#Dream is being genuine— perhaps a genuine idiot— but genuine nevertheless. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

miss-1ng · 3 years

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Dimiclaude kiss prompt no. 55?

this turned out... longer than i intended lmao

also hope you're okay with a soulmate au, because this is the only idea i had for this lol! thanks for requesting <3 <3

(also a warning for spoilers about claude's backstory and maybe dimitri's a little bit but otherwise i'm pretty sure everything is spoiler-free!!)

His name is Khalid, is what Dimitri’s mind - wide awake from the searing sting of finally gaining his soulmark - says, barely a whisper while when Ingrid got hers, she screamed with joy the moment she found out her soulmate was Glenn.

That was a year ago, on the fourth of the Guardian Moon, precisely the day of her birth, which was celebrated with her family and friends.

It’s legend that you become of age to receive a soulmark from the day you turn twelve to the day you turn sixteen. Sylvain, two years older, had, unsurprisingly received his two years prior to Ingrid and Felix who both received theirs when they officially became of age.

Dimitri however, while not exactly a rare case, though not a complete normality, had received his a year later than which his childhood friends did, at age 13.

Her mark glistens a glittering gold on the inside of her left wrist, corresponding with Glenn’s which is on the inside of his right one. Dimitri remembers her gushing how when the first time they held hands, their marks shone when they touched.

He also remembers Felix gagging and glaring at the two lovebirds for the rest of the day, completely enraptured with one another and nothing else.

As of that day, their betrothal was made official, now that Ingrid had her mark to confirm the one Glenn owned.

That was a while back now, and today, an exact year later, is Dimitri’s birthday. The mark on his arm stings, but as his eyes really take in the word in beautiful script on his wrist, he begins to ignore the pain.

Exactly three hours later, he’s at the Felix and Glenn’s home, sitting outside on the grass with the two of them, having recently abandoned the wooden training swords. Glenn is a full four years older than all of them, except Sylvain, who is only two years older. Yet despite his age Glenn still treats them the same.

When Dimitri finally shows the two his soulmark after lots of nagging, he notices the way Felix bites his lip and averts his gaze.

But before he can question it, Felix teases “You’re going to have a boyfriend!” before bursting out into laughter.

Dimitri hadn’t even thought of that, fully focused on the fact that he has a soulmark and not on the fact that his soulmate has the name of a boy.

He… isn’t too sure what to feel about that.

“And you are too,” Glenn calls in a sing-song voice to his younger brother, only to get fiercely elbowed in the stomach. A scowl has found its way onto the bright-eyed boy’s face.

Dimitri doesn’t say a word. Felix has been oddly secretive about his soulmark ever since he got it a month after Ingrid’s, while she had been flouncing it around whenever she got the chance and wasn’t with Glenn. Though at the same time, even at thirteen, Felix has been secretive, spending more time by himself than with the group unless he was absolutely forced too.

“Shut up!” he snaps, folding his arms and pouting. “I hate you.”

“So kind, Fe,” Glenn teases with a grin, ruffling his younger brother’s hair.

Silently Dimitri wonders what it would be like if he was in Glenn’s shoes, and he had a little brother of his own.

The silence Dimitri’s indulged in gets broken with a familiar call, and Dimitri turns to see Sylvain, even taller than the last time he saw his friend, standing alongside Ingrid who immediately rushes to greet Dimitri with a hug before running over to Glenn.

“Happy birthday, Dimitri!” Sylvain hollers the second he closes the door, separating the kids from the adults indoors. He joins the group. “How does it feel to no longer be the only soulmate-less one?” He adds a wink as if the very phrase itself wasn’t terrible enough.

A collective group of groans reverberate around the circle they’ve formed.

“You’re an idiot,” Felix grumbles to the older teen, averting all eye contact and instead vouching for a heated glare at the grass. Oh, if looks could kill.

“Aww, I love you too, Fe,” Sylvain teases, still grinning merrily as if he nothing is wrong with the world.

Felix’s face flushes. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Ingrid laughs. “I can say it too, if you’d like.” She clears her throat, as if beginning some long and important speech. “Aww, I love you too, Felix.”

“Now that’s left is Dimitri,” Glenn notes, looking at him.

The younger Fraldarius looks just about ready to bolt as Dimitri says “Aww, I love you too, Felix.”

Instead, he just mutters “It’s your birthday so I’ll take it. Just this once though.”

Sylvain leans close to Dimitri and whispers in a not-so-quiet voice “A little birdy told me you received your soulmark!” Bold black cursive writing stares up at him with non-existent eyes and he feels his heart start to thud.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump.

He doesn’t reply, instead peeling his sleeve a little higher above and shows Ingrid and Sylvain his soulmark.

The taller of the two squints at it, as if it’s hard to see. Ingrid’s reaction is more surprised, by the way her eyes widen, and her jaw goes a little slack. She fixes it when she sees his eyes on her with a small smile. “That’s great, Dimitri! It’s so pretty,” she gushes in a very un-Ingrid manner, but the twinkle in her eyes is all the same. “I wonder when you’ll meet your soulmate…”

“Khalid’s not a Fódlan name,” Sylvain offhandedly comments. Dimitri frowns at him, and he hastily continues. “I mean it’s not a Fódlan name I’ve heard. Who knows? You could get some hottie from Duscur or Brigid.”

“Of course, someone from Duscur or Brigid would come all the way over for our Prince,” Glenn drily says, pecking Ingrid on the cheek at her wide-eyed smile. “We’re not getting rid of him that easily.”

His soulmark was something Dimitri was very focused on for a while.

Then Duscur happened and everything seemed to fall apart.

His family, his friends… everything changed. The mark on Ingrid’s wrist faded to a black splotch, and the golden writing had completely disappeared.

Felix had shut himself off completely, not leaving his room unless he was training and not talking to anyone unless he was yelling at them.

Sylvain… seemed more closed off – more subdued. Dimitri saw him less and less as the months ebbed on.

And Dimitri… Dimitri couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus, couldn’t even think. His dreams being haunted by the dead, his father begging for revenge, Glenn hissing in his ear, taunting him, his mother, crying at his feet.

“You should’ve saved us,” they hiss. “Kill them for us. Kill them all!”

It’s not the first time he wakes to a cold sweat, a scream hanging on the edge of his lips.

He’s sent to live, along with the Duscur boy he met, Dedue, at Rodrigue’s place, and there Dimitri finds it frequent where he gets the full brunt of Felix’s verbal abuse. He wants to talk back, to say it wasn’t his fault, but he can’t find the words, can’t even find the motivation to speak. Instead, he just nods, silent, and Dedue finds him, concern lingering in his gaze.

It’s like that for a while.

Then the rebellion happens, and Felix seems to hate him even more.

It’s almost a relief when he arrives to the Officers Academy.

There he meets Edelgard von Hresvelg (or reunites, perhaps, if his hunch is in fact correct), heir to the Empire, and Claude von Riegan, heir to House Riegan.

Claude is… well… Claude is a lot of things.

In their audience with Rhea, he is stiff and stoic-faced, though the second they’re released from the chamber, he introduces himself properly to Dimitri. “So, you’re the prince,” he says with a wink. “Nice to meet you.”

“It is good to meet you too,” says Dimitri in return, dipping his head. He offers a small smile.

It’s not the only time they talk. As the year ebbs on, Dimitri gets to know Claude, should it be through sparring together, or even tea times Claude has insisted on. Claude is… well, first of all he’s nice and he’s kind, and he’s also very funny. He seems to bring a smile to Dimitri’s face whenever he’s around, and not only that but he’s…

…he’s beautiful.

Maybe it’s his smile, Dimitri supposes, his genuine one, or maybe those piercing green eyes. He’s also been good looking.

Sometimes when they train, Dimitri catches himself staring, and Claude’s caught him too, offering a wink and a teasing comment without any heat.

Not only that but Dimitri’s heart flutters whenever he’s around Claude, and he has to remind himself constantly that this isn’t okay because Claude is not his soulmate. The mark on his wrist proves just that much.

“You’re staring, your Highness.”

Dimitri flinches, almost forgetting that Sylvain is opposite him, lazily twirling his lance. He smirks at his childhood friend. “Got your eyes on someone?”

It would be great if he was immune to Sylvain’s teasing, but he is only human, and heat rises to his cheeks. “No!” His voice sounds a few pitches higher than it usually is. He clears his throat, averting his gaze from Claude who turns away from Hilda who he’s sparring with (how he got her to do so remains a mystery to the school) to offer a questioning brow. “I mean, uh, no. Of course not.”

“Sure, sure.”

Sylvain doesn’t sound at all convinced. He leans closer, whispering in Dimitri’s ear, “I mean Riegan is pretty hot. I don’t think even your soulmate would blame you for checking him out.”

Dimitri splutters, “W-what?”

“I have to go,” Sylvain says. “Pick up some of the ladies- oh, hey, Fe!” He runs off towards the direction of Felix who enters the training ground, and Dimitri doesn’t stop him, staring into the distance as his cheeks turn redder and redder as the seconds pass.

Nevertheless, Dimitri still goes out of his way to spend his time with Claude, pointedly ignoring his soulmark whenever he does.

“Your princliness!” Claude calls, waving in greeting as he runs over to him. Dimitri tries not to blush when he yet again winks.

“Claude!” He tries his hardest not to sound too surprised. “What-what are you doing here?”

He looks amazing. Dressed in a sharp suit he’s seen many of the other students wearing, his hair tousled and falling in front of his eyes. “I think the proper question is what are you doing here? Dedue’s worried about you. Says you haven’t even showed up to the ball and-”

Dimitri’s brain seems to shut off, his mind not listening as he surges forwards, closing the distance between them with a kiss.

It lasts two seconds. Maybe three.

Because immediately after their lips touch Dimitri lets go, eyes wide. “I- that was out of line,” he rushes. “I’m sorry, Claude, I shouldn’t have done that-”

But Claude pulls him back in, and Dimitri feels the mark on his wrist burn and-

He stares down at it, watching the white handwriting shimmer to gold. “What…?”

“I have been waiting so long to do that,” Claude breathes, oblivious to Dimitri’s confusion. He raises an eyebrow, clutching his hands. “Hey, what’s wrong…?”

“Khalid,” Dimitri breathes. Claude’s eyes widen. “That’s your name?”

“I-” Claude pauses, before nodding. “Yes. It is.”

Dimitri pulls him close, arms wrapping around him. He kisses Claude – or is it Khalid? – again, and again, and again. “It’s a beautiful name.”

“Mmhm.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Their night ends not in the ballroom, but outside under the moonlight, the memory of soft kisses and warm embraces never to leave Dimitri’s mind.

#fe3h #dimiclaude #request #kiss prompt #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #claude von riegan #my fanfics

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kiyodu · 3 years

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The Letters of Vincent van Gogh (Part II)

Quotes I Enjoy:

• When one lives with others and is bound by feelings of affection, then one realises that one has a reason for living, that one may not be utterly worthless and expendable, but it is perhaps good for something, since we need one another and are journeying together as compagnons de voyage.

• I find it hard to bear this thought and even harder to bear the thought that so much dissension, misery and sorrow between us, and in our home, may have been caused by me. Should that indeed be the case, then I might wish it were granted me not to have much longer to live.

Yet when this thought sometimes depresses me beyond measure, far too deeply, then after a long time another occurs too: 'Perhaps it is only an awful, frightening dream and later we may learn to see and understand it more clearly.'

• It is sometimes so bitterly cold in the winter that one says, 'The cold is too awful for me to care whether summer is coming or not; the harm outdoes the good.' But with or without our approval, the severe weather does come to an end eventually and one fine morning the wind changes and there is a thaw. When I compare the state of weather to our state of mind and our circumstances, subject to change and fluctuation like the weather, then I still have some hope that things may get better.

• It is true that I have forfeited the trust of various people, it is true that my financial affairs are in a sorry state, it is true that my future looks rather bleak, it is true that I might have done better, it is true I have wasted time when it comes to earning a living, it is true that my studies are in a fairly lamentable and appalling state, and that my needs are greater, infinitely greater than my resources. But does that mean going downhill and doing nothing?

• If I do nothing, if I study nothing, if I cease searching, then, woe is me. I am lost. That is how I look at it - keep going, keep going come what may. But what is your final goal, you may ask. That goal will become clearer, will emerge slowly but surely, much as the draft turns into the sketch and the sketch into the painting through the serious work done on it, through the elaboration of the original vague idea and through the consolidation of the first fleeting and passing thought.

• You said, we used to agree about many things, but, you added, 'You have changed since then, you are no longer the same.' Well, that is not entirely true. What has changed is that my life then was less difficult and my future seemingly less gloomy, but as far as my inner self, my way of looking at things and of thinking is concerned, that has not changed.

But if there has indeed been a change, then it is that I think, believe and love more seriously now what I thought, believed and loved even then.

• Can you tell what goes on within by looking at what happens without? There may be a great fire in your soul, but no one ever comes to warm himself by it, all that passers-by can see is a little smoke coming out of the chimney and they walk on.

• You may never have thought what your country really is, he continued, placing his hand on my shoulder; it is everything around you, everything that has raised and nourished you, everything that you have loved. This countryside that you see, these houses, these trees, these young girls laughing as they pass, that is your country!

The laws that protect you, the bread that rewards your labour, the words you speak, the joy and sorrow that come from the people and things in whose midst you live, that is your country! The little room where you used in days gone by to see your mother, the memories she left you, the earth in which she rests, that is your country!

You see it, you breathe it, everywhere! Imagine your rights and your duties, your affections and your needs, your memories and your gratitude, gather all that together under a single name and that name will be your country.

• Sometimes he is a person whose right to exist has a justification that is not always immediately obvious to you, or more usually, you may absent-mindedly allow it to slip from your mind. Someone who has been wandering about for a long time, tossed to and fro on a stormy sea, will in the end reach his destination. Someone who has seemed to be good for nothing, unable to fill any job, any appointment, will find one in the end and, energetic and capable, will prove himself quite different from what he seemed at first.

• I should be very happy if you could see in me something more than a kind of ne'er-do-well. For there is a great difference between one ne'er-do-well and another ne'er-do-well. There is someone who is a ne'er-do-well out of laziness and lack of character, owing to the baseness of his nature. If you like, you may take me for one of those.

Then there is the other kind of ne'er-do-well, the ne'er-do-well despite himself, who is inwardly consumed by a great longing for action, who does nothing because his hands are tied, because he is, so to speak, imprisoned somewhere, because he lacks what he needs to be productive, because disastrous circumstances have brought him forcibly to this end.

Such a one does not always know what he can do, but he nevertheless instinctively feels, I am good for something! My existence is not without reason! I know that I could be a quite different person! How can I be of use, how can I be of service? There is something inside me, but what can it be? He is quite another ne'er-do-well. If you like you may take me for one of those.

• A caged bird in spring knows perfectly well that there is some way in which he should be able to serve. He is well aware that there is something to be done, but he is unable to do it. What is it? He cannot quite remember, but then he gets a vague inkling and he says to himself, "The others are building their nests and hatching their young and bringing them up," and then he bangs his head against the bars of the cage.

But the cage does not give way and the bird is maddened by pain. 'What a ne'er-do-well,' says another bird passing by - what an idler. Yet the prisoner lives and does not die. There are no outward signs of what is going on inside him, he is doing well, he is quite cheerful in the sunshine.

But then the season of the great migration arrives: an attack of melancholy. He has everything he needs, say the children who tend him in his cage - but he looks out, the heavy thundery sky, and in his heart of hearts he rebels against his fate. I am caged and you say I need nothing, you idiots! I have everything I need, indeed! Oh, please give me the freedom to be a bird like other birds.

• A justly or unjustly ruined reputation, poverty, disastrous circumstances, misfortune, they all turn you into a prisoner. You cannot always tell what keeps you confined, what immures you, what seems to bury you, and yet you can feel those elusive bars, railings, walls. Is all this illusion, imagination? I don't think so. And then one asks: my God, will it be for long, will it be forever, will it be for eternity?

Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But wherever affection is revived, there life revives. Moreover, the prison is sometimes called prejudice, misunderstanding, fatal ignorance of one thing or another, suspicion, fake modesty.

• If you ever fall in love, do so without reservation, or rather, if you should fall in love simply give no thought to any reservation. Moreover, when you do fall in love, you will not 'feel certain' of success beforehand. You will be a lost soul and yet you will smile.

• When he reads something profound, he doesn't immediately come out with: that man means this or that. For poetry is so deep and intangible that one cannot define it systematically. But Mauve has a keen sensibility and, you see, I find that sensibility worth a great deal more than definitions and criticisms.

• Books like that are filled with reality, but what is more real than reality itself and where is there more life than in life itself? And we who are doing our best to live, if only we lived a great deal more!

• Who is the master, logic or I, does logic exist for me or do I exist for logic, and is there no reason or sense in my unreasonableness or my lack of sense?

• I am anything but a man of learning, and I am so amazingly ignorant, oh, just like so many others and even more so than others, but I am unable to judge that myself and can judge others even less than myself and am often mistaken. But we pick up the scent as we wander about and there is some good in every movement.

• The world, however, does not reason like that and never sees or respects man's 'humanity' but only the greater or lesser value of the money or goods he carries with him so long as he is on this side of the grave. The world takes no account at all of what happens beyond the grave. That is why the world goes no further than its feet will take it.

#vincent van gogh #the letters of vincent van gogh

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sor-vette · 3 years

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four, circus!! (index/description)

☜ three, an all-out fight club!!

☞ five, dots!!

t/w: dead bodies, mention of overdose

"This has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever seen," Yoongi thinks to himself as he blankly stares at Jimin, transferring the PPT file to the projector.

123 slides in "Reasonable arguments as to why we should date, _̵͚̾͌_̶̢̛̘̅͛̕_̶̡̧̝͗̒̋̌̚_̴̮̒̍̿̃͠ .

"Wrong PowerPoint bro," Jungkook grunts with closed eyes. No doubt the idiot had tried to stalk you throughout the night. It's been three days since Erik had officially enrolled.

Namjoon also has his eyes fixed on the projector, his expression giving nothing away.

"Resigned to death, poor bastard, as you should."

Jimin momentarily looks behind him to see why Jin had started to snort in laughter before scrambling to choose another file.

56 slides in "What do we know about Erik and what to do about it?"

"The title could be less verbose," Jin remarks, spinning his chair around the room.

"You're one to talk, literally," Jimin sneers but, there is very little malice in his voice if any. Besides Namjoon, V and Hope, who actually stuck to his word of minding his business, Yoongi didn't know anyone personally in the room. Though he sure has heard of the connections they had with you. Each weirder than the other.

Namjoon, the CEO, the one who went overboard in commitment and scared you off. Rumour was he offered marriage before the first "I like you." But that as well could be bullshit.

Hope, with the most cordial contact out of all. And also the most distant. You two had fundamentally different perceptions of how the world worked. Incompatible match, as the saying goes.

Jin. Despite the grandeur of his character, Yoongi knew very little of him. Even less as to why you left. He presumed the lack of commitment on both sides.

Jimin, the almost. For five months Yoongi had to hear nothing but coy whispers of just what good friends you two were. What good time you both had jumping back and forth from Paris and home. And then with zero explanation, you weren't. Every once in a while, he'd see the two of you in the hallway. Working hard to suffer through an exchange of pleasantries between long awkward pauses. The whispers had been effectively stomped to death, with no one the wiser as to what the hell had happened.

V, the one you hated and the one who hated you. How the two of you even met was beyond anyone's understanding. How you didn't rip each other's throat out even more so. Why he was here? God only knew.

And the last one, JK. Your trainee before Erik. The one who'd shamelessly bounced, leaving you in the dust when the enrollment came with a nary of thank you. After that, you officially joined the cleaner department and largely went missing from the public eye.

And, of course, Yoongi himself. The only official boyfriend. The one who officially broke both of your hearts.

"If all of you could please focus!" Jimin snapped, standing with a wad of paper in hand, waving it like a teacher in front of particularly annoying group of students.

"He even made notes," Namjoon whispered faintly.

"More like a manifesto," Yoongi snickered, letting his eyes wander over the sheer thickness of the file.

"Silence!" For a split second, Yoongi wanted to make a jab about a chihuahua being able to bark, but having considered his own height, he chose to be silent.

"So, let's start with basics. Erik Genyer. Joined two and a half years ago through a recruitment agent. He's 24, lived in Seattle before moving here. No known parents or siblings." Jimin recounted with ease.

"I hope you didn't look through his records," Namjoon frowned at the screen. "Because I did not authorize that."

"Does it count as looking if it's a brief glance?"

"Yes."

"And yet here you are benefitting from it." Namjoon could only breathe through his nose a tad harder.

"Why are you telling us this?" Jin interjected. "Mr CEO here could just give us his file - we'd read for ourselves."

"I will not. That's against company policy."

"And what you're doing here is completely legal and non - invasive." Jin raised his eyebrows, not phased even in the slightest that he was much below Namjoon's position.

"Silence!" Jimin yelped again at the front. "Has anyone here worked with Erik?"

"Hope definitely has," V piped up from his seat, looking as uninterested as one could. Yoongi narrowed his eyes at him. V took the piercing glare in stride, haughtily turning away.

"Well, yes but..." Jimin shuffled on the stage almost awkwardly. "He has strictly declined the invitation to our little... boy band."

