.” Aziraphale hesitates, thirsty for answers. “The dove?”

Crowley huffs and mutters, “You and your bloody magic tricks.”

Burying a smile in the warmth of Crowley’s flat belly, Aziraphale murmurs, “Knew you liked them.”

“Don’t.” Crowley snarls vehemently, then confesses softly, “Like you though.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to suspect.” Aziraphale tilts his head up just in time to see Crowley roll his eyes. “And…the feather on your ankle?”

Peering down at him in exasperation, Crowley asks, “You really don’t know?”

Aziraphale gazes back at him, feeling inexplicably bashful. “A tribute?”

A smirk curls Crowley’s tempting mouth. “Something like that.”

Swallowing tightly, Aziraphale ducks his head and stares with stinging eyes at the coordinates etched into Crowley’s lovely skin. All these years - centuries - of silent yearning, sure that a demon couldn’t possibly be capable of love, let alone with an angel - and Crowley has been harboring his own affections in plain sight. He has burned right alongside Aziraphale and instead of being a coward like him and saying nothing or saying words he thought might scare Aziraphale away, he’d made his body a love letter written in permanent ink. A monument to a longing never to be acknowledged, nor erased.

“Crowley,” he breathes, overwhelmed. So in love he wonders how this earthly vessel can bear it. “You soft-hearted serpent.”

Lifting his head from his pillow just enough to glower, Crowley threatens, “I will push you right out of this bed, Aziraphale. Don’t think I won’t.”

Aziraphale beams, lowering his mouth to the bookshop coordinates and sealing them with a kiss. Peering at Crowley through his lashes and pleased to find his annoyed expression utterly soft once more, he admits, “I love you awfully, you know.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sighs, dropping his head back to his pillow. His fingers begin to sift through his white-blonde hair and Aziraphale leans into the gentle touch with all the eagerness of six thousand years. “I know.”

vi. hands; south downs, 2025

The scent of freshly brewed Earl Grey and warm scones fills the breakfast nook as Aziraphale settles into the chair across from Crowley. With the windows open, the fragrance of Crowley’s prize begonias wafts through on the morning breeze, along with the sound of little Liam James down the road romping about with his new puppy.

Across the table, Crowley appears half-asleep as he scrolls through his mobile. Still in his black silk pajamas and his hair sleep-rumpled, he doesn’t appear to notice Aziraphale’s fond study of the pillow crease on his flushed cheek. “Any plans for the day, my dear?”

Crowley reaches for a scone slathered in cream. “Just threatening the wisteria.”

“Go easy on the poor things - it isn’t their fault we’ve had so much rain recently.” Aziraphale sniffs when Crowley only eyes him balefully, unmoved. “At least try being nice first.”

“And reward their bad behavior?” Crowley scoffs, stirring his tea. “I don’t think so.”

In the middle of reaching for another scone, Aziraphale doesn’t reply, distracted by the brand new ink on his ring finger. It still startles him every time he catches a glimpse of black out of the corner of his eye but in the best possible way. Like browsing his bookshelves and finding a splendid first edition he’d forgotten he had. He bites his lip, twisting his hand this way and that to admire it. “Are you certain it suits me?”

Crowley pauses mid-sip of Earl Grey and the smug glint in his eye is entirely indecent. “Like nothing else, angel.”

He smiles, his heart fluttering like a mad thing in his chest as Crowley strokes his bare foot over Aziraphale’s calf beneath the table. “And yours, my dear,” he says, gazing tenderly at the matching eternity symbol winding its way elegantly around Crowley’s ring finger. “I do believe it’s my favorite so far.”

“Yeah?” Crowley leans back in his chair, teacup cradled in his palm and his foot making a scandalous path up Aziraphale’s leg. The morning sun slanting through the open window makes his eyes glow amber. A slow, wide grin curls his mouth and Aziraphale thinks fleetingly, joyfully: husband. “Mine too.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my fic

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bloodofthefates · 4 years

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maligning & macarons

‘You should see to your girl about the lacing of your corset Madame, or is confinement in your near future? I imagine such a silhouette in the beauty of his salon would displease the King…’ Liselotte had arrived in France ignorant of how barbarous Louis’ courtiers could be, but she’d been armed from an early age to take little notice in the opinions of others particularly where her appearance was concerned. She was under no grand illusion regarding her looks, she was never to be any great beauty or muse of poetry and art as were other women of high noble birth but what she lacked in aesthetic she made up for in personality in spades. Her straightforward and blunt manor was a refreshing breath of fresh air in Versailles’ Garden of Eden where serpents coiled along the paths ready and waiting to strike. She possessed an affable temperament, as charming as she was witty and was well-versed in the art of gossip even when she became the central topic of conversation. It was, however, ill-advised for anyone to prey upon the growing size of her unborn child and face off against her fiercely protective mothering nature. The flippant comment was no match for Liselotte’s deteriorating self-image and mood swings, bolstered only by an unfathomable anger fueled solely by pregnancy hormones as she turned slowly to face her accuser demurely fanning herself to hide her self-satisfied smirk while looking to her circle of clucking hens surrounding her instead of directly at the Princess. “Would you care to repeat your opinion in the presence of Monsieur or even the King himself? If you think yourself so bold as to presume to know what would or would not please his majesty, surely you have the courage to tell him yourself.” Her words were light and airy in tone, but with menacing undercurrents that dared anyone to test what little patience she had left as she raised one brow expectantly. With one hand protectively placed over the growing and very visible bump, Liselotte took one step closer to the assembled gaggle and craned her neck as if straining to hear but no one offered anything more than shameful diverted gazes to the floor in front of their feet. “We cannot all be envious of your fine figure when so few of us can afford to eat so little as you.” Liselotte flashed a toothy smile, as much a threatening warning as it appeared to be jovial by any passersby. “I will be sure to inform the King how often you decline his generous offerings and the most delectable cuisine in all of France.” She feigned thoughtfulness as she lifted a finger to her chin in mock contemplation, side eyeing the other woman as horror struck her gaunt features and gave Liselotte a jolt of malicious satisfaction. “And as for any further discussion regarding me or my family, you would do well to remember I carry the child of the King’s beloved brother and possibly a future King of France. Good day.” She dismissed them with a turn of her skirts and her chin held high in rebellion but only until the guards opened the doors and closed them behind her once she’d made it to the safety of the hallway. It was only then that she let out the deep breath she’d been holding in, feeling the flush rise in her cheeks and a faint ringing in her ears as she leaned against the nearest column for support. She felt the welling of angry tears prickling her eyes and her entire head swimming from the sudden heat, a rolling wave of nausea churning in her stomach from so many floral scents swirling together in one room and her heart thumping in her chest as if it were somehow to break free of her ribcage. Leaning her head back, she sighed in exasperation as she stared up at the ornate ceiling and took in a deep breath, both hands falling to her stomach as she cradled her unborn child over the material of her lavish dress.

#✲ LISELOTTE [ musings ]#✲ LISELOTTE [ interactions ]#open rp starter #versailles rp #louis xiv #versailles #french court rp #louis xiv rp #open starter?#we don't know

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norbah · 4 years

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Huitzilopochtli

-Saber (5*)

The proud Aztec god of war and the sun, Huitzilopochtli was born armed and ready for battle. The serpent of flame, Xiuhcoatl, was his weapon. His first action was the wholesale slaughter of his 400 brothers and dismemberment of his sister Coyolxauhqui in defense of his mother. Although he is technically a Pseudoservant, his face is not a familiar one, as he inhabits the body of a particularly worthy Mexica warrior. He does not tolerate weaklings as his Master, and one would be well advised to pull their weight and prove their worth as a warrior early on, lest the violent deity withdraw his favor and support.