"Wait does that mean he could tell _̸̢͉̦͔̣͈̱̅́́̓͊̇̂̓́̕͝ͅ_̸̨̙͚̻̬͖͉̻͔̑̓͐͜ - I mean R.D.?" Jungkook suddenly asks, eyes wide. Even Yoongi blanched at the thought. Everyone straightened in their seats. This was all fun and games until the moment you knew. Oh, you'd rip each and every one of them a new asshole. All of them could kiss goodbye to any attempt of trying to mend bridges. By that point, there wouldn't even be a river stretching underneath.

"I sincerely hope not." Jimin whispers and they sit in a moment of silence, weighing the risks.

"Heh, hope not." Jin suddenly gives a breathy laugh solely to be met by a general aura of disapproval.

"It's not funny." Namjoon scolds slightly but, Jin being Jin, openly looks him into eyes and goes -

"I know."

Amidst the banter, JK raises his hand shyly.

"I trained with him for a short while."

"And what is he like?" Jimin's eyes almost sparkled at anyone giving an actual insight.

"He must be wearing contacts or something," Yoongi mused, pushing the cap of his water bottle around the table. He knew Jimin to be attractive. No one in the entire company would shut up about it, nevertheless, something about him seemed almost supernatural.

JK shrugged in response.

"A bit rude and careless but talented. He finished training early."

"Did it seem like he was particularly going after her?" Namjoon interrogated further. There was a deep scowl of resentment on his face.

"Uhh, no. I think he was interested in the cleaner department in general. Apparently, he spent most of his orientation there."

"He also spent a month in surveillance. Did you speak with him...V?" If V was surprised by Jimin addressing him personally, he didn't show it as he continued to inspect his nails.

"Didn't even know he was there."

"Why did he stay so long in the cleaner department?" Yoongi asked as he ran over the information on the screen. Besides the already mentioned month in surveillance and a week in networking and relations, this Erik hadn't even tried to apply anywhere else.

"Poor communication skills. I had to throw him out. That's why he was only there a week." Jin explained.

"So you spoke to him?"

"Well, no, Irina," he was interrupted by a hollow thud. Without prompt V had dropped his steel thermos onto the desk, tea splattering everywhere and staining JK's jacket in the process. Both of them fumbled to clean it up with anything they could. V dabbed the desk harshly, the wood creeking at every aggressive wipe. Yoongi saw Jin looking sideways, the same confused expression echoed on his face.

"Well, as I was saying, Irina, R.D.'s friend, I'm sure you're familiar, came to me, said he was causing trouble and asked to refer him."

"And you sent him to R.D.?"

Jin gave a deeply suffering sigh.

"No, I did not send him. I referred him to general management and they gave him to the cleaners ."

"Ok, I get all of this. But what are we supposed to do about him?" Namjoon interrupted, jaw set in a tight grip.

Jimin fell silent at the front of the room.

"Yeah, this was the main question." Yoongi thought bitterly.

It was all a question of ethics, wasn't it? JK could pretend all he wanted to be above it all, to be respectful but then he trailed secret circles around you. Whether from guilt or perhaps a sense of entitlement. Yoongi didn't know or really care. Nevertheless the kid clearly had a hard time differentiating between what he said and what he did. Yoongi was however surprised to see Namjoon be so eager. He quite fancied making himself bald from worrying about the nature of evil. Just how easy it was to hide it behind big aspirations of providing aid. But it seemed as of late all of that was tossed aside.

Jimin was the one who orchestrated this in the first place, and so naturally, everyone looked at him for guidance. He was still shuffling around, nervously fiddling the blue pen.

"Well, first of all, I think we should talk more to R.D." A huff passed around the room.

"Talk to her?" V asked sceptically, mouth set in a straight line and heavy wrinkles carved between brows.

"Do you have any idea how difficult that would be?"

"Certainly it would be for you," Yoongi snarled, earning a harsh glare.

"Listen, at the end of the day, it's not really about us trying to force her into something. It's just to make sure... she's living a safe life. Well, the safest that's possible." Jimin said with enough sincerity to trigger certain insecurities within Yoongi and by the look of it also Namjoon.

It was no secret that between the seven, they were the most possessive over you. Both having the wrong idea that you were theirs. Which is why you left and why you probably were so caught up in Jimin. The purity and sheer selflessness of his sentiments acted like a punch to the gut. The genuine care that he reflected like a sun made the raw wound in Yoongi's chest seep even more. To be loved like that would be a dream come true. Yoongi shifted his attention to the laminated floor.

"We talk to her, find out what her life is like, keep a close eye on what Erik does. Talk to other cleaners about him, and once we find out, she's happy. That's. The. End. Of. That." There was no uncertainty. Jimin was dead serious.

The meeting was adjourned, quite amicably actually, but Yoongi knew that the rest of them had ulterior motives and plans. He had them too.

Jin and JK were no threat. Both were too uncertain of what to do with you.

Jimin had some deep-seated self esteem issues. Despite his 123 slide presentation, the way he spoke made it clear. That's probably why the abrupt parting, Yoongi mused. Both of you most likely shared the same anxiety about not being good enough for the other.

V was just V.

Namjoon was the only one Yoongi was truly worried about. Even from looking at his back, walking headstrong up the stairs, Yoongi could see how stubborn Namjoon was. In a way, it was like looking in a mirror. The possessiveness, the mulish mindset. They'd saw you, all of you and had decided that this was it. Yes, Namjoon would certainly be the toughest rival. However, Yoongi was very good at playing the long game. Especially if he wanted something so bad it felt like his thorax slowly being ripped out.

All that was left was Hope. But he wasn't even a viable player. After all, he hadn't even shown up.

***

"Why the fuck is he so heavy?" Erik grunted, swaying left and right and holding onto his dear life to the bagged pair of legs.

"Rigor mortis...set in," you huffed in answer, from the upfront of the body. "At least he wasn't rotting already. That's just nasty. 1, 2, 3."

Both of you lift the body into the van and let the poor bastard drop with a soft thud. Sweat pooled underneath your white hazmat suit with plastic glasses digging straight into your brain. You banged hard against the "EMT" van, and it drove away, carrying Dr. Martin Leyster to the morgue.

Should the neighbours see anything, it was a sad story of a depressed psychiatrist accidentally overdosing on his own meds. The evidence of him manipulating his most vulnerable patients into bankruptcy erased in you any stray feelings of sympathy though.

"You have the peroxide?" You rifled through the cleanup bag, but instead of answering, Erik began to actively point somewhere behind your back. A cold chill ran up your spine as you realize someone has been watching you stuff the body in the trunk. It quickly dissipates when you see a familiar smile.

"Hard at work, I see," Hope whistled, bounding towards you more like a kid on a school trip, rather than what the reality was.

"May I borrow your mentor for a bit?" He asked politely, still smiling up at Erik. There was no warmth in his expression.

"You are after all now an official member of the cleaner crew. Surely you can handle this on your own."

Erik looks at you for a moment before giving a loud sigh and trudging back to Leyster's office, the white toolbox angrily swishing back and forth in his hand.

Without hesitation, you remove the glasses from your head, revelling in the ease of pressure. Hope had stopped smiling altogether, looking quite pensive.

"What brings you here?" You ask lightly. To see him here is not worrying per se, but certainly interesting. He gives a quick shrug.

"Nothing much. Wanted to see how you were doing after that runt's little stunt." You only laugh at the shallow animosity. Erik's talent to drive people out of their patience was truly remarkable.

"I'm doing fine. You know... working. What about you?"

"I've been working as well."

You both fall silent.

"You ever thought about leaving the BH?" He suddenly asked, and you quirk a brow at the question.

"Not particularly. Have you?" Hope focuses a blank gaze at the grey walls of the multi-story apartment complex.

"A little bit. Last few days especially." You stand in muted shock. Hope was the last person you thought would quit. He was, without doubt, the most devoted, the most passionate out of all the hundreds of employees. He lived for the cause, he himself said so. And yet now he stood uncertain in front of you. Not really the bright and friendly Hope everyone knew, not really the strict and somewhat terrifying training teacher. He was just...quiet. It was an upsetting scene.

"Do you want to go for a drink or a lunch, maybe?" You offer, reaching for the zipper of the white suit. Yes, Erik could handle this on his own. He was a big boy. Hope hastily placed his hand atop of yours, pausing the movement. Even through the fabric, it radiated warmth. No wonder people called him sun. He frowned at the conjoined hands, lightly stroking his thumb over your knuckles before lighting up like a Christmas tree.

"No, no. I don't want to burden you with my problems." You didn't believe his smile for a second.

"Well, I won't steal you away for much longer, the pup might get anxious." He turned around, by the looks of ready to sprint off.

"Hey, wait!" He paused, not looking back.

"Do you why JK has been stalking me?"

"He has?"

He had. The first time you noticed a shifting figure in the background, you wrote it off to the combination of hangover and exhaustion. The second time he'd run off into the night faster than you could catch up. The third time you nearly flung yourself off the roof when seeing a pair of doe eyes staring back at you from an empty apartment building.

"There isn't like an alliance going around between some of my... acquaintances?" Truth be told, you found the very idea ridiculous, but it had wormed its ugly way into your brain and was now near impossible to get out. JK, Jimin, Yoongi and Namjoon wouldn't even get along with each other. Even though those four were most likely to meddle in your business. However, if looking realistically, it was probably just your paranoia taking an intensive round. Seeing suspicious cars, watchful eyes and snooping noses where there were none. Hope threw you a sardonic smile.

"That would just be stupid."

(a/n)

In this story people have their names and codenames and will be often used interchangeably. It all depends whether in the story the POV character knows the names of others or not.

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tiaragqueen · 4 years

Text

Alien

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Prince! Rengoku Kyōjurō x Reader

✂ Word Count: 2,8k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Possessiveness, implied abuse

[Edited]

***

I've seen a lot of people wrote Cinderella au, so I want to try my hands on it.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“I've never had clouds follow me each day. Years of sun that never went away. I lie here awake but I'm not one to pray. Everything's changed and now I'm not okay.” - Bring Me Home [G Flip]

Compared to some people down the streets, your living situation was much better than they could ever wish for. You still had a roof over your head, clothes – regardless of how dirty and rugged they were – to cover your body, food to sate your hunger, and a room to sleep in. You knew that, and that’s why you endeavored to seek a silver lining in your life. Anything to give you hope that miracles did exist, and everything you’d done all this time wasn’t meaningless.

But there were some days where gratitude was hard to practice, and you felt as if the agony you experienced would never end. You wanted to give up, and at the same time, you couldn’t afford to allow pessimism to dominate your life. Today was one of those days, unfortunately, where your stepmother seemed to act crueler and more sadistic than you could handle. Perhaps it was the stress of picking the right dresses for her daughters or the excitement at the prospect of the prince noticing them and the luxury they’d get to experience in the palace.

Nevertheless, your ‘family’ was overjoyed with the invitation despite the – honestly unnecessary – agitation they displayed over the preparation.

“Ma, it’s too tight!”

“Hush, now.” Your stepmother scowled as she proceeded to tighten the corset on Junko's back. “A sacrifice has to be made if you want to attract the prince.”

The younger sister whined again, while the older one, Ryōka, admired her polished appearance in the mirror.

“My, I certainly look ravishing tonight.” she puffed, caressing her sides sensually. “I’m sure I’ll be the one the prince chooses later. I mean, who doesn’t want this kind of body?”

“No! It’ll be me, instead!” Junko interjected vehemently, clenching her fists.

“Be quiet, both of you!” Your stepmother growled as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “If I see any of you causing a ruckus at the party, I swear I’ll spank you.” The sisters fell quiet from the threat, but the older woman ignored their blanched faces and snapped her head towards you. “[Name], don’t just stand there like an idiot. Make yourself useful and clean this mess!”

You hurriedly nodded and scampered to grab the broom. As disheartening as it was to watch them fussing with themselves and chatting excitedly about the party, you still had work to attend to. Work that never ceased and always piled up on an invisible desk. On one hand, you were happy with their departure. You finally had some time left for yourself at home!

On the other hand, however, you wanted to join them, too. You wanted to see the palace from up close. You wanted to see what the prince and his family looked like. You wanted to wear a gorgeous dress and meet new people.

You wanted to… you wanted to be free, for once.

“What’s wrong, dear? You look disgruntled.” A playful voice asked. Looking up, your eyes widened when they landed on a beautiful yet tiny woman with wings fluttering on her back. Black locks that faded to purple flowed behind her, tied into some kind of a unique style. Large, pupil-less eyes that reminded you of an insect's stared down at you patiently. Occasionally, long eyelashes would caress her pale features when she blinked. Despite her overall cute looks, you sensed mischief in her aura. “Hello!”

You blinked in surprise, and hesitantly returned her hearty greeting. “H-hello…” you murmured and glanced around as if hoping someone would explain to you who the heck this woman was and how did she get here without your knowledge. Maybe she managed to slip inside when your stepmother opened the door earlier? But, shouldn’t any of your sisters notice her? It wasn’t every day you got to witness a fairy in person, after all. “Um, who are you? And how did you come here? All the windows are locked, you know?”

The diminutive woman clasped a hand over her rosy lips and chortled. “Worry not, sweetheart, I’m not here to hurt you.” she chirped, effortlessly dodging the questions. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know her answers, either. Her presence was already hard to swallow, anyway. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help you!”

You frowned in bewilderment. “Help me?”

She nodded merrily, beaming. “Yes, I’m here to help you go to the palace and get the prince!”

You sputtered and frantically flailed your hands as though it could change her opinion. “N-no, you got it all wrong! I’m not–” Your cheeks heated up when she leaned forward and hummed in mock questioning, urging you to continue with your nonsensical rambling. “I-I don’t like him that way, alright? I don’t… I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“And that’s why I’m here to realize your dream.” She finally glided back once she had enough teasing you with her knowing stare. “To start it all, you need a beautiful attire to complement your features and body!”

She waved her wand, and immediately, sparkles surrounded your body and changed the rags into the prettiest gown you’d ever seen. The straps hung loosely on your arms, while the bodice hugged your body perfectly and revealed the right amount of cleavage. A silver necklace dangled on your neck, glittering in the dim moonlight that passed through the windows. The color of the dress darkened from bright yellow to fiery orange, whereas your gloves were pearly white. The fairy merely smiled at the confused glance you shot her. It wasn’t as if you disliked the color, but you suspected a hidden motive somewhere.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she inquired, hands clasped behind her.

You opened your mouth to question her singular choice before sighing. “Yes, it is. Thank you very much… fairy.”

Her amiable smile widened as her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re welcome~!”

The next few minutes, she completed your looks with a pair of glass shoes and transformed a mere pumpkin into a magnificent carriage. She explained to you that the magic would disappear once the clock struck twelve, and you needed to leave before the predetermined time. Despite the crushing realization that your ‘freedom’ was only temporary, you still heeded her warnings nonetheless. There was no reason for you to disregard the consequences just because she’d helped you. At least, you could try to appreciate her assistance, even if it came out of thin air. And because a simple thank you just wasn’t enough to describe your gratitude.

“Bye, [Name]! I hope you have a delightful night!”

You chose to bite your tongue from asking about how did she know your name when you didn’t remember giving her and waved instead. Slowly, her figure grew smaller and smaller with each distance the carriage took until she was merely a sparkle among the fireflies. You smiled sadly as you rested against the plush couch, musing about how lucky you were to meet such a kind woman. Maybe God finally took pity on you for once? Whatever it was, you thanked her from the bottom of your heart and hoped you could talk to her again.

Hopefully, as a friend.

Unfortunately, your little praying session was cut short when the horse suddenly stopped in front of a humongous building. The coach opened the door to your left and extended a hand. You tentatively accepted his help, unaccustomed with the gentlemanly gesture, and climbed out of the carriage. You gawked at the extravagance, the guards that stationed in every door, and the elegant guests. Gripping the skirt of your dress, you wondered if it wasn’t too late for you to return to your home. You felt so out of place, like an alien. What if someone noticed your ineptitude and kicked you out?

But going home meant wasting the fairy’s hard work, and although you doubted the probability of your second meeting, you refused to disappoint her.

Swallowing the ball of nerves that clogged your throat, you steeled yourself and shakily entered the palace. You thought you caught a couple of guards sending suspicious glances in your direction, but you quickly shook your head to dispel the image. Don’t think about unpleasant things, and you should be fine.

At least, that was what you hoped until someone approached you.

“Hello, hello!” Your heart nearly leaped out of its cage when a trenchant voice boomed. Was it just your suspicion or were you being jumpier and more airheaded today? A tall man with yellow hair and red streaks stood in front of you, smiling widely. “You have a unique dress there, Miss. I like it! It reminds me of my hair color.”

His hair…

Did that meant this person was–?

“T-thank you...!” Almost instinctively, you bowed to hide your flaming cheeks. That cheeky fairy…! She should’ve told you earlier! How would you suppose to act now?! “I’m… I’m glad you like it, Your Highness.”

Oh, great. Now you acted as if you were trying to grab his attention. At this rate, you wouldn’t be much different than your sisters.

The princess laughed exuberantly, but you detected no mockery of your apparent nervousness. Only genuine amusement and… interest? You shook your head and clenched the dress. He must be interested due to your striking garment, not because of who you were. The thought both dismayed and relieved you.

“You’re quite an entertaining one, Miss.” Extending a hand, he beamed. “May I have this dance?”

Dance?! Oh, no. How could you forget about this important detail? Don’t accept, don’t accept, don’t accept –

“… S-sure.”

Darn it. Now you were going to embarrass yourself in front of him, you just knew it. How could you expect an ordinary girl, whose job was housekeeping, to suddenly be able to dance flawlessly?

But it wasn’t too late. You just… you just needed to follow his lead. You were going to make a lot of mistakes, but as long as you appeared to focus on his movements, he’d surely overlook your clumsiness. Hopefully.

The prince ushered you to the center of the ballroom, and only now did you realize that the guests had long stopped doing their activities and were staring at you. The sheer intensity, ranging from envy to curiosity, encumbered you. However, he squeezed your hand gently as a sign of reassurance and smiled cordially.

“Just focus on me,” he whispered as he wrapped an arm around your waist and brought you close to him. You knew it was part of the dance, and yet, you couldn’t help the way your heart thundered at the seemingly intimate gesture. “and you’ll soon forget them.”

You weren’t sure if it was that easy to disregard the plethora of guests standing on the sidelines – you weren’t him who was used to the attention – but you nodded anyway. The fact that the prince of Rengoku had gone out of his way to invite you to dance was flattering enough, so you just had to humor him in return.

“May I know the name of my partner?” he inquired after a short period of adjustment. He chuckled when you accidentally stepped on his foot and dismissed your flustered apologies.

“[N-Name], Your Highness.” you murmured bashfully, the minor flaw mortified you beyond belief.

“Now, now, no need to be so formal. Just call me Kyōjurō.”

You stared into his dilated eyes, mentally inquiring the reason behind the abrupt informality. Wouldn’t it be rude of you to call a prince by his first name? But he didn’t seem to mind, so that should be fine… right?

“Ah, alright… Kyōjurō.”

His already wide smile expanded as he squeezed your hand, satisfied with your immediate albeit reluctant compliance. Kyōjurō knew, the moment he laid his eyes on your skittish figure – so foreign yet precious – you were quite the meek one. The way you constantly looked around, alert at the slightest hint of disturbance, suggested that this was the first time you attended a party. And, probably, his home itself.

Kyōjurō wasn’t a fool. He’d studied too many books about body language to know that you didn’t belong here, that you acted far too nervous for the typical noble. You were probably a peasant that somehow got invited, and regretted coming once you saw the environment.

Though, it didn’t mean that you couldn’t familiarize yourself. Given enough time, he was certain that you’d be accustomed to the royal life and its benefits.

The rest of the night was spent with an impromptu dance lesson, laughter, and small talks. Due to his easy nature, you almost forgot that he was still a prince underneath; someone that you wouldn’t have the courage to talk to otherwise. And, for a moment, you were led to believe that he was some kind of a long-lost friend. The kind of friend that you always wished to have.

Until the clock struck, shattering your fairy tale that he silently weaved with his persona.

“I-I’m sorry, Kyōjurō, but I need to go.” You tried to release your hand from his grasp, but shockingly, he refused to budge. “Kyōjurō, my mother is waiting for me at home.”

No, she didn’t. But a tiny voice told you that something was wrong with him, and of course, your stepmother would definitely blow a fuse once she learned about your disappearance.

“I can send a guard to relay her a message that her daughter has been chosen as my future wife.”

You faltered, and Kyōjurō took this as an opportunity to pull you towards him and hug you as tightly as he could.

“W-what are you talking about, Your Highness?” Perturbed, you’d unknowingly reverted to the formal title, much to his displeasure. “I don’t… I don’t understand! What do you mean by ‘chosen’? I’m not… I’m not going to marry you, am I? That’s just impossible.”

“[Name],” For the first time in his life, Kyōjurō faked a smile. Not that you’d be able to differentiate it from his usual demeanor, though. “don’t you know what the purpose of this party is?” When you shook your head, he grinned knowingly. Every guest knew, except you. And that just proved his theory right. “It’s to find a perfect candidate for my future spouse. And I’ve picked you, among these women.”

You balked at him and attempted to claw his hand had he didn’t catch your wrist.

“No, I refuse! You can’t just… decide something without my permission!” Despite your ardent rejection, your voice wavered as desperate tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. You wondered why nobody rescued you from him, or if his status intimidated them too much. “Your Highness, please…! Let me go. I want to go home, please! Just search someone else instead, please!”

“So you could return to your ordinary life?”

You gaped at him, and you both watched as the dress that flattered your body reverted to its normal rugs. Somewhere in the outside, you could hear the guards shouting about ‘a carriage that turned into a pumpkin’ and ‘a rat’. The events that occurred were too much for you to bear, and for the first time in your life, you broke down publicly.