Huitzilopochtli is particularly difficult to get along with at first. Mages remind him uncomfortably of Tezcatlipoca, the Aztec god of night, and thus his relationship with his Master will be automatically on the wrong foot from the start. He respects strength and valor, and rankles at cowards and cheats. He revels in violence and has little patience for activities unrelated to combat, meaning training is one of the few ways to bond with him.

Huitzilopochtli is brimming with raw power, and believes in honorable combat, although he finds the idea of giving his opponent a choice in the matter laughable. If Huitzilopochtli wishes to fight you, there’s not much you can do to avoid it. He is vulnerable to ambushes and assassinations, and it is no exaggeration to say his weakest point is his Master. The low respect he has for mages as a whole means he is unlikely to protect them at first. Indeed, if he finds them to be cowardly or spineless, he is perfectly willing to stand back and watch them be killed, as defeat is preferable to cowardice. Unlike his brother Quetzalcoatl, Huitzilopochtli loves only the strong among humanity, and will expect his Master to personally take the life of at least one other Master during the Grail War.

However, he is no mindless Berserker, and relishes the use of strategy against his enemies. If one can prove to him that their mind is sharp and well-versed in the art of tactics, he will quickly grow to respect his partner, and may even waive his demands for actual combat from them. It would be a good idea to avoid suggesting an assassination or underhanded tactics to him, however. The memories of what the deceitful Spaniards did to his people still make him bristle with blazing rage.

He burns through mana at an alarming rate, and unless one has enough in reserve, he is likely to go find a worthy sacrifice, or worse still, demand that his Master provide one for him. He will not select civilians, not out of concern for justice or discretion, or even mercy, but because he wishes only for warriors as sacrifices to himself. Anything less is unworthy.

In the context of the Grand Order, the chief god of Mesoamerica is easier to handle. Being surrounded with mighty warriors from across all ages and nations, he is quite enamored with the concept of testing himself against them. To his delight, there are many capable of holding their own against him, even if for a short while. He also has a secret soft spot for mothers, and will go out of his way to assist them if he can.

Inevitably, he will come to respect the last Master of Chaldea, as their struggles against insurmountable odds speak of true valor and strength of spirit. Indeed, he will go as far as to refer to them affectionately as “Tlatoani” after a while.

All in all, Huitzilopochtli is proud, stubborn, violent, and difficult. But should you earn his trust, there is no ally more steadfast and fierce you could find than the Fifth Sun.

ACTIVE SKILLS

Charisma B+

Although Huitzilopochtli and his people were the dominant culture of Mesoamerica, they did not reach this summit through diplomacy, but rather coercion and fear. Other tribes obeyed them only until somebody crueler than the Aztecs came along and offered to depose them.

----Increases all allies’ Atk.

Lake Texcoco

Huitzilopochtli could be an unreasonable deity, but he could also be a guiding hand. Through the augury of an eagle devouring a snake atop a prickly pear, he led his people from the mythical Aztlan to what would one day be Tenochtitlan: an island in a lake, infested with venomous snakes. The surrounding tribes gifted the island to the Mexica people, expecting them to die. But the Mexica ate the snakes, and claimed the island for their own.

----Increases allies’ Atk and Def. (3 turns)

----All allies gain Debuff Resist (3 times)

Blue Hummingbird EX

This skill is an embodiment of his nature as the bloodthirsty chief of the gods. As the sun, he gave life to all beings on earth. He demands blood in return, that he may be strong enough to hold back the eternal night. As his allies are spirits much like himself, he does not take their hearts as tribute, but rather drinks from them without taking their lives.

----An ally of your choosing loses 50% of their remaining health

----Increases own Buster strength depending on how much health was taken from ally (3 turns)

----Extra effect if NP is used (1 turn)

NOBLE PHANTASM

Name: Tonatiuh

Rank: A+

Class: Buster

Type: Anti-Army

“I am Light. I am War. I am he who holds the Moon and Stars at bay. Gaze now upon me as I am reborn from the Southeast. I am the Fifth Sun—- TONATIUH!”

As the dual deity of war and the sun, Huitzilopochtli displays unbridled power that few can rival. In Aztec myth, he is our current sun, and his power is what keeps the moon and stars from descending upon the Earth and devouring all living on it. This power grows as he is fed the blood and hearts of captured warriors, or even allies deemed worthy of this honor. This Noble Phantasm manifests this legend by transforming into the Solar Disc, Tonatiuh, and unleashing his might towards the surrounding area. Those blessed by him will feel the warmth of the sun on their skin and the strength of their allies at their side, giving them the spirit to fight more fiercely, while those who stand against him will feel the devastating power of the Sun in its most bloodthirsty and violent form.

----Deals significant damage to all enemies

----Increase Atk for all allies. (3 turns)

----Stuns Self for 3 turns (Demerit)

----If under the effect of Blue Hummingbird EX, Huitzilopochtli is not stunned. Instead, increase Atk by fraction of HP taken as tribute. (Effect increases with Overcharge. 100% is an increase by 50% of the tribute. 200% is an increase by 75%. So on.)

Additional quotes for other Servants: -Quetzalcoatl: “Quetzalcoatl, my brother! It has been too long! ... You... seem different than I remember you. ... Did you do something with your hair? And do you know what happened to my Piedra del Sol?” He still holds Quetzalcoatl in high regard, as one of the few siblings who aided him in defending their mother, Coatlicue against Coyolxauhqui. As such, Quetz is one of the very few people you will catch Huitz being affectionate with... and is, in fact, the only Servant capable of calling him Huitz without starting a fight. -Jaguar Man: “I see you in there, Tepeyollotl. You think you can hide behind this woman, but I know you’re in there. ... Eh? You evicted him? You evicted the Heart of the Mountain? ... I would not have liked to be in his place. You have my respect.” Huitzilopochtli respects but mistrusts Tezcatlipoca and all his avatars. To find that this woman was willful enough to turn the tables on the Smoking Mirror is a very welcome surprise, but he will keep an eye on her nonetheless. -Karna: “You there, spearman. Stop for a moment. Something links us. I can feel it. ... Ah. I understand now. ... You are a capable warrior, I see. Would you join me in the sparring ring? I would like to know you better. We are practically family, after all.” He sees Karna as a nephew of sorts, being the son and incarnation of another sun god, albeit a much less violent one. Challenging Karna to brutal fights is his equivalent of playing catch with the demigod. -Leonidas: “You are not Mexica, are you? No. Your weaponry and armor, it is too different. But I see it in your eyes; that same sliver of the sun that burned in my warriors. Please, grant me the honor of joining me in a spar.” He simply recognizes a man who may have been an Eagle Knight or even a Tlatoani, had he been born in a different time and place. He goes all out against Leonidas as a sign of respect, and is delighted to discover just how strong and durable the Spartan is. -Tiamom: “I... Mother? Mother, is that you? ... No. No, not quite. You feel like her, and I hear her in your voice, but you’re much gentler. Yet... somehow, it feels like you’re... I’m so confused.” This is where Huitz is the most vulnerable. He is dearly fond of his mother, and sees much of her in the Foreigner Tiamat. Both are mother goddesses, greatly associated with the earth and with serpents, and both were turned on by their own children. Huitz can't help but feel protective of Tiamat, and subtly tries to make her proud of him. It is a good thing she can look after herself. If his new surrogate mother were threatened, there's no telling how much carnage Huitz would cause in his desire to protect her. -Artemis: “A moon goddess? Pah. More trouble than they’re worth, the lot of them. Watch your back, Master, lest you find a dagger in it.” Self explanatory. Huitzilopochtli feels great distaste for moon goddesses, and would see no problem in getting rid of all of them to avoid a potential Coyolxauqui 2.0.

#fgo #fanservant #huitzilopochtli #dammit all i caved and made one of these #actually kinda happy with him but i'm worried his NP might be a bit overpowered #oc

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