In the balcony of Rengoku palace, you collapsed right before his eyes and bawled. Your hair was a mess, bruises discolored your body, and your eyes were bloodshot, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything anymore. Why should you, when you’d revealed to him that you were merely an imposter? An alien that could never fit in this stately environment. A peasant whose skills were only housekeeping and surviving.

No, you sobbed. You really didn’t fit anywhere, did you? Not even your closest family, who instantly rejected you once your father died. Why did he have to die? Why did your parents have to leave you alone at their vicious hands? This was unfair. You wanted to go with them, too.

“Sssh… it’s okay, it’s okay.” Kyōjurō crouched beside you and patted your back as though it’d magically fix everything that ruined you. “Everything’s going to be alright, now.” No, it didn’t, but you couldn’t utter that. The tears had yet to run out, after all. “I’ll ensure that you live comfortably with me.”

You didn’t respond, but the fact that you no longer opposed him and accepted his affection was enough for him. Caging you in his tender embrace, Kyōjurō closed his eyes and relished the proximity.

Searching the culprit to your abuse should be the first step to establish your new life, but he could do that later. For now, he needed to bring you to your shared room so you could have a proper rest. He knew just how exhausting crying could be to your body, and he didn’t want you to fall asleep during your ‘heart-to-heart’ conversation later.

Junko: 順子

Ryōka: 良華

#yandere scenario #yandere imagine #yandere anime #anime yandere #yandere anime au #anime yandere au #yandere oneshot #Yandere kyojuro #Yandere kyojuro x reader #Yandere kyojuro rengoku #Yandere kyojuro rengoku x reader #Yandere rengoku kyojuro x reader #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere kny #yandere demon slayer

335 notes · View notes

pippki-writes · 3 years

Text

Moot and Eirelandais

People like to think that to snap, something has to happen. Some precipitating event, big or small, that is nevertheless different from the thousand repeated indignities tolerated prior. But nothing different had happened. The same unwanted hand making its way up her leg as she waited tables. The same undesired breath on her neck, whispering the kinds of things she had no interest in hearing. All of it exactly the same as it had been for nearly the past three years. All of it she had put up with, every day, relentlessly, until one day Eirelandais realized she could not tolerate it any more.

The apothecary, Eidle, had to die.

Like most nights in his life, Dubius Moot found himself in a tavern. Like most nights in his life, someone, somewhere, was trying to kill him, or at least have him killed. What was unusual for Moot was that at least one of those people was his former mentor, and because of that he’d had to flee her and the city he loved trying to survive in. He’d made it far enough by now that no one in the tavern seemed to have any idea who he was. That was unusual too. Back in the Bryc, at least one person would’ve recognized him by now, offered him a drink—but no matter. The goal was to get as far from Opelia’s reach as he could.

Though he’d stolen enough to pay for his lodgings honestly, he couldn’t resist engaging in enough misdirection and sleight of hand with the tavernkeeper that the man would be paying Moot for the privilege of having Moot sleeping in one of his beds.

“And let me know if any of the girls catch your eye, we can add it to your bill,” the tavernkeeper said to him, oblivious to the money he’d just lost.

“Ah, hah, hm, yeah,” Moot replied, doing his best not to wince. He hated men like these, but the world was too full of them to fight them all. He took a watery ale toward a seat in the back corner and resolved to steal more of whatever he could before he left in the morning.

Eirelandais watched the traveler passing money back and forth with her uncle, quite certain he’d left her uncle poorer for the exercise. Her uncle, the idiot, had a look on his face as though the traveler had paid him double. She smiled to herself. The world finds ways to punish the deserving.

She watched the traveler as he was preoccupied at the bar, hoping to observe him without catching his eye. He clearly was not from around here—humans had come through before, but they were few and far between, particularly for a town that wasn’t on the main road between Cliath and Enniscorthy. His dark, curly hair was pulled back in a careful ponytail from which a handful of wild strands had still managed to escape. His clothing looked like the deliberate sort made to be sturdy, but not look too nice lest people realize what kind of money you’ve really got. Most of it was still covered by his dark hooded cloak.

Eirelandais managed to look away before the traveler turned in her direction. Best not to catch his eye. Best not to make this night any more complicated than it needed to be. She glanced at Eidle, already at his usual table near the fire. His cold, greedy eyes met hers. Tonight, she thought to herself. It will be tonight.

Moot kept walking but stopped the mental inventory of what appeared to be most easily stealable ranked by value and weight. He mentally cursed that slithering weasel of a tavernkeeper, because a girl had caught his eye. It wasn’t her long blond hair, gathered high on her head, nor the steady way she carried herself across the room on those long, inviting legs. It was the look she gave, one that went unnoticed, there for the briefest moment and then gone. Dangerous and determined and deadly. And most importantly, not directed at him. His heart beat a little faster, for the first time in days not over some imminent crisis or threat to his own life. He sipped his ale and watched her surreptitiously, hoping she’d do it again, or look his way, or come talk to him. The night was young, and there weren’t many other girls working. Surely she had to talk to him.

Oh. But that meant he had to come up with something good to say. This was an unusual problem. Nothing came to mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at such a loss for the right words. But as he continued to watch her as discreetly as he could, as she approached some average-looking creep at a table by the hearth, he found himself overwhelmed with the desire just to talk to her, and for her to want to talk with him.

“My sweet baby bloom,” said Eidle in a low voice, his fingertips brushing against the nearest bit of exposed skin he could reach. “My delicate young flower. That man—” he flicked his eyes in the direction of the traveler “—is staring at you.”

Eirelandais felt her pulse quicken in irritation. Of course, the human would bring himself trouble.

Eidle reached out for her arm, pulling until she was forced to lean over awkwardly toward him, his lips nearly touching her ear. “You’ll need to slip him a drink, before he tries anything.”

This was unnecessary. Eirelandais knew what to do. Eidle didn’t need to tell her.

“And bring me something I like,” he said. He boldly tried to nibble her ear, but she had already straightened back up again.

She kept her eyes down, and murmured, “of course, Eidle.”

The traveler was a detour, a diversion, and the perfect distraction. He would need to be poisoned—the usual blend, something to cloud his memory, preoccupy him with uncomfortably lusty dreams, and leave him with a little headache in the morning. He would be fine. And Eidle, the apothecary who had foolishly taught her everything he knew about poisons so he could keep her all to himself, who would not have suspected how sharp this delicate young flower could become, well. If she got the dosing right, he would not be fine.

Moot wondered idly to himself if it was feasible to be in love with someone you hadn’t even spoken to yet. Because he was quite certain that the girl was going to kill the creep by the fire, and he loved her for it.

The longer he sat thinking about it, the higher the stakes got to come up with something to say to her besides, “hi” and “can you get me a drink?”

He started quietly reciting pick up lines to himself to see if any were so bad they circled around to being good again, and was so lost in thought he didn’t notice as she slipped right past him to the kitchen.

Eirelandais stared thoughtfully at the cup as she prepared it. Fortified wine for both—Eidle’s favorite, and she found in her experience the poisons tended to compliment the flavor of the wine, bringing out a subtle complexity. She wondered about dosing for the human, and hoped they weren’t too different. She’d check on him later, just to make sure he was still breathing. She didn’t worry about toning down the dosing for Eidle. He’d built up a resistance to a good many poisons. She made sure his would kill him.

No one was listening to him, so Moot gradually brought his volume up to conversational level to try out various tones of voice. “Is your dad a baker? Because those buns look amazing. Are you a thief too, because I think you’ve stolen my heart. If I told you that you have a nice body, would you hold it—ugh. No, no this is all wrong. Maybe if I just—”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Moot panicked. It was her. “Is your dad an amazing thief because I think you’ve stolen my buns,” he blurted out. Oh, no.

Eirelandais laughed, a genuine giggle she couldn’t help. “I’m sorry, maybe I don’t need to offer you this drink.”

“I’m sorry, that was. Hm. I’m not normally. Hm,” he sighed, frowning at himself.

Eirelandais had been feeling anxious as she approached, but as she watched this young man trying to pull himself together she smiled. “Well, I haven’t met too many humans to say if you’re what would count as normal.”

“Apologies,” Moot said with a smile, his thoughts finally catching up with his mouth. “To be fair, no, I suppose I’m not normal. But,” he waved his hand, “enough about me. I seem to be finding you so intriguing that my mind doesn’t know how to deal with it. Won’t you sit down and tell me your name?”

“Why don’t you stand, and offer me yours?”

Moot gazed up at her, unable to control his grin, resting his chin in his hand as he admired her. “Quite honestly? Because I think you’re a lot taller than I am, and I’ve already given you good reason to laugh at me. I’d like to keep that one in reserve, in case you need something new to smile about. Also, I’m a little bit on the run and haven’t come up with a good fake name to give out yet.”

“It’s Eirelandais,” she said, setting a cup of wine on his table. “I can’t come sit with you while I’m working, but have a drink on me, and I’ll see if I can think up a name for you.”

“Eirelandais,” he repeated, taking up the cup, toasting it to her. “Thank you.”

Eirelandais chided herself. She had enjoyed that too much. She hadn’t meant to really talk to him at all. She’d been repeating to herself—left, traveler, right, Eidle—until she’d gotten close enough to hear the traveler talking to himself. He had looked like he would be the sort of person to know exactly what to say to someone, and it surprised her that he wasn’t. She hoped Eidle hadn’t noticed them talk, her laugh, her expressions unguarded. She took his cup to him. It would probably be at least an hour before his poison took effect. Eidle was just barely sneering, sitting at his table quietly seething. Of course he had noticed.

The wine was good—surprising to find in a nowhere town like this—but after half an hour or so Eirelandais had not come back with a fake name for him. Moot decided to go back to the bar for another watery ale, since there was little point wasting the amount of time or money it would require to get him drunk on even the good stuff. He didn’t want to deplete the town supply. Just give him something to do with his hands. Perhaps he’d come across an excuse to trade a few more words with Eirelandais. He stood up.

Or, tried to anyway. His body disagreed completely, and the room suddenly felt about fifteen degrees off from the axis where he had thought it had been. He stumbled back down into his chair.

“Oh, no?” he whispered to himself in confusion. This was an unwholesome new feeling. Moot had a legendarily high tolerance and built resistance to every known toxin, powder, and otherwise vile concocted liquid. He’d never successfully been poisoned before.

His arms felt very far away, and a little bit like his fingers were on fire. He pressed his palms firmly to the table, holding on onto the surface so that he wouldn’t slide off. He would be a magnet for pickpockets if he ended up on the floor.

“Eirelandais,” he whispered, trying to look around for her without moving his head, trying to summon her through sheer force of admiration.

Eirelandais saw the movement out of the corner of her eye. The traveler looked like he’d lost all cooperation with his legs. That was fast. Human dosing must be different. She had better help him.

“Drunk already?” she asked, moving the cup and the mug off to the bar.

“We need to talk,” he slurred confidentially.

She checked the time. If Eidle died at his table, well she could just slip out the back, perhaps. She glanced at Eidle. He did look like he was making a strange face.

“Come on,” she said, offering her arm. “I’ll help you to your room.”

He managed to stand, leaning heavily on her and clinging to her arm. He looked up at her, his rich brown eyes wide and glassy. “Oh, spirits help me,” he mumbled, “I told you you were taller.”

He leaned his head against her arm, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Youuuuuu,” drawled Moot, trying to unbutton his vest as he fell over sideways on the bed, “Are. Amazing.”

Eirelandais shut the door and looked him over. His cheeks were flushed, his eyebrows looked like they were sweating, and she started to wonder if an antidote might be needed. That was doable, but not something she had time for.

“Run away with meeee?” said Moot, trying to roll over. “I think alluv youuu,” he slurred.

Eirelandais tapped her fingers against her chin, thinking while he rambled, trying to decide what to do. She liked the traveler, and wouldn’t feel right leaving him to potentially die just because he was human.

Moot managed to push himself up and tried to wave her over. “’M serious. This’s serious,” he slurred, clearly working hard to be as understandable as possible. “D’you know, d’you KNOW, that no one, no one has ever, ever, EVER managed to poison me before? Y’gotta teach me, y’gotta tell me, ‘s gotta be enough poison to kill a man, his mother, ‘n the horse they rode in on.”

Eirelandais shook her head. “It’s a common poison. You’re just human.”

Moot slapped the bedcover indignantly. “No. M’best friend is the most poisonest man to ever mix two liquids in a bottle, in all of Innisfail ‘n Ivernia. Common poison’s m’breakfast, lunch, an’ middle name.” A thought managed to occur to him, and for a moment he looked like he could cry. “Did Opelia send you? To kill me? Ohhhh no, you reeeeeally did trick me…”

“What? No!” Eirelandais snapped. “Who? No. I’m not trying to kill you—”

Moot gasped, loudly and dramatically. “I knew it,” he hissed with glee. The unbounded look of adoration returned to his face, then slowly slid to a frown, attempting to think. “But you did give me poison.”

Eirelandais tried to remember. Which cup had she sat down, and which one had she carried over? She thought she knew. There were only two cups.

“—and a lesser man than Dubius Moot would be dead before you, y’know, you’re very lucky,” he drawled, trying to wag his finger vaguely in her direction.

She slumped against the wall. The wrong poison. Could it be possible? Surely the traveler was just wrong. But if he wasn’t? That meant Eidle would not be dead. Nor would he be asleep from a poison he’d designed. A poison he knew the taste of. The face he’d been making. She was in trouble.

And her only help was too incapacitated to even come up with a good fake name.

“Dubius Moot?” she said absently, her mind still hoping to avoid reality for a few more moments. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.

“Oops.” He clapped his hands over his mouth.

“That’s a terrible fake name.”

He sighed. “That’s ‘cuz it’s my real name. You were s’posed to help me witha fake one.”

“Yeah. Dubius?”

“Mm? Call me Moot. Mos’ friends do.”

“Moot? I’m in trouble.”

These were the facts: it should not take Eirelandais this long to put the drunk to bed. He had seen them smiling. She was his. And she had tried to poison him.

This would not do.

She could hear his footsteps coming down the corridor, recognized them immediately, like so many nights before.

“Eirelandais,” Eidle called softly. “My sweet little blossom, whatever are you up here so long doing?” His tone seemed gentle, but she could hear the sharp edge, the seething rage simmering beneath, the promise of violence yet to come. She held her breath, hand on the doorknob, waiting.

His footsteps stopped outside the door. She felt his hand rest on the doorknob. “Please don’t make me have to teach you a lesson,” he said as he turned the handle.

Now. Eirelandais jerked the door inward, pulling Eidle stumbling forward. Dubius Moot exploded haphazardly from a crouch beside the door, his solid frame connecting into Eidle with a crash that knocked Eidle’s head against the footboard. Eirelandais quickly slammed the door shut again, but Eidle was out cold. For now.

Moot rolled off him and peered closely. “He’s breathin.”

“For now,” said Eirelandais, hurriedly undoing Eidle’s belt, yanking it roughly out of the belt loops.

“If you think you can stand, help me,” she said, slipping the belt around Eidle’s neck as she tried to reach the other end to the top of the bedpost.

Moot got as far as his knees before falling over again, and did the best he could from there to push Eidle’s slumped form upright enough for her to tie a knot. She braced her shoe against Eidle’s neck, pulling the belt as tight as she could, then arranged him into an obscene tableau before taking the money from his pockets.

On the little table, she left a note –“For Eirelandais”—and the money from Eidle. Perhaps it was enough to cover the debt her father had sold her for. It would have to do.

Moot had managed to drag himself upright, propped against the other bedpost. Eidle, raggedly, was still breathing. For now.

“Do you…still want to run away with me?” she asked.

Moot burst into a smile as he clung to the bedpost. “More’n ever.”

“How do you not have a horse?” hissed Eirelandais, struggling to hold Moot upright with one arm while she searched for the key she had taken off of Eidle.

“Horses...can’t climb trees,” he managed to get out. He slipped out of her grasp, hit hard against the side of the building, and just barely managed not to throw up on either of them. He’d really hoped that vomiting would at least make him feel a little better, but that was not the case. “Might not be ok,” he muttered.

Eirelandais got the door to the apothecary’s shop open and pulled Moot inside. There was nowhere to put him, so she lowered him as gently as she could the rest of the way to the floor and let him curl up on his side. She had been here enough times to know what she was looking for, the jar full of powdered charcoal sitting next to the jug of cold, clear water drawn under the full moon’s light from the allegedly enchanted spring. She wasn’t sure she bought all that, but it was good, clean water. She poured it into an empty bottle and carefully dumped in several heaping spoonfuls of charcoal, then sealed the bottle shut with the palm of her hand while she shook it. This wouldn’t fix everything, but it was a start, and it would buy Moot some time so she could think.

“You need to drink this,” she said, sitting him upright, “and try to keep it in you.” She helped him hold the bottle to his lips, and it took all his concentration not to spit the gritty liquid back out at her. “Keeping it in,” he mumbled, clutching the empty bottle as he sunk back down to the floor.

It wasn’t merely that she’d poisoned him with any one poison--it was the combination, the unique ways the poisons had been brought together, treatments and mixtures Eidle never would have dreamed of, the unique interactions resulting in a constellation of symptoms that no simple antidote could cure. Not that Eirelandais had put any thought toward making a cure when she’d thought and mixed it up. Now she wished she had.

She tapped her fingers on her chin, trying to remember what kinds of rare ingredients Eidle kept on hand. She tried opening a few small drawers, but found them locked--a different key, of course, was needed. She swept her hands blindly along the top of a few high shelves, hoping another key would appear beneath her fingers. No such luck. She spared Moot a glance. He’d begun to shiver, teeth clenched. She didn’t have time to think of something better than finding more ways to shovel charcoal into him. She doubted that would be enough. He needed a healer, and there was only one person in town who knew any healing magic.

The apothecary’s wife.

Eirelandais quickly straightened up the things she had moved, grabbed a few vials that looked like they would be worth having, and helped Moot off the floor. He was soaked in sweat.

Eirelandais had never met Eidle’s wife. She had heard a good many cruel things about her, but Eirelandais always suspected her only true crime was having been young once. And loving Eidle, perhaps. Still, it would not look good to wake her up and bring her to Moot laying on the floor of her husband’s own shop that Eirelandais should not have had a key for. She shut and locked the door behind them, and pocketed the key. She’d considered slipping the key under the door, but what if Eidle’s wife led them right back into the shop? The sight of the key without its owner wouldn’t lead to anything good.

It felt like Eirelandais was the only thing holding Moot up at this point. They made it to the door of the home attached to the back of the apothecary’s shop, and Eirelandais rapped sharply, urgently on the door while her mind was racing. What was Eidle’s wife’s name? Should she address her by name? What would she tell her? What would make her ask the least amount of questions? What if she didn’t wake up?

The sound of movement came from the other side of the door, and a wary female voice--”Who goes there and what do you want? It’s late.”

“Please,” said Eirelandais. “Are you the healer? I believe you are, it’s my friend, I think, I think he’s tried to poison himself.” Why did she say friend, why would she have some random human friend, there aren’t any humans in this town, come on Eirelandais. “I’m Eirelandais, from the tavern just down the road.”

“Ah.” A pause--the door was still chained shut, but the apothecary’s wife opened the door to peek out at them. “One of Corrigan’s girls.” She had tried not to mean any judgement by it, but Eirelandais could tell she’d taken the term ‘friend’ euphemistically. Fine. Whatever.

“Please,” said Eirelandais again. “We gave him some charcoal for it but I don’t think it’s enough.”

The older woman sighed. “Bring him in,” she said, shutting the door long enough to undo the chains. “I can’t promise much, I’m no great healer.”

“Thank you,” said Eirelandais, as the two of them helped lay Moot out on the couch. “I don’t think you can do much to make him worse.”

“It’s a shame you’ve come when my husband is away. He’s a great apothecary, could probably help your friend more than I can.” She sorted through a series of bottles in a cabinet on the wall. “I’m sure you could find him in town--”

Oh no, thought Eirelandais, absolutely not.

“--but by now he’s probably too drunk to do much good. So you’ll just have to settle for me. My name’s Aellys, by the way.” She set some bottles on the table by Moot with a mortar and pestle, and took out a sharp needle. “Any idea what he took?” she asked, holding the needle in the flame of the candle on the table.

Eirelandais shook her head. Would the knowing make a difference, when magic was involved?

“Do you know his name?”

Eirelandais looked at Moot’s troubled face. He’d asked her for a fake name.

“I think he said his name was Dolan.” Dolan - unlucky one. Probably not what he would have picked, but certainly an accurate reflection of how his night had gone.

Aellys chuckled a little to herself. “No wonder, with a name like that. Well, let’s see what we can do to help. Hold the bowl for me, I need to get a bit of his blood.”

“Dolan?” said Aellys, raising her voice as if it might be heard over the pain. “This might hurt a little my dear, but then again everything probably hurts right now doesn’t it?”

Eirelandais held the mortar while Aellys pricked one of Moot’s fingers with the searing-hot needle. She squeezed a few drops of blood, and then knelt by the little table, speaking softly in the sort of long-dead language reserved for the use of magic while she added a sparkling gray powder from one of the bottles. Aellys ground the powder with the blood, and added enough liquid to the bowl that it would be drinkable. Eirelandais watched nervously, hands clenched and feeling useless, as Aellys continued to chant. Aellys waved her over, and motioned for her to take Moot’s hand while Aellys helped him drink the mixture, all while continuing the spell. Once the mortar was empty she stopped, and let Moot lay back down on the couch.

“What now?” asked Eirelandais. “What did you give him?”

“Now we wait,” said Aellys, clearing away the table. “I gave him something I’ve been holding onto for many, many years. Charcoal made from enchanted helix horn. It was a wedding gift, if you can believe it.” She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness to it. “You hold onto these things waiting for the right time to use them, and then you never use them. It seemed like the right time. Might as well use it.”

Eirelandais watched as Aellys closed the cabinet. Did she know who her husband had been, when he wasn’t at home? Perhaps she knew all too well. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to know, and had been content to stay at home and ignore whatever rumors and whispers managed to reach her. Eirelandais was too afraid to ask.

“Wake me up if you need me, and sleep if you’d like. I doubt you will though. There’s nothing more either of us can do for now, dear.” Aellys patted Eirelandais on the shoulder, checked the locks on the door, and went to the bedroom. Eirelandais wondered if Aellys had been waiting for Eidle to come home. Maybe that’s what she’d done every night.

Moot had fallen into a fitful sleep. Eirelandais found herself wanting to brush the stray curls off his face, but resisted. She looked at the strange, soft curves of his ears, and this time she could not resist reaching out to feel one. She could feel faint scars beneath her fingertips. Moot shifted onto his side, and Eirelandais quickly pulled her hand away.

Eirelandais found the most uncomfortable chair in the room and pulled it over by the couch so she could keep an eye on Moot without falling asleep. Aellys had been kind, too kind. She would probably make a good enough apothecary. But Eirelandais didn’t intend to find out. They needed to leave before daybreak. Eirelandais stifled a yawn. She would carry Moot like a sack of potatoes if she had to.

Moot’s consciousness came struggling back to him. The first thing he noticed was pain. He had thought he’d felt pain before, but those were mere inconveniences. This was Pain, perhaps the worst he’d ever felt, screaming through every ounce of his existence. If he wasn’t dying, someone should have let him, because this was the most cruel and tortuous experience of his life. His skull felt too small, and his brain felt like someone had yanked it out through his mouth and slammed it back in upside-down through his eye sockets. His stomach was in a confused and untenable state, feeling simultaneously hungry enough to eat a horse, yet too nauseous to even speak. The taste of devil ferrets haunted his tongue. Everything was awful.

The second thing Moot noticed was the feeling of a hand pressed on his mouth (oddly comforting, for the moment, because it made him feel like he could keep all his insides inside of him with someone else fortifying the gate), very nearly blocking the air from his nose too. A poor attempt at smothering? Maybe they were just getting started. Another hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes unevenly, blinking in the dim pre-dawn light, trying to get his bearings.

Eirelandais. Very close. Her hand on his mouth, as she softly shushed him. If she was trying to smother him, well. He found himself strangely alright with that. Existing right now hurt. She leaned a little closer to him and whispered, “We need to leave.”

Moot nodded as little as possible, closing his eyes. If he could just go back to sleep, maybe forever, he might feel better. Yes, that would do. He felt dimly aware of the hand leaving his shoulder as he tried to drift back into the less consciously painful embrace of sleep. Two fingers slowly pinched his nose closed, cutting off all his air.

Eirelandais let go as soon as Moot’s eyes flew open. “We need to leave now,” she whispered fiercely. “Come on. Can you stand?”

Moot made quiet noises of protest as Eirelandais pulled him up off the couch. He gripped her arms, white-knuckled, as waves of pain and nausea hit him. He focused on his breath, harsh and intense, in and out, in and out through his nose, mouth and eyes clamped shut. For a moment he merely stood there, clinging desperately to Eirelandais, frowning and furrowing his brow as he battled every awful feeling that fought for his attention. Need to leave now, she’d said. Even if he’d wanted to question it, there was no way he’d trust himself to speak feeling the way he did. He gave a little nod, and waved a hand in what he felt was the direction of a door, and hoped that was enough to convey both “lead the way” and “please don’t let go of me.”

Her hands were steady as she helped him across the room, her feet light on the floor, listening for any sound of Aellys stirring. She wasn’t sure Moot could keep himself together, but by the look on his face picking him up was out of the question. He was glaring daggers at the world ahead of him, wholly consumed by the laborious process of remembering to successfully walk without falling down or turning inside-out.

They made it outside, Eirelandais closing the front door carefully behind her. She left Moot resting against the side of the building, his head tilted back as he focused on his breathing, and grabbed their bags she’d hidden in the apothecary’s little stable. Supplies were critical. If they could get enough distance between themselves and this town, she’d be able to stop and make Moot some ginger-root tea. He desperately looked like he needed it, she thought, securing their bags over her shoulders. As she returned Moot had undone the top half of his vest and was working to unlace the shirt beneath it, as though any fabric encroaching on his neck threatened to choke him.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

“Mhm.” He slowly pushed himself off the side of the building, and managed to get himself braced, upright, unassisted on his own two feet. For a long moment, he simply stood there.

“Are you...sure...you can walk?”

“Mhm!” Moot managed with false cheer. His entire conscious existence had boiled down to two things: breathing, and walking. He did both forcefully, deliberately, looking like a man possessed as he trudged over to Eirelandais.

She offered a hand, but he waved his dismissively. Focusing on a third thing would be catastrophically distracting, and he could only accomplish the other two through great powers of concentration.

“You mentioned something about being on the run, right?” she prodded, looking up and down the road. Eirelandais realized, in the chill light of the slowly rising sun, that she had had no real plan beyond killing Eidle. The world was opening up before her, strange and full of unknown potential. “What direction do we need to go?”

#My writing #original story #original work #original fiction #fantasy #fantasy fiction #moot and Eirelandais #a world with elves and shit like that

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chocafe · 5 years

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the rhythms of summer — lee eunsang

summary: eunsang isn’t like the other spirits. one touch of the human skin will cause him to obliterate into the summer haze, and that’s enough to frighten you and your love for him. genre: romance, angst, fantasy, friends to lovers word count: 4.3k a/n: inspired by the animation movie, hotarubi no mori e.

Eunsang is everything the world admires. He is the bittersweet aroma of coffee beans. He is the warmth that summer possess. He is the hope that everyone longs for. He is simply everything. However, he is not human.

“Eunsang, are you out there?” You call out into the empty forest, gliding your bare hands against the rusty tree trunks.

“I’m here!” Eunsang says with excitement as he magically pops up in front of your eyes.

“Oh my gosh! You scared the living out of me!” No matter how many times you meet Eunsang, you will never get used to him popping in and out whenever he pleases to. Sometimes, you wished that he could walk normal like others, but then you remembered, he isn’t normal ─ Eunsang isn’t even a proper human being. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that little quirk of yours.”

His lips stretch into a smile and you’re sure it was the prettiest thing you have ever seen. “That’s what happens when you’re friends with a spirit like me.”

“I’m friends with a spirit that I can only see in the summer.” You notice how Eunsang’s smile quickly disappears by your comment. “B-But you’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for! Seeing you in the summer is the highlight of my year!” In between each word, your voice trembles as you try your best to bring up Eunsang’s confidence and liveliness.

“You really think so?”

“I know for sure.” You take your hand to wipe the sweat off of your forehead. It sure is hot in the summer. “It’s wonderful that this forest is right next to my grandparents house, but is hours away from my actual house in the city. Maybe when I get older, I can get a job over in this area, just so I can see you whenever I want to.”

“I would really like that.”

Actually, Eunsang would love that.

Your and Eunsang’s happiness was measured in the amount of laughters you two shared and the amount of days spent in the hazy summer season.

There’s something about Eunsang that soothes your heart. You don’t know how he does it and what it is about him. What you do know is that he’s purely the epitome of comfort.

Ever since you shared how you’ve been encountering endless numbers of sleepless nights, Eunsang begins to sing you a serene lullaby, causing you to fall asleep within the open meadow field. Despite always being eager to see you, Eunsang doesn’t mind the fact that you’re sleeping when you should be spending time with him. He cares for your overall well-being and if sleep is what seems the best for you, then he’ll choose that over swimming laps in the river.

Within the time being, Eunsang manages to braid the stems of flowers together to form a handmade floral bracelet. “All done!” He shouts in excitement, only to immediately close his mouth right after as he remembers that you’re sleeping peacefully beside him. Rather than continuing his conversation with himself, he chooses to smile instead because he’s extremely excited to show you the bracelet he had made for you.

He takes a quick moment to look at you and ends up staring at your face for a whole minute. Were humans always this pretty when they were sleeping? Were you always this pretty when you were sleeping? His heart skips a beat and he wants to remember this image of you forever.

Oh, how Eunsang wishes he had the ability to see you every single season, every day, every minute and every second; But the two of you were only limited to seeing one another in the summer.

Eunsang wants to watch you underneath the spring cherry blossom trees. He wants to jump on dried leaves and drink seasonal pumpkin spice lattes with you. He wants to play out in the angelic snow and perhaps, kiss you underneath the mistletoe.

“What are you thinking?” Eunsang questions as he lightly slaps himself in the face, trying his best to stop all of the upcoming thoughts of passionately kissing you. Nevertheless, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop imagining as his cheeks flush into a peachy shade of embarrassment.

Once more, he gazes right back at you and then at your lips.

“Y/N is sleeping, so they won’t know.” Eunsang thinks as he hovers his face above yours.

The urge to kiss you takes over Eunsang’s body as there was only a five centimeter gap in between your lips and his very own lips. He was so close, yet so far.

He pulls himself back to his original sitting position. “I can’t.” There was a certain heaviness in his heart, but a marked lightness in his soft tone of voice.

Eunsang can’t kiss you.

He can’t even lay a single finger on you.

One touch of the human skin and Eunsang will obliterate into the dying hot sun.

It’s not funny, but Eunsang awkwardly laughs and it rings through his bones like an unwanted phone call. “Why would you even try, you idiot.” He takes a big deep breath before sighing.

As he proceeds to drown himself in daydreams, he soon hears the sounds of you whimpering in your sleep. Sweat is dripping down your skin, your breathing pattern becomes peculiar, and Eunsang is terrified at the sight. You must be having a nightmare.

“Y/N.” Eunsang constantly calls out your name. “Y/N, wake up!”

No matter how loud he screams out, it wouldn’t be loud enough for you to wake up. In a rush, Eunsang speedily grabs a piece of wood and hits your open forehead. It was his last resort and the only thing he could potentially think of in a nervous state like his.

Your dream cuts to an end without receiving a proper ending roll credit and you wake up in pain. You were dazed, confused, head throbbing and the first thing you wanted to do was to yell at Eunsang in pure furiousness. “What is your problem? Why would you hit me with a stick while I’m sleeping?”

“Y-You” His voice began to shake since he wasn’t used to you yelling at him. “You were shaking in your sleep. It seemed like you were having a nightmare, so I thought it would be better to wake you up instead of letting you suffer.”

“You could’ve just called out my name instead, you know.”

“I did. I tried, multiple times.”

You couldn’t help, but to compare Eunsang to your mother. On the mornings where you’re too tired to wake up, your mother would barge into your room and profusely shake your arm until you were wide awake. Eunsang isn’t like your mother because your mother is human and Eunsang is a spirit who could not touch a single soul.

He’s different and you’re sorry.

It takes you a moment to realize that he couldn’t physically touch you to wake you up. “I’m sorry for getting angry when you were merely trying to help me.” The tone of your voice suddenly changes as you become apologetic in the snap of a finger.

“Hey, it’s okay!” Eunsang isn’t the type to hold grudges. “Do you remember what you were dreaming of?”

“Yeah, I do.” You scratch the back of your neck due to feeling uncomfortable because of the so-called dream that felt way too real.

“What was it? Was it a nightmare? Actually, you don’t need to tell me about it if it’s a little traumatizing.”

Moments before, you had dreamt of Eunsang disappearing into the void. It’s a constant nightmare of yours that remains to shake you to the core.

You don’t have the heart to genuinely tell Eunsang your biggest fear, so you tell him a white lie. “It was the worst nightmare. I dreamt that I was back at school and there was suddenly a test I didn’t study for!”

Eunsang tilts his head and raises an eyebrow that says really? Either you’re lying or you seriously hate school, and Eunsang chooses to believe the second option.

“Oh! Since you’re up─” He grabs a hold of the flower bracelet he made while you were asleep. “Look at what I made for you!”

Naturally, you brought your wrist to Eunsang as he began to place the bracelet on you, avoiding any skin contact with a bright smile on his face.

In a generation like yours, many people seem to adore materialistic gifts instead of gifts that truly come from the heart. You, on the other hand, would take the beautiful mother nature gifts Eunsang surprises you with than anything else in the world.

“It’s really pretty!” You comment.

You’re prettier, Eunsang thinks to himself, but giggles as a vocal response.

“I love these type of gifts from you, I really do.” You raise your wrist into the sky, so you can look at the beautiful bracelet and the bouncy white clouds, together, as one. “This just reminded me how you always used to pick out four leaf clovers for me in the past. We could be running down the hill, but once you see a clover, you would stop and place it behind my ear.” The nostalgic memories you shared with him began to play in your head like a movie.

“Ah, I forgot!” Eunsang swiftly stands up on his two feet. “Throughout the seasons, I’ve been collecting all of the four leaf clovers I’ve been coming across, precisely so I can give them to you once you visit!”

He runs off into the forest, telling you that it won’t take him too long to retrieve them all. You don’t mind waiting in the meadow because you’re too busy admiring the bracelet and the four leaf clover you had stuck behind your clear phone case.

Not even a minute passes by and you hear rustling noises behind the green bushes. “Eunsang, you’re back!” You say, only to turn around and lay eyes upon a slender cat-eye like man. “Wooseok?”

His facial expression was serious and the atmosphere he gave off was mysterious, but once you stated his name, he broke character like a shattered glass. “Wait, you know who I am?”

“Of course! Eunsang loves talking about you all and he mentioned a few times that you were very good looking, so I can only guess that you’re Wooseok out of everyone.” Rather than being afraid that you were meeting a spirit, you were more than happy to know that you were having a conversation with a friend of Eunsang’s.

“He isn’t wrong, I am pretty good looking.” Wooseok brushes his delicate fingers through his hair, but abruptly stops himself as he recollects as to why he originally wants to speak to you. “Listen, I need to speak to you, but it’s pretty hard to find you without Eunsang by your side.”

Wooseok makes his way towards you and grabs you by the chin, something full spirits were capable of doing. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on Eunsang. He isn’t like the rest of us and if you’re the reason he disappears then─”

Before Wooseok could continue on, you cut him off by slowly pulling his hand off of you. “I know everything, so don’t worry about it.”

Indeed. You knew everything about Eunsang and maybe that’s why the two of you were the greatest friends you both could ever wish for.

Eunsang wasn’t like the other spirits that roamed around the forest. He isn’t a monster, but he sure isn’t human anymore. Eunsang was merely a human child who was abandoned in the forest. He was destined to die, but every forest spirit took sympathy for him and used all of their magic to keep him alive. A body like Eunsang’s is weak as he solely depends on magic to keep himself alive. With one touch of the human skin, he will vanish as he’s just as fragile as the winter snow.

“So, you know everything?” Wooseok’s voice lowers down due to his surprise for your knowledge.

“Yes, I know everything. Despite you threatening me, I know that you and the others are all to kind to even harm a human being like me.” Wooseok was ethereally pretty, but his personality said otherwise. “I know you all think of him as a little brother, and to me, he’s my friend. We all don’t want to lose him, so trust me, I’m going to make sure Eunsang won’t be gone anytime soon.”

Wooseok opens his mouth and then immediately shuts it close as he hears the distant sounds of Eunsang running through the forest. At a time like this, he’s incapable of saying anything more because if Eunsang found out that Wooseok tried to scare you, then Eunsang would finally blow up and might even ignore Wooseok for the rest of eternity. Wooseok decides to vanish into the air because the thought of Eunsang hating him sends shivers down his spine.

Eunsang comes running back, out of breath, with a basket filled with tiny four leaf clovers. The sight of Eunsang is enough for your lips to creep into a smile and he does the very same right back at you.

Four leaf clovers are lucky, unlike Eunsang.

However, Eunsang is lucky enough to have met you and you’re just as lucky enough to have met him too.

“Hey, Y/N.” Eunsang clears his throat and stares off into the radius, refusing to make eye contact with you. “Hold onto this stick.”

“The same stick you hit me with earlier?” You look up at Eunsang and notice that he was flushed with a scarlet shade appearing all throughout his face.

Oh? Is this embarrassment? Nervousness? Shyness? Every single emotion combined?

Not only did you notice the fact that Eunsang was blushing, but you acknowledge that this is his way of asking to hold your hand. Without saying anything more, you grab onto the other end of the stick as the two of you walked besides one another.

Even though you were happy, you still felt a sharp pain inside of your heart. This had reminded you that you and Eunsang will never be able to be together. You will never get to be held in his embrace. You will never get to see him outside of summer. You will never get to properly experience love with Eunsang.

The river is lukewarm, but that doesn’t stop you and Eunsang from dipping your toes in the water. The sun is being eaten up by the sky and once more, you’re reminded that summer and your time with Eunsang is coming to an end.

“Have you ever been in love?” You randomly blurt out, kicking your feet as small specks of water splash onto your face.

“Excuse me?” Eunsang chokes up because he was never ready for a question like this. “Why do you want to know?”

“Is it my fault that I want to know whether or not my friend has fallen in love before? Come on, tell me about it!”

He hesitates before responding back. “I can’t tell you.”

Eunsang can’t tell you the true answer to your question because he fell in love with you and is still in love.

“Don’t want to tell me? Then I’ll tell you the story of how I fell in love.” It might take Eunsang years to gather up the courage to tell you about his love life, but it only took you a mere second for you to want to tell him about yours.

“Huh? You’ve been in love before? You’ve never mentioned it before.” Eunsang’s eyes widens as he’s almost frozen with shock, modestly hurt that you’ve fallen in love with someone who surely isn’t him.

“I met him in the summer heat five years ago. At first, I thought of it as a small crush since I was so young and naive at that time, but as I grew older, my feelings became even stronger than before.” You looked off into the sunset with a slight grin. “I realized that I’ve been in love since the very start and I still am in love with this person.”

He laughs softly, but thinks somewhere inside of him must be the sound of his heart breaking. “That person sure is lucky to be loved by you.”

“Yup, you sure are lucky.”

Eunsang quickly turns his head towards you and it takes him a second to process what you had just said. He’s in disbelief, and yet, he doesn’t need you to say it twice because he heard you clearly the first time.

“I’m sorry.” Are the only words that roll off his tongue.

What are you saying? You’re absolutely in love with Y/N, Eunsang thinks, but somehow doesn’t say it.

“It’s okay.” From the very start, you were prepared for Eunsang to reject you. The two of you were never meant to be with each other to begin with. “You don’t need to love me back.”

But I do love you back, He doesn’t say anything.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.” He repeats himself. “I’m sorry that I can’t properly love you like other humans.”

What does he mean?

You’re still not sure how he feels about you.

Nevertheless, the two of you sit there in silence, feet in the water, staring at the sunset like it’s the rising tide.

The countryside differs so much from the city life you’re used to. Unlike the city, the countryside is dark with not much people in sight once the moon emerges into the night sky.

Maybe it was Eunsang’s urge to protect you or maybe it was his need to spend as much time as he possibly could with you; But after every time the two of you hang out, Eunsang would walk with you all the way to the end of the forest, so you could walk back to your grandparent’s house in peace. Ever since you met Eunsang, you’re not an ounce afraid of the lightless forest. However, you still allow Eunsang to walk with you, each and every time, because you love having him by your side.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

The only sounds you hear are the footsteps of yours and Eunsangs, and the four leaf clovers shifting around in the basket you were holding.

As you continued to walk through the forest, there was a sudden tug at the bottom of your shirt. You turn around, only to find Eunsang holding on while he stared directly at the ground. “Eunsang, what’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry. It brings me so much pain.” He grips even tighter onto your shirt, wishing he was holding you instead.

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to experience being in love so badly, but I only want to if I’m with you.”

He wants to be real ─ For you.

Eunsang takes one step closer and that’s enough for you to snag your shirt away and take five steps away from him. “What is wrong with you? Remember, we need to keep a distance between us.” Your heart is rapidly beating, not because you’re in love, but because you’re frightened at the fact that Eunsang is putting his life at the line. “Don’t be irrational!”

“That’s exactly it.” He brings his head up and there’s tears flooding the whites of his eyes. “I’m sick and tired of this distance between us. Don’t you know how badly I want to be with you?”

You could see how desperate Eunsang was and you’ve never seen him in a state like this before. Seeing tears fall down from his eyes caused you to freeze up and become speechless at the moment.

“Y/N, I love you.”

Eunsang doesn’t need to think twice.

He is certain that he is in love with you.

There are times where Eunsang would long for you in the autumn, winter and spring. There are times where he wants to spend time with you and do nothing, but run into a field and pick out every flower that he deems as beautiful as you. There are times where you tell him stories of your city life, because you know how bored he could get in this lonely forest. There are times where Eunsang wishes it was only you and him on Earth. Each of these moments were when Eunsang strongly feels his love for you, and he loves realizing it every time. Falling in love with you makes him feel more like a human than he will ever be.

“You know, I love you too.” You remind Eunsang once more and it falls out of your mouth as easy as reciting the alphabet.

“Then, may I kiss you?” He takes a few steps closer to you, breaking the forbidden gap.

“You shouldn’t.” You say with quivering lips.

“But I want to.”

The basket of four leaf clovers crash onto the ground.

In a matter of seconds, Eunsang presses his soft lips against yours and finally has the power to wrap his arms around you, holding you tightly in his embrace. He doesn’t want this kiss to end and he never wants to stop holding you, but everything has an expiration date, including him.

You were completely unprepared for the kiss, but that didn’t stop you from passionately kissing him back. You would think that after all the summers you’ve spent with Eunsang ─ watching him talk, laugh, smile ─ that you would know all there is about him and his lips. With him being a spirit, you’ve never imagined his lips being this warm pressed against your very own.

The kiss ends as soon as the two of you feel your tears combine into one.

“Are you out of your mind?” You scream out loud, but not loud enough as your tears were powerful enough to fill you up.

“Are you out of your mind? For falling in love with a spirit like me?” Eunsang places his hand onto the side of your face, bringing both of your foreheads together, so they can touch and lean against one another. “How silly must I be for also loving you?”

Is this what it feels like to experience love? Eunsang is glad he can finally let you live through this, but despite being glad, he begins to think how much he’s going to miss your warmth.

Eunsang detects that it’s too difficult for you to speak with tears spilling down your cheeks. He takes a long, deep breath, as his fingers and voice trembles all at once. “I’ve always loved being with you. Every single time, I felt like I was alive. Y/N, you make me feel alive and I want to thank you so much for that.”

Parts of Eunsang begins to fade away into the air and within a minute, he’ll be nothing but a figment of imagination. As your arms were wrapped around Eunsang’s waist, you can feel him become lighter and you were never prepared to say your final goodbyes to Eunsang. He was supposed to be your summer delight, not your nightmare in disguise.

“Y/N, please tell me you love me once more.”

“I love you.” You beam your eyes towards Eunsang, never wanting to forget his face. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you!”

“I love you just as much.” Eunsang manages to muster up his famous soft smile, amidst the tears that were continuously streaming down his cheeks.

It would be amazing if time finally stopped, but time doesn’t care for anyone.

“Once I’m gone, falling in love with me will feel like a dream to you.” He leaves a soft peck on your forehead and continues to wipe the tears off of your face, despite being in the same frightful state as you. “I hope that this dream has been a happy pleasant one.”

Everything hurts and you’ve never knew love could bring this much pain to the two of you.

“Eunsang, don’t say that.” In return, you kiss his lips once more. “I will never forget you and I want you to know that I was more than happy in every moment that we shared together. You’re the one who makes me happy. I─” Your tears choke you up. “I just wish we had more time. Why would you do this?”

“Because I love you.” His voice is still comforting and it will forever play in your head. “I’m so delighted to hear that you were happy in every moment we shared, even if our time together was limited to one season of the year.”

Before you could say your last goodbye to Eunsang, you feel the cold breeze hit you and you were holding nothing, but the air.

“Eunsang?” You quickly turn your body around, trying to detect your lost boy in the hidden forest. “Eunsang!”

Eunsang isn’t hiding.

He’s long gone now.

Your weak legs give up and you fall onto the ground, burying your face into the dirt. “Why does it feel like I’m suffocating?”

Spilled four leaf clovers are scattered out everywhere.

You heavily cry out loud as tears drip down from your chin. There was no Eunsang to bring you back to comfort and he wasn’t coming back anytime soon, not even at all. “Eunsang, please come back!”

There’s something mystical in your pocket and you’re unsure as to what it is. You could feel it’s light stem and when you pull it out, you lay eyes upon a four leaf clover. It was as if it was Eunsang’s last wish to give you the last four leaf clover he had picked out for you that following day.

Summer will never be the same without Eunsang.

#pls give me clout i wrote this in one sitting #eunsang scenario #eunsang imagine #x1 scenario #x1 imagine #lee eunsang #x1 #eunsang scenarios #eunsang imagines #x1 scenarios #x1 imagines #pdx101 scenario #pdx101 imagine #produce x 101 scenarios #produce x 101 imagines

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asgardianthot · 4 years

Text

Things are changing (sambucky)

summary: Sam and Bucky have an undercover mission going terribly, and concealed feelings ready to burst.

A salad of the following tropes: Sam cutting Bucky’s hair, undercover mission, ‘The new captain America’ debate and bigots and Bucky having no time for bigots, idiots to lovers.

TW: explicit racism, homophobia, censored slurs

word count: 6687

Bucky peaked into the common area where Sam focused on his laptop, a pair of scissors in his metal hand. “Could you help me?”

Sam looked up from the screen and couldn’t help a smile from appearing in his features. He closed the device and followed the man into the bathroom, walking in with him.

After telling Bucky to sit, not as an order but more as a ‘get comfortable’ offer, the soldier did so on top of the toilet seat cover. Sam was happy to help, even though the way his chest felt when his hands ran through the brunette locks, while visualizing where to cut, made the experience difficult. Bucky didn’t stare at himself in the mirror as much as anyone would. He portrayed an image of something close to shame, just staring down to the floor as if the mirror wasn’t right there facing his left side.

“You’re gonna dye it as well?” Sam asked, working on the front of his hairline, where the falling strands framed Bucky’s face.

“Do I have to?”

The words came out in a way that Wilson understood this had nothing to do with Barnes’ voluntary decision-making. He wished the man in front of him had had the time to change his image on his own willing process, because he had the motivation to do so. Instead, he’d been rushed into it by SHIELD, in hopes that the people at the event they would be attending wouldn’t recognize the former Winter Soldier.

So, hiding the sadness behind his words, Sam shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

Bucky reflected on it, though. Perhaps he could dye it. He’d look good in black. Darker suits him. However he decided he would shave first, and then see if he had the guts to dye it; even if he knew for a fact, he wouldn’t do it.

The haircut was working pretty well, not much conversation exchanged except for Sam’s small laughs whenever Bucky would sneeze or complain about hair falling into his face and nose. If they had a better way with words, Sam would have described the scene as intimate. However the position in which the two were getting it done began turning uncomfortable when Sam bumped against the shower trying to reach the back of his head.

“Wait.” Sam said as he put the scissors down in order to leave the bathroom.

He fetched a chair and dragged it inside, planting it in front of the sink and facing the mirror. Bucky sat there, almost forced to look at himself and the way his mane didn’t fall on his face anymore. Minutes later, Sam was already running the machine though Bucky’s nape, smoothing the haircut on the back of his head. One could say it was coming together. Nevertheless, there was still that familiar knot in his stomach as he cleaned some loose strands of hairs from his skin. His fingertips burned against the back of his neck, bumpy with recently cut hair and leaving every pore out in the open.

The funny part was, it was Bucky who was getting goosebumps all over his neck. Sam figured it was because he wasn’t used to air hitting him there unless he had his hair in a bun.

The veteran stared at the reflection of the new man in the mirror, Bucky doing so as well. It appeared like the ‘process’ Sam kept thinking about was taking place right there.

“Looks good.” Wilson spoke, breaking the silence.

“You think so?” Barnes asked genuinely.

There was a sensation of an aching heart taking over Sam’s body. Of course he thought so. He didn’t just look good, he looked awfully handsome. Shaking the thought away, he reached for the razor in the counter by the sink.

Yet Bucky somewhat attempted to stop him. “I can shave myself.”

A smirk settled itself on Sam’s features.

“I like playing barber.” He joked, getting the shaving foam. “Now turn.”

The man on the chair almost rolled his eyes, merely showing the smallest hint of amusement. He usually would have comeback with something funny and mildly aggressive, but it was like he’d had his wit stripped away during the transformation.

While Sam rubbed the white foam on the lower part of the soldier’s face, the latter just looked at a random spot in the shower curtain for the longest time. It felt oddly wrong to be caressing his jawline like that, knowing what it provoked in Sam. But Bucky never seemed to notice the way Sam looked at him. Still, Wilson tried to just get it done quickly and assist with the whole makeover as much as he could.

“All done.” He announced as he shut the water running from the sink rather dramatically, once he had finished with Bucky’s face.

Barnes didn’t even bother to turn his entire body. He faced the mirror frontally, and proceeded to look at himself for way too long. From afar, it looked almost like he didn’t recognize himself. That enigma was what Sam was trying to decipher; what went on in Bucky’s head. Too long, they stayed like that, until Sam broke the tension.

“You like it?”

Bucky didn’t exactly flinch. “Yeah.”

Yet his reaction didn’t change one bit. Perhaps, Sam believed, he was lying.

“Bucky.” He pushed a little.

And Bucky raised his eyebrows without moving an inch, as if he were surprised at what he was seeing, before letting out a relaxed breath. “That’s Bucky, alright.”

Oh.

Sam understood what he was trying to communicate. That, was how he used to look, before Hydra, before the Winter Soldier. The short hair, the clean face.

Oh! Good. That’s Bucky, alright.

A smile propped up in the Falcon’s face. Continuingly, and feeling pretty victorious, he handed the man a towel for him to get cleaned, and then walked out.

“Thanks.” Bucky stopped him, and Sam was faced with genuine gratefulness in blue eyes when he turned to face him.

“No problem.” He offered another kind grin.

The mission was that night.

SHIELD had figured out that the head of a dealing network who had been working for personalities and big companies was, quoting the new head of assignments, “not too shy in public anymore”. He would effectively be attending a Washington gala, one the pair would infiltrate. All they needed to do was overhear information about the deals and distract the big fishes as much as they could, make them feel safe enough so that when they’d leave, Wilson and Barnes would be able to follow the car.

It was now or never.

The reason why Bucky had to get a makeover was to lower the chances of being recognized. Losing the signature facial and long hair, dressed in a tux and acting low profile, he should be playing a perfect cover. People hardly ever recognized him before, anyway.

On his part, Sam wouldn’t be going undercover because there was absolutely no way for him to pretend he’s not who he is. The possibility of the attendants not recognizing him was gone since the press couldn’t stop talking about him: The Falcon, Captain America’s former companion, now carrying the shield in public missions ever since Rogers went off radar.

As a matter of fact, the public had passionately began calling him Captain Falcon, or simply ‘The New Captain America’.

It was, undoubtedly, stirring up quite some debate. And it had nothing to do with the former problems the public opinion had had with the Avengers, no, it was about his worthiness of the title. They specifically enjoyed comparing him with Steve: A war hero from WWII injected with super serum, took down Nazis and saved hundreds of soldier’s lives. America’s savior. Versus, just a guy born in Harlem. Same city as Rogers, different background. Both of them born into proud parents, who were members of the community, respected fellas, yet lacking riches.

“He’s a war hero, as well; did two tours in Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan isn’t Nazi Germany.”

“You’re right, it’s worse!”

That was a good example, a very representative discussion aired in a morning newscasters.

“The guy ran support groups for veterans. He was a hero before he joined the Avengers.”

“All I’m saying is he’s got some big shoes to fill. Rogers has been the prime image of American strength for almost a century.”

“A war veteran counselor isn’t?”

So it went on, during weeks of mute conversations. That’s what that was; people tried saying what they meant without actually speaking the words. Those dialogues weren’t about the two character’s history, instead they were about the image that they sold. On one side, blonde kid born in poverty and illness turns national hero thanks to the government. On the other side, black boy born in poverty represents the American Dream. Which poster boy they preferred selling, was up to politics.

If Steve and Sam were put in front of a TV to listen to crappy reporters comparing them, they would have laughed hysterically and resumed their day.

So, no, Sam couldn’t go undercover. He would instead use the fuzz to his favor and become a distraction while Bucky worked from the shadows of discretion.

“Sam, come on, hurry up.” Bucky knocked at his door.

The Falcon was supposed to make an entrance before him, so that he’d go unnoticed. In order for that to happen, the man needed to actually leave the compound. Until that happened, Bucky was stuck there, all dressed up in a classy two-piece suit and putting on the dressing gloves that would hide the metal hand.

“Beauty takes time, baby.” Sam mocked his coworker from behind the structure between them.

He soon opened the door to his room, applying the last touches of cologne on his neck. The smug look of his face faded the second the soldier was presented to him. It was one thing to see him flaunting his new look, but the tux and the tie, the way it not only made him look fancy but also accentuated his figure, and just the manner in which that deep navy blue color collided with Bucky’s eyes, was very different. Very mesmerizing.

It had Sam stopping in his tracks and failing to conceal his reaction.

“You need to get going.” Bucky reminded him.

Sam blinked a few times to get himself back to firm land. It was almost like in cartoons, when the character would blink furiously and no matter how much he tried, the fantasy wasn’t fading away, leading them to know it wasn’t a fantasy. This was pretty much it, only much less dramatic.

“Yeah.” Sam looked down, embarrassed and furrowing his brows. “You’re right. How do I look?”

Bucky did his absolute best not to be snarky. It was hard not to, when he felt all funny inside whenever Wilson made comments about his own appearance; he loved calling himself handsome, showing off his muscles after training, joke about his own butt and thighs being a God given treasure. He would flash film star smiles without even trying, that cheeky face reaching out for everyone’s heart to swoon, and Bucky would just stare, feeling like he shouldn’t be thinking about it. Instead of agreeing with Sam’s playful self-admiration, which holy hell he did, he would mock the man’s ego or something similar, burying his drooling enchantment deep down in his gut.

This time, though, it wasn’t like that. He took one good look at the classical attire, the black jacket and pants, black tie and blindingly white silk shirt peeking through his chest, he took in the way it fit Sam like he had been born to wear that, and he was honest. Honest, yet in no way disclosing his melting inside.

He gifted Wilson a professional smile. “Like the star of the show.”

It wasn’t exactly a compliment. He was, indeed, the star of the show for the sake of the mission, and that’s how Sam interpreted it. Had he known, nonetheless, the real thought process behind those words.

Sam made sure the earpiece worked from the moment he set foot in his car, he had only to press his fingers in any way that he could without making it noticeable and his voice would ring through Bucky’s ears. As soon as he had arrived there, small groups of personalities approached him, all eager to shake Samuel Wilson’s hand, make their names known to him. It was easier than he had thought, getting people’s attention, maybe even too easy. He wasn’t used to the fame.

Not twenty minutes later, Bucky went in with the fake identification SHIELD had provided, acting as he had been told to; low profile, yet not creepy. Silent, yet not like he was sneaking out. After all, he wasn’t sure he could have played a different part, let alone an eccentric, participative one. That was Sam’s forte. He spotted their target immediately: Christian Brinkmann. Big bad guy.

Glad that the mission had set its course, Wilson excused himself and announced he would be going out for some fresh air to some people; when others asked, he said he would be going out for a smoke. He immediately took advantage of the fuzz taking place at the outer exit and reached for his earpiece.

“Get his phone.” He murmured to Bucky’s communication device. “He’s been checking it since I got here, keeps it in his jacket. Easy extract.”

He quickly heard his partner clear his throat through the earpiece, letting Sam know he had heard him loud and clear.

The ‘star of the show’ as Bucky had described him, was indeed getting loads of attention. TV anchors and actors kept introducing themselves and taking pictures with him. A few worn out business men had actually asked light to rough questions about SHIELD and the Accords. There was, at one point, one shady comment about the former fugitive scandal. Everyone listening, including Sam, simply laughed it off.

From the other side of the room, Bucky gave into his whim and eyed him. He couldn’t stop ogling how comfortable he was around crowds.

Wilson’s maneuvers were taking a toll on his dignity, but he kept playing the part. He didn’t need to pretend in order to give out sassy comebacks to dumb conversations, so whenever he had the chance, that’s what he did. One specific actor or whatever with whom he’d been talking for a while was shameless enough to engage in a passionate discussion about working out. Comparing gym routines with an Avenger seemed to be something he had prepared for his entire career.

Another girl stepped into the group, a beautiful brunette that looked like she was in the entertainment industry stuck around for a lot longer while than the others. She was flirting.

“Is it Captain Falcon, then?” she asked with a false condescending tone, doing her best to show her interest.

He smirked down at her. “You like Captain Falcon?” She nodded, storing her phone which had so far been in her hand, inside her jacket. “Then that’s what you call me.”

He was flirting back. And somehow, his instinct had him searching for Bucky with his eyes. The actively undercover man was standing near a cocktail table, drinking, and probably overhearing people talking. It was a very useful thing that the serum didn’t allow him to get drunk, so he could keep ordering drinks and keep himself busy, avoiding suspicions.

Eventually, the girl told Sam to follow her to the bar, so she grabbed his hand and dragged both of them across the big room. They ended up standing fairly close to Bucky, and when the latter noticed the couple, he felt oddly wrong. He knew Wilson was just playing the part, but for some reason, he felt the urge to overhear them. Perhaps fortunately, he wasn’t able to, because they were too far and in a very noisy spot.

“So…” she ran her hands down the black tie resting on his chest. “Does Captain Falcon like to have fun?”

He raised his eyebrows and spoke in a low tone. “What kind of fun?”

She rolled her eyes, a cheeky smile on her face. “The non-avenging type.” She whispered before exaggeratedly itching the side of her nose for explaining purposes.

He hid his disappointment as best as he could. “Maybe later, doll.”

Soon enough he started feeling like a party trick prop, all of a sudden. All the faces trying to get to him, to be seen with him, they began to weight on him.

Luckily, he had a way out when his earpiece ran with Bucky’s voice. Hallway B. He made his way there, yet his arm was immediately yanked by someone who pulled him behind a door and into a closed staircase. Bucky stared into his eyes, a noticeable hint of fear behind his pupils.

“What are you doing?” Sam scolded him, trying not to raise his voice so that no attention would be brought towards the exit stairs.

“I can’t do this.” Barnes said honestly, shaking his head. Defeated.

Sam didn’t mean to fight him on it, but the guy was literally a master spy. Whatever that was stopping him couldn’t be any worse than plain performance fright.

He tilted his head. “Yes, you can.”

“It’s been an hour, I’m not getting anywhere near this guy.” Bucky insisted, clear lack of self-confidence hearable, along with some desperation.

“Then think of something!” he whisper-shouted, then returning to a calmer state, gathering a deep sigh. “Look, there’s no time to tap it and put it back. Get the phone, take the chip out. We’ll get all the info later, but for now, we can’t let him escape.”

The easy instructions somewhat calmed Bucky a bit, so he nodded. Wilson followed by placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, which made him relax.

“You got this, okay?” Sam soothed him, pressing his other hand to the side of Bucky’s head.

Soon the exchange didn’t relax Bucky as much as it made him freeze on the spot. It was too intimate; both of his hands keeping him close, keeping him supported, and their eyes locked. Only then he noticed how close their bodies were. The feelings were coming back, those he couldn’t explain. Not this again.

“You’re a great agent.” Wilson reminded him. “You’ll do fine.”

Bucky gathered enough strength to nod. Accept the comfort. Realize he might be right. He could do this. He managed to step away, getting Sam’s hands off of him, not in an awkward way, but leaving in a certainly awkward way.

“Bucky, wait.” Sam stopped him in his tracks, getting him to turn; so Sam stepped closer to him. “Your tie’s crooked.”

The man looked down to find his tie, resting not too proudly nor gracefully, as his partner had mentioned.

“Let me.” Sam offered, getting the fabric between his fingers.

He placed his hand over the clothing item once he had finished fixing its presentation, letting him know that he could step back now, yet Bucky physically couldn’t. Every short second Wilson had spent focused on the tie, Bucky had lost himself in his hazel eyes, so that when both of Sam’s arms rested at his sides, ready to part his way, Barnes stood still. And when Sam stared forward, he found some pretty intense orbs gazing into his own.

In right timing, the sound of footsteps from a few floors below forced them to spread, Bucky exiting first, then Sam, returning to the gala as if they hadn’t ever bumped paths.

With his newly set motivation, thanks to Sam’s pep talk, Bucky was quick to spot Brinkmann and analyze his surroundings. There were two men and a woman stuck to his side, the lady seeming more as a date than anything else, by the way big scary man acted towards her. An imaginary lightbulb above Bucky’s head lit up, and he proceeded by grabbing an abandoned glass of what looked like a cranberry martini or something similar, given by the color. He took one last glance at how eagerly the man checked his phone, and specifically the pocket in which he kept it.

Chanting eureka in his head, he walked up to the four of them, all the while he pretended to be focused on something or someone on the opposite side of the room. It was a matter of seconds before he was able to collide into the group, falsely missing where he was going, and pouring the reddish, purply drink over the woman accompanying Brinkmann.

“I’m so sorry!” he let out, a symphony of gasps around him. “Oh my god-“

In the second in which everyone gawked at the ruined dress, Barnes pulled the phone from the man’s pocket and slid it on the back pocket of his own pants. The woman was petrified.

“I can’t believe- I’m so, so sorry.” He continued the farce.

Brinkmann raised his eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed. “That’s gonna leave a stain.” He mocked.

His date faced him, and forced a cynical smile onto her features, yet was unable –or maybe unwilling– to conceal her deadly stare.

“Yes.” She straightened up. “Yes, it will.”

As she turned around, Bucky felt how deep down, he was seriously sorry for doing that; it looked like an expensive dress, it most likely wouldn’t wash off and she would have to go home early, humiliated. Once Sam found out, he would tell Bucky he’s the worst.

Bucky pretended to try and stop her. “Can I-?” Yet seeing how she was already gone, he sighed and shook his head before turning on his heels, embarrassed.

He made sure to continue the shameful walk until he reached the bar, where he stole a quick glance in the target’s direction; he wasn’t leaving with his date. That was good. He had time. He rushed to order something to the barman, then rested his back against the counter and reached into his back pocket for the phone.

“Did I just see you pour a drink over Brinkmann‘s date?” a sudden voice made him jump minimally.

Bucky put the device in the big pocket of his jacket, and had a good look at the man that approached him. Generic face, ugly nose like it had been broken a few times, average looking fella, dark hair, and fancy-looking suit. He didn’t look familiar.

“Yeah,” he answered with a fake awkward smile, letting out some air. “I feel terrible. I probably ruined the dress for good, poor gal.”

“You don’t know who that is, do you?” The man squinted his eyes, some amusement clearly shown.

Bucky put up a frown. “Who, the guy with her?” He asked innocently, awfully nervous about the way his own hand fidgeted inside his pocket.

The guy gestured the bartender for a specific drink with his fingers and turned back to the undercover spy. “Let’s just say you’re lucky she’s just an escort. Had he actually cared, your head would be on a stick.”

Bucky nodded, like this was his first time hearing it. “Powerful guy. You know him?”

“Work for him.” He said easily.

Bucky’s muscles tensed. There was no reason for this man to be lying about it. Most people at this sort of events knew who Brinkmann was and who he was seen around with. The way he spoke sounded like he had nothing to lose, which only came to Bucky’s mind, he actually hadn’t. Therefore, the only one at risk in this situation was himself. On the other hand, interacting this close to one of them was an objectively good opportunity, one he couldn’t miss. The problem was, he had to destabilize the stolen phone right there next to him.

“Thought I’d come and let you know your name’s not on a hit list, you know, be nice.” The man explained. “But I guess you weren’t worried.”

Barnes flashed a smile. “Maybe now I am.” He joked lightly, all the while he tried to get the cover off the phone with one hand.

Ugly nose fella took a sip from his recently poured drink, eyeing Barnes from the side, suspiciously. Of course, he had never seen Bucky’s face, and he was all alone. No ‘nobody’ showed up alone to these things. He rested his forearms against the counter, both bodies way too close and contemplating the horde of people.

“You talked to him yet?” The guy asked, randomly.

“Who?”

By now, Barnes was sweating. Can’t get the fucking phone open. And he couldn’t just leave, it would be even more suspicious. Any second now, that thing would ring, or Brinkmann would notice it missing and track it back to Bucky’s jacket.

“Captain America.” He explained, making Barnes realize the Avenger himself was engaging in a conversation right across the room from them. “Or so they call him.”

The way he spat the title made it clear he wasn’t a fan.

“Right. Haven’t had the pleasure.” Bucky improvised, and when he felt being stared at, he attempted to make conversation in order to take the attention off of the maneuvering. “You don’t like the hero thing?”

“I don’t like the guy.” He snorted. “Comes here, uninvited, the host shakes his hand like he’s got the key to the city or something. He plays it like he’s some sort of superstar.”

There was an inevitable small smile creeping its way into Bucky’s face, luckily unseen by anyone else. That fame and glamour and charm was the Captain trademark, alright.

“Wasn’t Rogers pretty much the same?” he said truthfully.

“Nah, that guy I respected, you know?” The man was quick to sound disgusted with the comparison. “This one, I think it’s a publicity stunt.”

It didn’t make much sense. Steve literally began as a publicity stunt, Bucky remembered. Captain America was literally born as a movie star to get people to buy bonds for the war. Bucky nonetheless bit the inside of his cheek as he was too focused on his hidden task. He finally got the case open and was able to pull the chip out, thus disabling the phone.

By the time his attention was back on the guy, he was rambling on something that had Bucky taken aback. “They wanna sell us something, ‘s why they picked the black guy out of all.”

Barnes froze entirely. His jaw clenched.

“Ya think so?” He said, cold and distant, unable to fake that argument.

“Yeah, man, look at him.” The dark haired man chuckled. “That look like a Captain America to you?”

Something very deep inside –and also something very shallow in him- wanted to kill this man, no thought-process needed. But he had to remain in the part. He couldn’t blow out his cover.

“I guess I don’t know.” He was able to speak without much hate, concealing all emotion from his voice. “Haven’t paid much attention to the debate.” He then smiled and took a sip of his drink.

“I don’t know, the whole thing reeks of politics. I actually heard from a friend he’s, you know…”

“What?” the rash question slipped off Bucky’s mouth with anger.

“A bit of a queer eye.” The guy explained, condescendingly. “And I mean, you look at him for a while, it starts to make sense.”

Barnes gripped the glass in his right hand impossibly tighter before breaking it. A few more seconds of clenching teeth together that hard and he would start yelling some truths.

“Tell me, look at him.” The guy seemed to completely miss Bucky’s discomfort as he insisted, his smile growing bigger like a jokester frat kid. “Look at him for a minute, tell me he doesn’t look like a fairy to you.”

Bucky shut his eyes for a mere second. This can’t be happening. His whole cover depended on him nodding to a dirty bigot insulting Sam, and his patience was hanging by a thread. He tried to focus on steadying his breaths but the burning in his stomach wasn’t going away.

“Look at him, come on!” The man elbowed Bucky’s arm. “If you had to guess, wouldn’t you say he’s one of those?”

“Sure.” Barnes let out, unconvincing. “Maybe.”

“Yeah!”

Brinkmann’s minion chuckled, trying to get Bucky to laugh with him as if they were buddies. Bonding over good ol’ problematic opinions. The spy’s blood was boiling, his palms sweating, his ears ringing. He knew his feelings had gotten in the way. He knew he couldn’t bottle it up for much longer.

“So how about that?” the man began once again.

The following words were strong enough for Bucky to lose it. The following words were bad enough that he couldn’t repeat them. What the following words provoked was all that bottled fury to reach a limit point, a very quickly reached point, fierce enough to make Bucky lift his fist in the air and crash it against the guy’s jaw, with such momentum, it made him fall and land on his back.

The punch caught the environment’s attention, the guests’ eyes flying to the scene and their hands flying to their mouths. Soon enough, pretty much everyone in that ballroom was staring. Two security guards ran to the scene where Bucky was ready to hit the bigot again, and that was when a very attentive Sam locked eyes with him. Fully aware of the mess he had made, of how much he had fucked up, Barnes walked out before he could be escorted by security. All while every eye followed him.

Once people drifted to focus on either the attacked man or to resuming their previous conversations, Wilson found a second to slip away and head to the parking.

When Sam reached the car he knew to be Bucky’s, the ashamed man was sitting inside it, his head resting back on the seat, his eyes closed. He was cooling off, breathing in and out, but as much as he tried to punish himself by thinking how he should have gone along with the offensive conversation, he knew deep down, there was no way he could have possibly held back after what he heard:

Not only is the new Cap a ‘n’ word but he’s also a ‘f’ word.

That’s what he’d told Bucky. Of course, the guy had had the audacity to actually articulate the full slurs.

Sam opened the co-pilot’s seat door and sat next to the wallowing man, shutting the door as lightly as his rage allowed him.

“What the hell was that?” he spat.

“Sorry.” Bucky sighed. “I got the phone, though.”

“You blew your cover is what you did! I can’t believe you.”

There was such disappointment in Sam’s tone, Bucky felt like rotting inside. Sam was questioning his self-control, or rather accusing him of having none when he clearly trusted him. Before Bucky had suckerpunched a potential prisoner, that is.

“I know.” The spy shut his eyes and breathed through his nose, just as disappointed in himself. “He just got on my nerves.”

“What could possibly justify you beating a man in the middle of a gala?” Sam kept scolding him. “In front of everyone we were spying on, on the one night we have to catch this bastard?”

As Bucky stared at the deserted parking ahead, the empty and expensive cars, and the exit, he thought about not telling him. Perhaps he didn’t need to justify his actions, but simply live up to his guilt. However something deep inside him felt like Sam deserved the truth.

He took a deep breath and addressed his partner without facing him. “He called you something I can’t really say out loud.” He explained, then tilting his head with shame. “And something I technically can but, believe me, I won’t.”

A frown took over Wilson’s features. The sentence was rather confusing. But after some thinking, he understood what he meant by ‘something I can’t say out loud’ and his frown faded, leaving room for a perfectly concealed look of frustration. Then, the question of what he meant by ‘something I technically can’ hit him right in the head. He knew Bucky to have been into men. He knew the stories. More importantly, Sam knew himself to have feelings for Bucky and therefore, qualifying for that kind of slur.

Fully understanding what had pushed Barnes to attack, Sam faced forward and steadied his expression.

“I don’t need you to defend me.” The Falcon let out in rough seriousness.

“You’re not defending yourself.” Bucky jumped to his own justification, suddenly feeling like they could discuss the injustices spoken in Sam’s name. “Do you hear what people are saying about you? Doesn’t it bother you?”

Wilson had no choice but to process the interpellation as judgement. Which is why he also had no choice but to snap in anger.

“That’s none of your business.” He said, rather loudly, before opening the car door and stepping out of it. “Go back. I got this.”

“Sam.” Barnes begged with sadness, ready to apologize.

Sam repeated the order, firmly. “Go back.”

Once inside the compound, Bucky got rid of his gloves and jacket. He left the dismantled phone on a nearby counter before losing the tie and stepping off his shoes. He decided to wait for Sam while laying back on the couch. All he could feel besides the mild exhaustion was worry; Sam might have gone after Brinkmann alone. He tried paging Wilson, but it was no use. There was no response. Running a hand down his face, he planted himself on the common area where he would wait as long as necessary. Unfortunately, his tired body made him shut his eyes for a second, and by the time he opened them, he didn’t know for how long he’d been asleep. Perhaps he had missed Sam’s entrance.

He was growing paranoid, so he went up to Sam’s room, only to find it empty. When he turned to head back down, though, he saw the elevator doors open, revealing the man he had been stressing over.

“Hey.” Sam said in a low voice, stepping out of the elevator and not making eye contact.

“What happened?” Bucky asked frantically.

“We lost Brinkmann, that’s what happened.” He replied without an ounce of tact.

Bucky’s eyes shut tight with frustration. This was all his fault. When Wilson went into his room, Barnes followed him.

“Sam, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t get to lecture me,” the man snapped without any warning. “about what I do or don’t do regarding people’s opinions on me.” An upset frown took over his face, almost surprised at Bucky’s previous actions. “I know what the news think of me, I’ve known all my life.”

“I didn’t mean-“

“You have no say in me defending myself or not. ”Sam cut him off. I know what they’re saying. You want me to go on Morning America and play friendly monkey for them to accept me? Is that what you want me to do? Or defend every single person with my skin tone on live TV? Maybe that’s what you were expecting.”

Bucky swallowed hard. Of course Sam was right. Of course it wasn’t Bucky’s business what Sam did with the public opinion, because Bucky would never understand. And he felt awfully selfish for missing that point at the gala and later in the parking.

“No.” Barnes said, his head hanging low.

“Then don’t tell me what I already know.”

Sam proceeded to stand near his bed and slipping off his jacket, in complete silence. All that could be heard were their breaths and the rough fabric grazing Sam’s silk shirt.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky let out in the mid quiet. “Honestly.”

Dropping his jacket on the bed, Sam let out a sigh. He looked down, as if praying for God to pump him with strength. He couldn’t stay mad at Barnes. Not only because he had no ounce of malice when punching that bigot, and he genuinely hadn’t thought it through, but most importantly because Sam cared too much for him, and he couldn’t bear seeing him ashamed.

“I know you are.” He nodded, still not facing the spy. “It’s okay.”

“And I’m sorry for ruining the mission.” Bucky added with absolute honesty. “I know we only had one shot.”

Sam sat down on the mattress and offered him half a grin. “It’s fine. We got the info on his phone, that’s something.”

As much as Bucky felt relieved that Sam wasn’t upset, he felt like he deserved to get scolded. He had messed up the operation and Sam had every right to be angry. He thought about how the veteran was always so unjustly good to him.

“Don’t be nice about it, I screwed up.” Barnes shook his head.

“There’s always another chance.”

“Look, it was my fault.” He insisted. “You’re too easy on me. Be honest.”

Wilson opened his mouth, clueless, and shrugged. After closing it back down, he realized he didn’t have any lingering disappointment towards Bucky in his system. He didn’t want to fight him.

“It’s okay.” Sam said.

“No, it’s not.” Bucky’s voice raised a bit.

Sam found himself in a bit of a dilemma. As much as he wanted to get Bucky off the hook, he knew the man felt guilty and needed that acknowledged. So Sam wanted to tell Barnes what he wanted to hear, yet also wanted to end the tension.

Thankfully, Bucky spoke again to derail Wilson’s dilemma.

“Don’t… take pity on me, please.” His voice turned out sadder than he’d hoped. “Not you.”

Sam’s heart sunk. That was what everyone else felt. What everyone else saw: a victim. A poor guy with a tragic past. He needed Sam to see more than just pathetic. Wanted Sam to see him for what he was. And Sam, on his part, didn’t take pity on him, he never had. He simply felt too much for him to ever want to make him feel bad.

Barnes breathed through the silence and insisted on the clarification. “Just… not you.”

Eventually, Sam couldn’t help his own limbs nor his heart pounding in his chest. If there had ever been a right moment for spilling his feelings, this was it. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t speak and appease Bucky’s sorrow.

So he stood up and with one rush of strength he quickly approached the man, grabbed his now clean shaven face, and planted a deep kiss onto his lips. At first, Bucky was shocked, the somewhat disbelief of knowing Sam reciprocated his feelings disqualifying him to close his eyes. Given the lack of reaction, Sam stopped and drew his face further from Bucky’s, proceeding to stare deep into his light-colored eyes with questioning ones.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to snap out of his confused trance and launch to kiss Sam back. He placed both of his hands on Wilson’s shoulders while Sam’s palms kept steady cupping the spy’s cheek, caressing him. As their lips deepened the touch, Bucky embraced the man he had been adoring for god knows how long, while the latter brought him closer with a hand on his lower back until they were impossibly closer.

They were already breathing into the kiss when Sam broke it and pressed his forehead against Bucky’s.

“That’s not why I’m nice, you idiot.” Wilson whispered.

“What, you like me or something?” Barnes mocked him, his eyes still shut.

A smirk creeped its way onto Sam’s lips before he kissed the man in his arms again. Hopefully that would get the idea into his thick skull. As they separated to catch their breaths, Barnes ran a finger down the prominent cheekbones on the veteran’s sculpted face.

“Next time, start with that.” He said softly.

“I thought I was being obvious.” Sam raised his eyebrow amusingly.

On their next mission, Sam sent cheeky looks in Bucky’s way, before hiding behind his glass of champagne, and Bucky couldn’t conceal the inevitable smiles that it brought nor the way his face flushed. On their next mission, they were able to follow a lead and chase a car that directed them to take down Brinkmann’s primary net. And when the mission was over, they returned to the compound to heal each other’s wounds.

#sambucky #marvel fanfiction #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sam/bucky #sam x bucky #ftws #the falcon and the winter soldier #sambucky fanfiction #tw: racism #tw: homophobia #tw: censored slurs #tw: n word #captain america #the falcon #the winter soldier

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paperbagpetrichor · 4 years

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I have a bit of a silly request if that's okay with you! 💕 Kakyoin learning to dance with his s/o? I imagine him being a bit clumsy and cute ❤🍒

[ You guys and your Kak requests keep me alive, ohmygoodness~ cx ]

Slight spoiler warning for the end of Stardust Crusaders!

It had been a week or so since you and your boyfriend had received the great news from your friend. Of course, not that either of you would’ve expected anything different, as journeying with Polnareff for fifty days had proven him capable of describing anything elegantly, even toilets (which was something neither of you would ever let him live down). But this wasn’t like his usual contact methods. He hadn’t rang you, nor left a message, at least not at home, for awhile. You knew he hadn’t tried calling you through your company, too, and from what you’d gathered from Kakyoin, he hadn’t either, so needless to say it was a bit of a surprise when the two of you received a letter one peaceful spring afternoon. The two of you had shared a quick glance before opening it. A - wedding invitation? All the way in France?

If someone had told you or your boyfriend that a few years after venturing for fifty years to kill a vampire god who had stolen someone else’s body, that one day you’d all be alright, all settle down, manage to get by after it all and still enjoy life after the losses of your friends, you would’ve laughed in their face. And yet, here you were. Living with the man of your dreams, who had just narrowly avoided death himself, but healing, and Polnareff tying the knot with someone he’d known for a shorter time period than you or Kakyoin had ever known each other, it all felt insane. It was insane. And as of today, it was precisely a week before the two of you would pack up for your visitation to France.

You couldn’t stop smiling for days. After facing everything he had - losing his sister, confronting her killer, fighting, quite literally, The World - he was able to find some shred of happiness and normality back into his life, and it had bloomed into something lovely. Knowing that he would be able to move on was a great reassurance to you. And now, knowing that he’d have someone to spend his life with, to share in his joys and sorrows, only made it so much better.

Initially Kakyoin had been as excited as you, laughing and joking at the thought that some poor girl would genuinely fall for Polnareff’s cheeky pick-up lines and cheesy flirtations, those extravagant displays of affection that seemed to come at any time for any reason, almost a scary sense of devotion and determination to win her approval. But as of late he’d seemed a bit odd. You noticed him re-reading the letter countless times, and before too long you decided to confront him about it. Which put you at your present situation.

Your boyfriend was in what would’ve probably been a dining room, had you not transformed it into an art studio, staring pensively at his near-blank canvas, only a few brushstrokes and colors dotting the media despite the fact that he’d been holed up in there for hours. With a small knock and no response you eventually let yourself in. The moment he noticed you, he jumped.

“Hi,” the both of you began pensively, at precisely the same time. You weren’t sure who was blushing deeper but managed to stay focused on the issue at hand.

You grabbed a spare chair and pulled it up next to him, taking a seat beside him and folding your hands in your lap as you inquired softly, “What’s going on?” Your eyes searched his, and for a few moments it genuinely appeared he wouldn’t provide an answer, but dammit, he couldn’t withstand your gorgeous face and how concerned you were for him, coupled up with those big doe eyes and soft lashes.

He knew you well enough to be sure that if he said something along the lines of nothing much, you weren’t going to believe him for a second. You’d just as easily catch him in a lie - not that he’d ever do that with malicious intent, but every now and then a little white I’m fine came out when he wasn’t, and you would always spot it like a sore thumb. But the real reason? God, it was stupid. So, so, so stupid. Hell - you would think of him as an idiot if he told you. Nevertheless he knew it’d come out somehow, and in the end he thought his best shot was to just be straightforward about it. “You’ll laugh at me,” he prefaced.

“No, I won’t,” you retorted, crossing your arms and leaning against him, resting your head against his arm. “I just want to help. I don’t like it when you’re sad...you know you can tell me anything, right?”

You felt him tense against you. He bit his lip and averted his gaze from you, blazing shame firing through his body and only growing hotter with every passing second, until he ran his spare hand through his cherry hair and took a deep breath. “I - can’t dance.”

Despite it all you couldn’t help a small giggle escaping from your lips as you gave him a hug, even as he stammered that you promised you wouldn’t laugh, only for you to clarify with another bout of laughter, through his arm as you pulled him closer, that you weren’t laughing at him. “You’re so precious,” you doted, grinning from ear to ear, “you know that? I love you.”

Kakyoin was extremely confused. Why were you laughing? Well, that one was easy enough to answer. You thought he was some uneducated child who’d never so much as been through one dance in his life, doubting his true artistic ability if he couldn’t so much as fall into step with a beat (if that was how dancing worked at all, he didn’t know). Why were you hugging him? Why did you tell him you loved him - rather, how? He’d just admitted that he couldn’t do perhaps one of the most important things in romance, surely he was a disappointment? “[Y...y/n]?”

“You shouldn’t have been so worried,” you murmured, playfully giving him a kiss on his cheek only to withdraw after seeing the forlorn expression on his face and reconsidering. It didn’t take you too long to propose a theory as to his thoughts and their processes of originating, and your heart squeezed as you imagined what he was thinking, knowing that he always made a big deal of the smallest things, constantly in fear that you’d love him less for it. “Hey, look at me, Nori,” you continued, tucking a stray strand of his unruly hair back behind his ear as he slowly turned to face you, face flushed. “First of all - nothing is ever going to make me love you any less, okay? I love you because you’re you, and you’re Noriaki Kakyoin, the most amazing person I’ve ever met. Nothing is going to change that, least of all because you can’t dance.” He seemed to relax at least a little, and so you dipped your head in a small movement of affirmation and gratefulness before finishing up, “Second of all - we can fix that. Come on, I’ll show you - you’ll have it in no time.”

And thus, soon enough, the two of you were outside on the backyard patio, both because you’d insisted it’d be an unnecessary pain to rearrange the furniture in the house and because you were pretty sure he’d be too nervous to try anything in the front yard in plain sight to anyone who may have been walking by. You set your walkman down on the handrail leading down to the grassy floor beneath the wooden patio with a soft and slow song playing. There wasn’t any purpose in overcomplicating things, so you’d decided a simple Waltz would suffice, as it was fairly easy to remember the steps to but also appeared elegant enough to prevent you both from being scorned at such a fancy event.

You turned back to Kakyoin, who was watching with a flush of unease lighting his face in a rosy hue, and took his hand. “Alright. So the first thing is to just remember the beat,” you began, casting a glance over at your music player. “See how it sort of goes one, two, three, one, two, three?” He nodded reluctantly. “That’s the way we’re going to pace it out. Just count it in your head, and keep repeating. Depending on how fast the song is, that might have to speed up or slow down, but it’s always going to be a one, two, three with an equal amount of time between the numbers and the repeats. Does...that make sense?”

He raised his spare hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it nervously. “I think so…”

With a proud smile, you gave his hand a squeeze of approval and proceeded to take the other until the both of you were hand in hand, gently guiding his left up and out, intertwined with your own. “The arm part is really easy. We’re always just going to be holding hands here,” you giggled, enjoying the feeling of his warmth against your small hand. “And then your other hand - you can put it here -” you continued, guiding it to just below your arm, wrapping around your shoulder blade, “- or here, if you like.” This time you placed his arm around your waist, cupping your body across the small of your back.

“Is it alright if I do this one?” he inquired, slightly relaxing his tense muscles and keeping his arm around your torso, holding you close.

You nodded. “That’s perfect. So now, I’m going to put my hand here -” you rested it across the back of his shoulderblades, “- and that’s all you have to do with your arms. Easy, right?”

“So I just keep them here?” he mouthed, half a question and half a statement, as though trying to repeat your instructions to ensure he’d heard them correctly. You gave him an encouraging grin.

“Yes, right there,” you affirmed, “and now onto the legs.”

He visibly gulped, and you shook your head, reassuring him gently, “You’re going to get it, okay? So usually the guy would lead, but I’ve got no problem leading you, if that’d make you more comfortable.”

“I - I want to lead,” he interjected, tightening his grip on you. If he was going to do this, he wanted to do it properly. You were already teaching him, he wasn’t about to let you do all the work, especially not because he was too much of a chicken to rise to the task.

With a small nod you approved, cheeks tinted red at his determination. He was serious about this - everything had to be the way it was supposed to, and nothing else, and you knew that no matter how hard you’d try to convince him otherwise, he’d be too stubborn to listen. Well, it wasn’t exactly a negative. You would enjoy his gentle movements swaying your body back and forth, even if he was uncertain, guiding you side to side and holding you tightly. This part was arguably the most complicated. Firstly you talked him through it, then demonstrated your steps, then his, running down the bulleted list of motions again until he seemed to come out of his shell a bit more, quietly confirming that he was ready to try.

You didn’t get very far before his foot ended up atop yours and he retreated quickly, red in the face. “I’m sorry - are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“Nope, that’s normal, love. It’s your first try - you’re not supposed to be perfect,” you informed after planting a gentle kiss on his cheek, ultimately pulling him in for a hug when he didn’t respond. “Hey, you’re doing really good, okay? You’re not going to hurt me, I promise. If you need a break, just let me know, yeah? We’ll take this at your pace.”

He sighed into you, ultimately embracing you back, holding your head to his chest as he thought it over. This was supposed to be easy, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t he getting it? But your words, your reassuring your voice, your kiss...it gave him a glimmer of hope. “Let’s try again.”

You pulled away with a grin and positioned the both of you properly before starting over. Every now and then his foot would bump into yours and he’d shoot you a worried glance, but you simply rolled with it, because unless someone was staring intently at your feet it’d look fine, so long as neither of you stepped on the other. There were moments where he lost the beat, but you pulled him back in, talking him through it, comforting him with compliments and affirmation. The two of you managed to get about halfway through the song without too obvious of any blunders before Kakyoin tripped, falling against you as you moved to catch him in your arms, forming a sort of awkward hug.

“Ah...I’m sorry, sweetheart, are you -” but he cut himself off as he regained his balance and remembered your earlier words, instead redirecting his train of thought entirely. He was making a fool of himself. Not only was he incapable of getting through the song, but he’d crash into your feet, trip into you, lose track of the beat, failing at basically everything you’d helped him try to learn. He blinked slowly and averted his gaze from you. “I’m not really cut out for this, am I?”

Your heart broke a little at the self-deprecating laugh that escaped him as he ran a hand through his hair, refusing to look at you. Stepping closer to him, you brushed his hair out of his face, tilting his chin down until your eyes met. “Hey, Nori, you’re doing great,” you murmured, running a hand along his jawbone and offering him an encouraging smile. “You’ll be an expert at this in no time. You want to know a secret? When I was first learning how to do this, I couldn’t get past the first three moves until five tries in.” A giggle escaped you. “You don’t have anything to be worried about. I’m really proud of you.” Of course you wouldn’t say it, because it’d probably make him feel bad, but with how apologetic he was, how self-conscious he seemed to be, the way he seemed to worry about everything, especially you...it was sweet. You didn’t mind if he messed up. But he did, so you vowed to help him as much as you could. You knew he would succeed.

The two of you slowly fell back in, and much to Noriaki’s amazement, he didn’t step on you, or fall, or lose the beat too much. Sure, he would forget himself every now and then, and his foot would graze you, but he wasn’t tripping, he didn’t think he looked as idiotic as before, and he was beginning to regain some faith in himself. The instant the song flickered off you were on him, hugging him to you and smothering him with kisses.

“See? See? What did I tell you, hmm?” you laughed between kisses. You smiled into his shirt as you felt his chest rumble with relieved laughter of his own, returning your affection with a kiss of his own and an arm around you. That smile of yours, that laugh - he would do anything to see it. It was his life force, sometimes the only thing that kept him going, the only thing that could always make him happy, no matter what.

Still, he wasn’t entirely satisfied. He did still forget a few steps now and then, and his footwork wasn’t too precise. He was determined to get it right. And so he asked to go again. Once more, all the way through the song - he didn’t fall out of beat, or anything else, except for almost slipping as the inside of his sole hit yours rather harshly. Again. There, that was better, just a few slight moments where he’d step too quickly and brush his shoe against yours. Again. Again. Again. And then, at last - no trips. No falling. No losing the beat. No stepping on you, no slipping, no delayed movements, no grazing your feet, no hesitation. A massive weight felt like it had been lifted off him, and as he finished perfectly in line with you, he pulled you to him, practically lifting you off the ground as he laughed with accomplishment. “[Y/n], I did it!”

“I know!” you grinned back, throwing your arms over his shoulders and giggling gleefully. See? No time, none at all. He was a quick learner, no doubt about it, and the elation he seemed to exude flooded you, filling you not only with your happiness, but his, too, and you embraced him tighter, the two of you one congealed mess of limbs and laughter. “See, nothing to worry about! You’ve got it, Nori.”

“All thanks to you,” he replied, gently setting you down with a kiss on your forehead, but not letting you go nonetheless. “So as thanks, maybe I should teach you something too…?”

Before you had a chance to respond, he’d spun you around in circles, tilting you back in his arms and catching you with your back arched, your breathless form savoring the moment with peace. He pulled you back in, laughing, the biggest grin you’d seen yet illuminating his face. “What did you think? Should we add that in at the end?”

“I’d say yes, but I think you’re going to put Polnareff to shame,” you chuckled, smiling from ear to ear at the suddenness of it all, the sheer enjoyment of it all washing over you in unprecedented waves.

“I wouldn’t consider that a negative. You’ll put everyone else to shame regardless, [y/n].”

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perahn · 6 years

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Codex Entry #5

…never had to concentrate so hard in my life. Most of the Academy’s lessons came naturally – oh, they were hard work, certainly, but it never felt as though my brain was physically being warped into a new shape to accommodate the knowledge. Some of these ideas, these concepts, cannot be expressed in any other language… the way Netherese saw their magic and handled it is so completely different to anything suggested by any other theorist I’ve ever encountered. The magic of the tome may be depleted now, but even so, it’s an incredible text.

A shame it’s – no. I must keep this in order.

Katy insisted that all of them should accompany me. She seemed unmoved by my argument that this might simply lead to all of us dying unpleasantly and uselessly. She was extremely emotional about the prospect of being left behind, and I still don’t understand why. I yielded – it isn’t for me to dictate what my allies choose to do, and after all, it seemed possible it was one of the purposes for which I dreamed the recurring – and I was trying to sort through the logistics. So many spells of nondetection and tongues would leave me with very few resources for self-defence, assuming there would be any point in it.

I asked Harper, that morning, if he believed whatever it was that protected his thoughts from me would serve him as well against others. He says he has no reason to believe otherwise. I still wonder about that, but it truly isn’t that important any more. The storm that calls our names is building, and the winds reach for us. There isn’t much time left before it’s unleashed. I have made too many mistakes, failed too badly. Let it come and tear me to tatters.

Keep order, Khem, you mewling disgrace. Clutch your red rags about you and pretend you’re worthy of them. Just a little longer.

Harper pointed out that I could just teleport away without them. It hadn’t occurred to me to simply go. I have no excuses for something that seems so obvious in retrospect. They were less than a day from Skullport, with their guide and supplies – it achieved almost exactly the same as my initial desire to teleport them to Waterdeep before facing Zurn by myself. It defied the expressed wishes of both Katy and Shay to be involved in the matter… but I judged that acceptable.

Misjudged.

Maybe.

I no longer know.

I told Harper to take care of them for me. My wastet-le, in their different ways and degrees, and my ahk-veleth (A Thayan term, describing someone in an alliance of equals: a partner of complementary skills and shared goals, with whom one is not in direct competition. Neither ahk-veleth has authority over the other or attempts to establish dominance; mutual protection is owed and mutual help expected, with both partners keeping the balance of power even between them. While theoretically a counterpart to both ‘kvaleth’ and ‘wastet-le’, it is not commonly used among Red Wizards – especially as it is employed here, with no sarcasm involved). I remember, when I was a child, dreaming of the recurring and being certain that I would find them one day, and we would be friends, and everything would be all right. Even as a child, I should have known better. Nothing is that easy, even if it might have been.

Then I went.

I chose the simpler lie Harper had suggested, but whether due to content or delivery, Metoth Zurn did not seem convinced. It didn’t matter. He was destroyed by a beam of radiant energy, apparently delivered by a Red Wizard who’d been waiting in the shadows. Naturally, I paid my respects, and I handed over the tome at his request. I was even entertaining the speculation he might have been the person for whom the book was eventually intended – when he let his disguise drop.

A detailed description of an older male drow in robes, as well as a sketch, follow.

I am gravely concerned about the involvement of the drow in Red Wizard affairs. I keep turning the whole event over in my mind, questioning whether there was anything I could safely have done to hold or track him. But it is a moot point. I did nothing. I ensured that Zurn was dead and I left the body for the wizards of the enclave to discover. I wanted to speak to his second, but she wasn’t available. As I have left the matter, it could be assumed I killed Zurn myself, which may be of use to myself or to his second. I’d rather work with her than against her; I don’t intend to remain in Skullport indefinitely, and I certainly don’t have the requisite knowledge of the wizards of the enclave to attempt to step into Zurn’s place.

What a pathetic joke.

I returned to the rendezvous inn to wait for the others. It has been burned to the ground; our initial inquiries suggest that a drow with a scar across his nose was responsible, possibly to flush out his quarry. Harper seems to believe he was looking for our guide. I am less certain, and I have no faith in the utility of the description.

Harper and Katy arrived in due time. Shay was not with them. I was… concerned, and displeased, that Harper should have lost her after I entrusted her to his care, but they explained that she had been with them on their return to Skullport, apparently disappearing after that. Katy began to emote hysterically as we went to a secondary location.

I trusted that Shay knew what she was doing, but I nevertheless had an unpleasant flash of insight - I might almost say empathy – into what it might have been like for her this morning, when she woke and found that the one she was supposed to protect was not where she expected them to be, and was, in fact, out of her reach. It was… an uneasy thing.

Twitch was waiting for us at the secondary location – the house of the slaver Lambent, now deceased – and has apparently adopted us. He’s a magnificent beast, and, like most creatures, considerably easier company than people. He’s sitting beside me as I write, one tentacle curled about my boot, chewing on a weasel skull. It’s… comforting.

Focus. Are you a wizard, or are you a flitter-brained lump of quivering emotional jelly? Control yourself.

Harper went out to look for Shay – ostensibly to soothe Katy, but I believe he was genuinely concerned as well. I myself was starting to grow uncomfortable, and I elected to wait for them outside on the steps. It occurs to me, now, that I never doubted that Harper would find her and bring her back. I don’t understand. I wish I did.

In any case, he did. Shay and I spoke at length.

How could I have missed something so obvious? How could I have been such a careless, worthless excuse for a kvaleth? I know her – I know the monks who shaped her and how they did it. I know how she thinks, the people she has lost and how. I know the fears, the deaths, the tortures that plague her sleeping mind. I know her better than I’ve known anyone since Nebastis – and still I failed her. She specifically asked me to take her with me, and I should have known why. I should have known what leaving her behind, under those circumstances, would do to her. All because, in my arrogance and blindness, I overlooked one thing. I never even considered the possibility that she might have come to care for me.

I still don’t understand why, or how. I know what I am, and what I am not. I am a Red Wizard. I am not nice, or likeable, or trustworthy. I should not matter, on a personal level, to anyone.

But we have been travelling together for so long. She matters to me, I value her – beyond her skills or whatever role the Thirsty may have to play in what will be. I trust her. I told her all of this, and I meant it, and I let her see that. They would not have treated her so at the monastery, and it never occurred to me to take it into account.

There are no excuses. I have apologised, and I have promised to do better. It’s probably too late. The damage is done and I do not have the skills to mend it. I deserve to lose her to Harper. He would not have made the same mistake.

I must do better with him, as well. And find the knowledge to teach Katy, as I have promised.

I dreamed I was fire – a joyful, wild hunger. All things were mine to taste, all things were mine to burn and change forever. I sang as I burned, restless and seeking. I came upon the Silent, alone and still. He watched me, and he held out his hand. I laughed in smoke, and I laid my hand in his, unafraid as his fingers closed about mine. He did not burn. Instead I shivered into ash and blew away on the wind.

I have been dreaming the Silent all my life, and he has never spoken – hence the epithet. Last night, he did. I would assign it the highest significance… except that what he said, as he watched the wind whirl me away and scatter me, was: “Khem, what the fuck?”

I don’t know what else I expected.

Shay, Harper and Katy intend to go out and pursue some small project of Harper’s at the brothel. They expressed no particular desire for me to accompany them, and so I have remained here. Perhaps it may help to have some time to organise my thoughts, to settle myself. Stranger things have happened.

I spoke with Harper earlier. I had wanted to set matters straight between us ever since he said that he believed I hated him.

Of course, I failed miserably. I made a fool of myself because I could not even begin to explain what ahk-veleth are. I irritated him more than usual. I tried to gloss over the whole matter of the recurring by telling him it need not concern him – which I knew was idiotic the moment it fell out of my mouth. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

He said “Well, what would you like me to do? Would you like me to cut off my own fucking hands so that you can – what? What would that even do?” I don’t know why he evoked that image, whether it’s deliberate or linked or significant, but I could see it when he said it – the curled fingers, the stumps, the blood hot on my hands.

He wants me to trust him – he’s frustrated that I do not. He implied that he might, in turn, extend his trust to me. I could almost laugh. Surely he knows better. “Don’t trust me, then. It’s not like I can hold you down and take it from you. It’s not a real – it’s not a thing. Uh. But we should at least try to be friends.” I have been nothing but honest with him, too. He should know what I am by now. Surely I am not what anyone would seek friendship with.

I don’t know what to do, beyond attempting to correct the most egregious of my recent mistakes when dealing with him. I left a letter for him, apologising for the ‘need not concern you’ comment and offering to try to explain the matter. I don’t even know whether I’d prefer he pursues it or not.

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know I don’t (this phrase is repeated in increasingly more erratic writing for the rest of the page)

#writing #khemuret xul #d&d

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crocadilemile · 5 years

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9 chickweed lane/pibgorn

I’ve been going through the archives of both comics lately..

-I like the art, sometimes. There are 2 things he draws well, sexy legs and cats. Fashion, sometimes.

- I like Edda and Juliette’s relationship, sometimes. I like how affectionate and simpatico they are. Not so much a fan of them comparing how sexy each other are.

-Juliette is probably the best character (so far), she has the most depth - her problems with her mother, her job, her ex, etc.

-Edda in comparison is pretty two dimensional. She’s the most brilliant, talented student ever, and also she puts whoopee cushions on people’s chairs and shit. How kooky.

-Amos is the Steve Urkel of the strip, if Urkel had less self confidence. It’s the old geek fantasy dynamic, of the shlubby nerd who gets together with the childhood friend dream girl he places on a pedestal. At least their relationship is mutually loving, unlike so many comic strip poison marriages.

-The strip makes it clear early on that it’s strictly ivory tower, with nothing but contempt for anything or anyone low class. If it’s not Brahms or Bogart, it’s dumb garbage for the idiot masses. And did you know that politicians.. are stupid? And that tv sitcoms.. are dumb? More cutting, insightful commentary such as that can be found in this week’s 9 Chickweed lane!

-In some ways.. I find the comic aspirational, if only I could be as smart, sexy, respected, and talented as Juliette and Edda, if I could find as much pleasure they take in high class culture.. If I could be as wealthy, full stop. It’s a high society fantasy, not unlike the Cary Grant and Fred Astaire films the characters admire so much. What brings me back down is the closed minded, and I hate to use the term- elitist, viewpoint.. you just have to look at anyone that isn’t Juliette or Edda and see how crudely and hastily they’re drawn, the venom directed at any fool who would dare get in their way, the literal strip with Edda at the top of an ivory tower, the bottom of which is covered in graffiti and barbed wire.

-I haven’t mentioned Pibgorn yet, mostly because that is it’s own mess of problems. It’s a fantasy about fairies and succubi and other magical creatures, but nevertheless stars two ladies with sexy legs, one young and free spirited, and one older and troubled, and bespectacled, geeky love interest. Hmm. The thing you will notice immediately about Pibgorn is that every other page features a woman (usually Drusilla) being stabbed. Don’t fret, they won’t die, since they’re magical creatures, but they will get painfully stabbed, impaled, and shot, over and over again. Not to mention immolated, and in a memorable sequence, have a tree covered in thorns grow out of their throats like a pig on a spit roast. Hey friend, you OK there? Something you want to talk about, perhaps?

-In any case.. there’s something unique and genuinely appealing about a strip that has, not high ideals per se but an appreciation for the arts and higher education even if it comes at the price of some disturbing sexism.. but it’s the case of a really singular work that is flawed but the flaws are also interesting in themselves.

-Some of the dialogue though, sheesh. I’m paraphrasing, but Edda asks something like “do you think, as a woman, you are deserving of moments of utter rapture” which is the most asinine sentence. The fuck are you talking about Edda, like do women.. deserve happiness? Why would you not? What does being a woman have to do with it?

-*fart noise*

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megacreativewriter · 5 years

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Human Toilet at the Club Pt. 03

Introduction:

All characters depicted in this story are above the age of 18.All characters depicted in this story are above the age of 18.

*****

Chapter 6

I couldn't think straight. The dildo in my ass was stretching me out. My ass burned from its size, holding me open and filling me. But, what was worse than the dildo was my sister's shit. It had taken over my senses. It's all I could smell, taste, feel, and think about. I spent the next 10 minutes trying to hold the turd down. If I threw it up, I would have to swallow it down again—or otherwise drown. As much as drowning had its appeal, a small part of me liked what was happening. I felt special, like my service to these women gave me purpose. It's as if I could finally be useful to women, and that gave me worth. Maybe if Lauren saw how good of a toilet I was, she would take me with her to college to serve as her toilet. Then, I could be with her again. Or, maybe I was going insane from the toxic shit inside of me.

My thoughts were interrupted by a woman walking into my stall. She was a cute Asian teenager, perhaps of Filipino heritage. She was petite, and had little curvature. She wore a tight, short white dress. Her dark tan skin contrasted against the whiteness of her outfit, and I thought she looked beautiful. She peered down into the toilet and giggled at the sight of me. Her smile was friendly in a bubbly way. She was cute, and I was excited to service her. I hoped she only had to pee. Maybe that would get the taste of my sister's shit out of my mouth.

She pulled her dress over her head, revealing an amazing body. She was toned, with a flat stomach and small tits. Her tits had dark, puffy nipples. They were perfectly sized, and would fit nicely in a hand. "Not that it would ever be my hand," I thought to myself. Nevertheless, I would get to share in an intimate act with this cute teen, and that made me tingle. I started to get erect again while admiring the musculature of her thighs. "Notice anything special about me, toilet?" she asked, in a playful and seductive voice. I scanned her body, looking for something unexpected. My eyes stopped at her red laced panties. It was difficult to tell from my angle, but her pubic mound seemed to bulge more than the other girls I had seen. She noticed me eying her panties and said, "Looks like you found my little secret, toilet. You get a prize!"

With that, she turned around and gave me a little striptease. I was confused, but enjoying the show. After being treated so terribly by the other women, this lady's positive attitude was a pleasant change. She showed me her bum, and gave it a little shake up and down. Her ass jiggled, and I got a whiff of her perfume from the movement. She smelled sweet, like sugar cookies. The smell was especially welcoming because it was the first time in 15 minutes that I wasn't smelling putrid shit. She then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slowly pulled them down. Rather quickly, she sat on my face. That's when I clued in.

Lying across my face was a small, semi erect dick, about 4 inches in length. She was completely hairless, and I could feel her smooth balls resting under my chin. Her dick sat across my lips, stopping right next to my nose. It was hot in temperature, and I could feel her heartbeat radiate within it. It smelled like her perfume, and was remarkably clean. "Do you like your prize?" she asked me. I knew better than to talk. She looked through her legs and into my eyes and smiled. "You ever sucked a dick, toilet boy?" I knew what I had to do next. I always had a thing for cute trans girls, and I was excited for this opportunity. I wanted to please this angel sitting on top of me.

I opened my mouth and slowly wrapped my lips around her dick. She let out a soft moan of content, and leaned forward so I had better access to her. I ran my tongue along the underside of her hardening dick, feeling it twitch with excitement. The first thing I noticed was how soft and smooth her dick was. I could taste a slight saltiness in the tip of her pee hole. I started sucking her dick, pulling her deeper into my mouth. I was so turned on by this woman, I wanted to swallow her dick whole. While sucking her into me, I twirled my tongue around her head, trying my best to make her feel good. "Faster toilet, I'm almost there." She spread her legs and leaned forward, putting her hands on the front of the toilet seat for support. She swayed her hips back and forth, fucking my mouth with her rock-hard dick. I could feel her balls tighten as they slapped gently against my chin. I sucked her for all I was worth, hoping to make her cum hard.

My efforts were rewarded. She started to quiver as her breathing intensified. Through her labored breaths, she hissed, "Get ready." I whipped my tongue around her dick, and then sucked her in as hard as I could. She exhaled with a moan, and shot spurts of cum onto my tongue. The cum was hot from her body, and had a thick consistency. It had that same metallic and salty taste as pee. She shot load after load into my mouth as her dick convulsed wildly. She filled my mouth with cum, and I swallowed it excitedly. It turned me on knowing her cum was a part of me now. I was so happy to please this woman.

She sat on the toilet seat recovering her breath as her dick softened in my mouth. I didn't dare take it out of my mouth, I wanted this moment to last forever. Eventually, she looked at me and said, "thank you, toilet boy." Her smile was warm, and I felt love for this girl. Suddenly, I felt her dick move, and she started pissing in my mouth. Her dick was positioned to piss right down my throat, so I relaxed and let her pee flow through her and into me. Her piss was less strong than the other ladies, and had a slippery consistency due to the left over cum. Her stream slowed, and I sucked the remainder of her piss out of her dick like a straw.

She stood up, and put her panties and dress back on. Before leaving, she turned around to face me, and shot me one last warm smile. As she walked out of the bathroom, I thought about what just happened. I felt a love for that girl. I barely knew her, but she fulfilled one of my deepest fantasies, and I got the thanks for it. I felt proud of my service to her. Getting the opportunity to pleasure women like this made me reconsider this job. "Maybe this is the right place for me," I thought, feeling elated from the woman who just left. "As long as I don't have to eat more shit." But I knew that as a toilet, you have to take the bad with the good.

Chapter 7

The next woman to walk into my stall surprised me. As she walked in, I noticed her outfit was more conservative than the ones I've seen so far. Grey knee-length pencil skirt with a white button-up blouse tucked in. The woman's hair was shoulder length, straight brown hair. She wore black, squared-framed glasses. I saw her hands as she started to undress, and I could tell from their look that she was older—probably in her late 30s. I wondered why such a professional looking person was in a club like this.

"So, you're the new toilet," she said as she turned and looked into my bowl. "Oh my, it's you!" her surprise was met by my own. Standing above me was my 11th grade English teacher, Ms. Stone. "Oh you poor, poor kid. I can't believe it's you in there." She looked genuinely concerned, but then her eyebrow shot up, and she became dubious. "I guess it makes sense, you never were a high achiever. I just thought you weren't interested in school, though seeing where you are now, I suspect you're just an idiot. That's too bad." I was shocked at her words. Ms. Stone was absolutely gorgeous in the most terrifying of ways. All the boys at school wanted a night with her, but none of them dared to disrespect her. She was a strict teacher, but she was always kind to me. "Until now, I suppose," I thought as she stared at me.

After some time of looking contemplative, she finally spoke, "I've been coming here since I was in high school. I used to be scared to use the toilets, but after I tried it for the first time..." she trailed off, smiling devilishly whilst in thought. "See, I want to use you, but I don't want to use you. If word gets out that I defecate in human toilets, let alone students, then I could lose my job. But, seeing as you have a track record of being a failure, I think you'll likely die before you get released from here. If they ever let you out, that is." I stared at her, processing what she just said. "Fuck it, I drove all the way here..." she started to get undressed. I remember all the nights I jacked off to thoughts of Ms. Stone. Watching her undress should be a dream come true to me.

But I was so wrapped up in what she said that I couldn't enjoy the moment. "Was I really going to die here?" The question echoed in my mind. Her words were so harsh that tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't want to die, especially not from being a toilet. My anxiety rose and my heart started beating. Reality set in. Serving women may be a turn on, but what happens when I choke to death on a turd? They'll dispose of my body and all I will have done with my life is eat shit. What especially hurt is that my sister knows I could die in here, and she doesn't care. Sure, my sister and I haven't been on great terms growing up, but deep down I still loved her. Even after she shat in my mouth, I still loved her. The fact that she doesn't care if I die stung deeply. I started crying.

Ms. Stone saw me crying and pressed the button. The dildo shot an inch forward, painfully filling me with its mass. The penetration jolted me out of my thoughts and I looked at Ms. Stone, who was now completely naked. "Toilets don't cry. Shut the fuck up, and I'll give you something real to cry about." Her words were venomous, and threatened me to my core.

Nevertheless, I couldn't help but admire her body. She was about 5'8", and clearly took care of herself. Her breasts were small and perky. Her skin was tan and covered in freckles. She was thin, but with wide hip bones framing her stomach in a "V" shape that lead down to her pussy. Her bush was trimmed, but still bigger than the other girls. It was light brown and looked soft. Her pussy was blushed red, and puffy. Her inner lips protruded out of her outer ones. Her body was better than how I imagined it.

She turned around and began to sit. The skin of her ass was showing her age, slightly blemished and covered in a very light sprinkling of peach fuzz. I looked into her ass crack and saw her dark, puckered hole covered in hair. As I got a mouthful of hairy pussy I was hit with a muskier smell than the other women. Maybe it was her age, but her natural perfume was intoxicatingly strong. It smelled like stale pee and body odor, and I wished I could smell it for the rest of my life. She started peeing, and her stream was stronger than usual, like she was intentionally pushing it out with force. It sprayed all over my mouth and down my throat. It tasted stronger than the other ladies, and the metallic flavor made my jaw tingle uncomfortably. I struggled to keep up, but I managed to in the end.

I licked her clean, and the taste of her pussy was overwhelming. It was somehow both awful and delicious. Her pussy's musky lubricant stuck to my tongue like syrup, and I wished I could eat her out forever. She then adjusted herself on the toilet seat, pushing my nose into her pussy. I found it difficult to breathe, and it smelled strong of her pussy. Her pubic hair tickled my nose. She pushed her asshole into my mouth and I could already taste the mild tones of shit. Her ass hairs scratched my lips.

"I wished I had time to tease you and savor the moment, but I'm afraid nature is calling more urgently today." She spoke professionally, contrasting the situation completely. Before I had time to process what she meant, her rosebud burst into my mouth. Soft, liquid shit splattered explosively into my mouth as she farted out her diarrhea with force. This was much worse than my sister's shit. Small chunks of poo pooled at the back of my throat while a vile liquid with the consistency of cum filled my cheeks. I had to swallow quickly or I'd drown. I started swallowing as my whole body wretched with pain. The taste was so strong, and she kept filling my mouth with her diarrhea. Every swallow was matched with her asshole squeezing more liquid shit into my mouth. Tears ran down my eyes as I drank Ms. Stone's shit. I looked up at her face, her eyes were closed, her cheeks were blushed and her lips were pursed. She was clearly deeply aroused.

Eventually, the continuous flow slowed. I could feel her squeezing her abdomen, trying to push the remainder of her diarrhea into my mouth. Each push squirted a little more of her shitty juice into my mouth. I put my tongue on her asshole, and I could feel it opening to accommodate a small log of shit as it fell on to my tongue. I finally finished swallowing what felt like an eternity of shit. I sat there with my lips sealed around her asshole as she blew her last remaining farts into my mouth.

I felt her body quivering above me, and my nose was wet with the pussy juices oozing out of her. She must have orgasmed from shitting in my mouth. In a low, guttural post-orgasm voice she said, "Clean me, boy" I wiped her slimy, rotten asshole with my tongue, feeling her liquid shit flow down my tongue and into my throat. I cleaned off her shit-stained ass hairs and circled around her asshole with my tongue, cleaning her thoroughly. She stood up and began dressing again. When she stood, I could smell myself. I reeked of rotten shit, and I wanted to throw up. I could feel her diarrhea churning in my stomach, unsettling my whole body. The prospect of dying didn't seem so bad anymore.

When she was dressed, Ms. Stone said, "Good luck, slave. I hope you had a good life, and I'm sorry it has to end like this." She left, leaving me filled with her shit. I tried to focus on the dildo stretching me out, hoping it would distract me from the foul taste. Instead, I just felt the pain of the dildo, and tasted the shit of the evilest English teacher I have ever met.

More to come...

Hello everyone! I hope you are enjoying my stories so far. I love writing erotica, and would like to use my skills to help pay for school. I have started a Patreon, where I will post tons of stories. I am also able to write custom stories, where you choose details such as character names, categories, plots, and more. I will write perverse stories in a variety of categories.

#dream diary

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perahn · 6 years

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Codex Entry #3

The encryptions acquire a new layer of complexity at this point, as though the writer has grown more creative, more intelligent, more paranoid, or all three. As well as the devices formerly used, the writer has started using a system of scattered dots – some raised, some dug into the page, and some developed into tears – as well as directly encoding the text into diagrams and drawings, so that what appears to be a graph is in fact a description of a fight against flumphs, minotaur skeletons and a flameskull, while a lovingly-rendered sketch of a dozing displacer beast conceals a furious tirade against sorceresses and illithids.

… Threat Assessment: Shayazi (9th revision)

Shay continues to develop her skills; I suspect her elders at the monastery will be pleasantly surprised by her progress when we return. My own capacities likewise increase; my options to deal with her, should it become necessary, are more varied and likely to be efficacious than previously. As in previous revisions, the key is to keep my distance and to strike first. There are only two issues prompting this update to her previous threat assessment.

The first is this new power she has developed since her experience with the clerics of Yurtrus. It is, of course, counter-productive to ignore the very real impact the gods can have on the world, either directly or through the actions of their idiot faithful. I would not have predicted that Shay would choose to align herself with such parasitic, demanding and arrogant creatures; I will even confess to a small disappointment. I had a higher opinion of her than that. Nevertheless, I cannot deny that it has earned her power. I have not seen her use it often enough to be entirely certain of its purpose, which is concerning, and, having opened the door to divine interference in her life, it is difficult to see where it may stop. I shall monitor her for developments.

The second is possibly more concerning. Harper continues to ingratiate himself with her, quite blatantly, and I am unsure how to counter him. She is supposed to be my bodyguard, but I confess I have been depending unduly on her own sense of duty. The means I would use to cultivate another Red Wizard are almost meaningless to her, and although I am learning as swiftly as I can, the fact remains that Harper is more familiar with such tactics. If I should lose her to him, the balance tips dangerously out of my favour… My advantage, I think, is that I know the Order of the Long Death tolerably well, and what Shay has been used to within its walls; I can leverage that, but then Harper’s manoeuvring against her inexperience is covering much the same ground. Brothels, really? That is not ground on which I will compete. Gifts, perhaps? She and Twitch seem to have developed something of a rapport – perhaps that Bag of Tricks I saw in the bazaar would amuse her?

A span as yet decrypted follows, eventually clearing into the following passage. In contrast to the tone, the writing remains steady and even.

… he spoke, and I raised my hands to my eyes and gouged them out. I gave them to him, and he mounted them in his rotting eye sockets. It took exactly seven strokes of the dull blade to sever my tongue. My mouth filled with blood, washing the spells away. Then I forced the blade through my left wrist. It stuck halfway, and I screamed that I could not obey until he set his hand over mine and freed the blade. Twenty-three strokes to cut off my left hand. Thirty total, average fifteen. I begged him to help me. I could not cut off my right hand without help. I promised him anything he desired, if only he would help me sever it as he wished. He said the means was within my power. I set my teeth to my right wrist. Blood and blood. Crack and crack. Again. Two hundred and sixty-one. Seven. Fractions. Twenty-three. Again. Thirty. Broken numbers. Fifteen. Broken. Again.

- I did not recognise the voice. I am unsure what this dream portends, but at least it was relatively mild. I was more disturbed when it changed and I felt them again. All those mage hands all over me. All of them watching and laughing. I thought I’d trained my subconscious out of replaying that particular memory. Probably the alcohol was to blame; I had similarly undisciplined and unpleasant memories in place of useful dreams after Khaseth poisoned me.

Still, these things pass. It is more important that I retain clear memory of everything that occurred while I was so stupidly drunk, and more important still that I did said or did nothing irredeemable. In fact, my training held almost perfectly; with one exception, everything I babbled about could either have been gleaned from commonly-available sources, or reasonably extrapolated from them. Or, indeed, from my observable behaviour. The exception, of course, is that while Harper could have safely assumed that I distrust him and wish to penetrate whatever it is that veils his mind, he was extremely unlikely to have guessed that I considered Banishing him. His reaction to that was a little curious, I think… I am still not convinced that he is human.

My mouth still tastes of stale blood, my brain feels rather as though someone is carving its sulci deeper with an acid-coated awl, and we set out into the Underdark today. I truly have become dangerously stupid out here. I suppose that is one good thing to be said for the presence of the drow; I have someone to keep me from drifting entirely into poor habits.

The next few pages contain disdainful descriptions of a wide variety of fungus.

… Threat assessment: Katy (6th revision)

Wild Magic effects: Invisibility on others but not herself; pink, feathery beard. Inanities.

New spell observed: Hex.

Katy has become far more adept with her magic, to the point where her effectiveness in a recent battle came perilously close to matching my own. I am not averse to letting her waste her spell energy, but nevertheless… this sudden increase in her usefulness in concerning. I might be mistaken about divine magic, but not this. Hex is not a usual manifestation of sorcerer magic; it is a warlock spell.

She would not be the first sorcerer to realise her haphazard innate magic is not sufficient, and to turn to other means of procuring power. The warlock pact has always stood ready for such fools. It would also, possibly, explain the peculiar creature she summoned and called Bob; it could easily be a manifestation of her patron, or a creature that answers to it. If she has indeed sold herself to a patron, it falls on me to discern what manner of being it is, and what its motivations are likely to be. Some of the beings known to sponsor warlocks are highly inimical, while others are simply unknowable. There is no telling what actions it may require of Katy.

Of course, there is the possibility that I am getting ahead of myself. There are other means by which Katy might have acquired a warlock spell, not least that it may simply be an unusual quirk of her wild magic. Nevertheless, I judge her quite likely to have made such a pact. I will watch her behaviour closely for evidence for or against this hypothesis. I also intend to question her about that summoned creature, and possibly study it for myself. It seemed to have an unhealthy influence over her.

… cannot shake the feeling I am overlooking something obvious. The letter to Metoth Zurn must have been intended as a test for me; there are myriad secure ways that wizards such as he and Anishta Daraam could communicate. There is a portal between their territories, for Szass Tam’s sake: they could have spoken in person! I probably performed much to expectations – that is, not sufficiently well to avoid putting myself in a vulnerable position. What is the relationship between those two? Why would she inform him of an artefact and potential influence to be gained instead of going after it herself, if it were genuine?

The whole affair makes much more sense if it is not – but, then, it could hardly be aimed at Metoth Zurn, as he would hardly go after it himself. Unless the artefact itself exists as a threat to him… There are too many unknowns at present.

It would make more sense still if it were all directed at me, but I have hardly done anything to mark myself for disposal – unless Anishta Daraam is oversensitive about perceived disrespect. Which she might well be, given that her blue eyes clearly mark her blood as impure. I can more easily understand why one of the others at the Skullport Enclave might wish to remove me: I would turn a wary eye myself on someone who had a personal audience with the head of my Academy, who then made a public showing of her prowess, asked for uncommon materials, and went on expedition. But the letter predates that. If, then, this is truly aimed at me, it must be orchestrated out of Thay. It would not have been too difficult to arrange. I must think more on the rivals I left behind me…

… Threat assessment: Taliesin Harper (23rd revision).

This man is taking up far too much of my precious thinking time. Nor do I expect the situation to resolve soon; almost every time I approach him with questions – of which I have many, after some of the things he said or implied during that unfortunate drinking session – he is otherwise occupied, obviously not disposed towards inquiry, or forestalls me by asking a flurry of his own questions. It’s not that I mind answering, since almost everything so far has either been obvious (are you homesick, then?) or utterly pointless (so why go back?) – it’s the time it takes. It would seem counter-productive to refuse to answer or to tell him to shut up so I can take a turn (and I can all-too-easily envisage the infuriating smirk that would answer me if I said anything so foolish). So, among other things, this revision marks yet another conversational weapon.

Well. He gave me a look with a distinct ‘I intend to castigate you later’ overtones after I confirmed my hypothesis about the drow and his relationship with Lloth. Possibly after such a conversation, if I can appear sufficiently contrite, I might have an opportunity to interrogate him. Such information, naturally, is unreliable – I know he is an accomplished liar – but anything is better than the mystery he currently presents.

He continues to spread his pernicious influence among the group. He already had Katy under reasonable control when we met; as noted in Shay’s last assessment, he appears to have made alarming inroads there as well. It is more difficult to judge his progress with the drow – not least because their conversations are almost invariably nauseating – but at the very least, he is more courteous with Harper, and seems more inclined to listen to him. He certainly places Harper as the leader of this disparate little group, when anyone with even a passing familiarity with my order should cast me in that role. In any case, it is probably safe enough to assume that when Harper makes the move for which he has been gathering so much support, the drow is likely to side with him.

He still has not displayed any magic beyond whatever it is that shields his mind. Furthermore, while he continues to grow stronger and swifter in combat, he has shown no unusual development at this point. However, he has grown sufficiently talented in stealth to successfully approach the drow undetected. This is of severe concern.

I know I have not verbally told him more than I wished to at any point, but I suspect that has not been enough. If I could survey his thoughts I could glean a more accurate assessment of what he has deduced about me and my capabilities, and I would feel a great deal safer. I know he is attempting to manoeuvre me into some position, but I do not know what that is, or what he wants. He remains one of the most dangerous threats I have encountered, and it seems that I still need him. I must be more cautious, and I must learn more.

… bitterness on the wind, less pungent that the acidic decay in the black water roiling around me. The Silent is unheard. Lashing tentacles, a host of mouths all over its body. The Thirsty is taking notes. One eye, larger than the mind can hold. The drow laughs. Eighteen. Teeth, black in black mouth in black water. Twenty-five thousand, two hundred and five point six. The Erratic vows vengeance for a hat. Tentacles snaking around my wrists, tearing my hands free. Blood in black water, laughter like ashes on the wind.

- Again this… dehanding… element surfaces. Two main connotations continue to occur to me. The Tyrran – although there is some confusion, since Tyr is represented with one missing hand, not two, and still called by the epithet ‘the Even-handed’. And, of course, it may also be emblematic of the loss of power, especially when it is my own hands. In any case, it has surfaced often enough to be of concern. Also a point worth noting: this dream marks the first in which all three of the recurring can be clearly identified, and the first in which the drow appears at all. This is disturbing on a number of levels.

Threat Assessment: The drow (4rd revision/6th including Garrod Drake’s entries)

New spell observed: Mass Healing Word. This is definitely indicative. As far as I can remember from my brief study of divine magic, this is solely the province of clerics. This raises three queries. 1) Do I recall correctly? Divine magic is not particularly interesting, and my notes on the subject are long ago destroyed. There might be other disciplines with access to the spell. 2) Did I observe correctly? It might have been some other spells with a similar effect, and I was not particularly close to him. 3) How did he cast it? Scrolls and other enchanted items are only the most obvious ways to cast a spell to which you would ordinarily have no access.

If, however, I do remember and did observe correctly that he cast Mass Healing Word, it strongly suggests that he might have some cleric training. This correlates moderately well with his obvious issues with spiders and his status as a male drow. Lloth despises males and does not permit them among her clergy. He must follow some other deity (as strange a thing that is to speculate about someone so obviously capable in his own right). I cannot seriously imagine him worshipping an idiot goddess of dancing naked in the moonlight, and Eilistraee is the only other member of the Dark Seldarine I recall at present. Of course, he might have chosen the god of some other pantheon entirely to fellate in exchange for power. Mask, perhaps? In any case, while this hypothesis seems sturdy enough to guide my actions, it demands further evidence.

I suspect the others do not truly understand just how dangerous he is. Like myself, he was born into a society of power-hungry individuals, his value only in his use to those above him in power or in what he carved out for himself. Temporary alliances bound for betrayal, an innately dangerous world around him, a certainty of death or something much less pleasant as punishment for mistakes. Like myself, he’s survived so far, which marks him as an individual of cunning, ambition, and cleverness. However, there is one crucial difference: I am a Red Wizard, and, as such, one of the ruling class of Thay. My enemies are, for the most part, roughly my equals in power. The drow, on the other hand, is a male – part of the lowest possible classes in his society, deliberately kept subjugated. He has therefore risen respectively further than I have, has probably maintained his position longer (given drow lifespans in comparison to human) and so, is better at this than I am.

He is also on his own territory here. His advantages cannot be overstated. I wish I had found a means and opportunity to speak to that drow who warned us not to ally, even temporarily, with our guide. I might have learned something of use.

The drow knows my order well enough, probably, to predict my actions – one reason why I decided to try a tactic borrowed from Harper and offer an apology for needling him about the spider corpses. It was not as difficult as I thought it would be, although still I disliked doing it. His reaction was also satisfying, if inconvenient. It is a distinct relief to speak to someone who sees the world as it is, and respects me sufficiently to assume that I have good reasons for what I do.

If the moment were right, I could disable him. At the very least. I occasionally entertain the image of Animating his corpse and forcing it through all sorts of indignities. Pleasant as the thought of the drow grovelling at my feet is, it would probably not be worth antagonising Shay or the chance someone would resurrect it.

The next page is encoded as a drawing of a rotting, kneeling drow.

#writing #d&d #dakoyone #codenamecynic #bettydice #alternative ethics #Khemuret Xul

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