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redahlia-writes · 11 months

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you make loving fun. | frankie morales x ofc

five. songbird

content (for this chapter): family feels (a lot), implication of cheating (in previous relationship), references to a past bad relationships, parenting, benny is their honorary child actually, talks of pregnancy and fertiliy, self-doubt, some suggestive language

word count: 5.2k

a/n: this chapter is a little shorter than the previous ones, with more, kind of quicker scenes, but i really wanted it to be out there before i start exams because i don’t know how soon i’ll manage to write the next one. i love my silly little family

reblogs and feedback are always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

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“Well, Camila’s crying so I’ll have to keep it brief or I might start doing the same. My brother and Pope said a lot about you, but they forgot the most important part: your heart. Your big, wonderful heart that had space for all of us, for Alba, for all our shitty baggage. Sorry, I know, I’m sorry, I just–I think we take it for granted sometimes, how much you’ve done for us, too. Not just by loving Frankie the way you do, but by being there for us–for me. You took care of my bruises when we’d only just met, you spent nights awake on your couch just listening to my complaints even though you had work in the morning, you overfed me on multiple occasions, and–I warned you I was going to cry. Alright, Cami, you–I love you, thank you for everything, but mainly for being you and taking care of us when you really, really didn’t have to. And Fish–Frankie, thank you, too. Yes, because you brought Camila into our lives, but also for you. You were the first of us to make it out, to get your shit together–sorry, again, I’m sorry–what I’m trying to say is you made me realize love was still a possibility for people like us, that we could have a new life, if we put in the work. I’m grateful for that, and I’m grateful for you–both of you. Now, maybe we should go back to some of those stories Pope was mentioning–”

The Sunday morning crowd made the café feel smaller, a little more chaotic than they were used to, and Frankie did not lose sight of Camila as she gathered their orders while he sat at the small table with Alba–the same table they always sat at, from that first morning still hungover. The people there had started to recognise them, smile at them, linger in small-talk, so it wasn’t all that odd one or the other would be held back for a few moments.

But Frankie noticed the tight line of Camila’s shoulders, the guy in front of her wrapping his arms in a quick hug–she seemed to try to reciprocate, but her arms were stiff at her sides, back pinched together. He frowned, while Camila nodded and responded to whatever it was the other guy had told her, and her gaze flickered towards him and Alba, a tight-lipped smile in their directions even with her eyes a little wider–it took him everything in him to not get up and reach for them both, especially when the guy’s eyes moved from him to the child and back, eyebrows slightly arched, and back further to Camila.

The talk was cut short by a blonde woman pushing a stroller and simultaneously holding a second child on her hip. Camila’s posture went even more rigid, though her gaze softened at the two kids, and with a quick movement of her head she gathered the small tray and walked away, a goodbye thrown over her shoulder as she made a beeline towards the table.

When she returned to the table, sitting between Frankie and Alba, she exhaled heavily and reached for one of the fuming cups of coffee–he bumped his knee with hers, making her glance up with a worried gaze. He frowned again.

“You okay?” he asked, soft enough that some tension left her but not so much so she couldn’t hear him from above the noise.

“Yeah–yes, of course,” she tried and failed to plaster on a smile, another sigh escaping her afterwards as she sagged in her seat. Frankie placed his hand on the table, palm up, and she immediately let her own fall into his, picking it up to bring it up to her face. She brushed her lips to his knuckles in a quick kiss, and he leaned in closer.

“You can talk to me, baby. What is it?” he reassured softly, and this time her smile was true though softer, pushing her cheek against the back of his hand and looking up at him. She cleared her throat then, taking a slow breath in.

“That was Jason,” Frankie looked back towards the man, then at Camila again. “Yes, that Jason,” she added before he could ask. “The very same.”

The same guy who’d broken up with her after a decade because he was bored; the same guy that didn’t like when he could hear her–in their everyday life, or in the bedroom, the reason why she had started singing a little louder, had stopped holding back; the same guy that, despite the years, had still an influence on her sorrys and her fears, although less so now. The same guy who had told her he didn’t want a family, but now pushed a stroller out of the café.

“With a kid?” was the first thing he could ask, baffled.

“With two kids,” she replied, bringing the cup up to her face. “And a wife. Of almost three years, give or take,” she added before taking a sip, flinching at the warmth of the drink.

“Of–wait, what?” he frowned again, glancing over his shoulder as if he could still see them.

“The first kid, too–he’s around Alba’s age, little older maybe,” she smiled at the kid that waved her hands at the mention of her name, placing down the cup to give her the other hand.

“Mila,” he called gently, bringing his chair closer.

“I’m fine, honey, I swear, just a little–” she trailed off, then scoffed with a grimace. “It’s not even confused–it’s not like I didn’t know,” she shrugged, turning to look at him with a softer smile, almost to reassure him. “I did not lose anything after he left, only gained. The loss was all before.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said gently, leaning in to rest his chin over her shoulder, their joined hands falling onto her lap. “You can be disappointed–God knows I wouldn’t be if I found out Sophie has a family now.”

“I don’t think I am, though,” she admitted, tilting her head to look down at him still resting against her. “It feels odd, sure, but I don’t think I care,” she brushed her lips to his forehead quickly, then turned to kiss Alba’s hand, pulling a giggle out of her just as she tilted her head against Frankie’s. “I have all I need, Frankie.”

That same night, when Alba was fast asleep and the house was quiet, Frankie reached towards the other side of the bed and found it empty. Still half asleep, he pulled his head up from the pillow and turned to look at the vacant spot, patting it lightly as if to make sure before sitting up.

“Mila?” he called, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He waited for a response a few moments longer before getting up, padding quietly outside the room.

The door to the bathroom was open, lights turned off, and when he looked to the other side he saw Camila sitting on the floor by Alba’s ajar door, her eyes wide as she nibbled her bottom lip, crossed legs bouncing ever so slightly in agitation. Frankie walked up to her quietly, and when she didn’t look up towards him–when she kept staring at the door instead–he kneeled by her side, ignoring his legs protesting at the movement and position.

“Camila, baby, what’s wrong?” he asked softly, reaching to take one of her hands she fidgeted over her lap, picking at her nails. She blinked rapidly at his touch, gaze flickering unfocused for a moment from the door to him before lingering on the tilt of his head.

“Sorry,” she murmured, giving a quick squeeze to his hand. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I was just wondering where you were,” he shifted back slightly, trying to alleviate some of the pressure to his knees. “Did something happen with Alba?” he asked then, and Camila shook her head quickly, offering him a tight smile.

“It’s nothing, go back to sleep,” she reassured. Frankie didn’t budge, arching his eyebrows slowly, and she sighed, looking down. “You’re awfully stubborn, Francisco.”

“And you’re sitting in front of our daughter’s bedroom and staring at it as if it’s about to catch on fire,” he retorted, returning her smile a little wider–there was a flicker in her expression he almost missed, a light quiver of her bottom lip and her gaze shifting back towards the room. “Come on, let’s get up.”

She hesitated just a moment longer as Frankie stood up, offering her both his hands, and then let him hoist her up and wrap his arms around her, pulling her up–enough so that when he walked forward and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her legs dangled just above the ground. She chuckled softly, letting her forehead fall to the curve of his neck.

“You’re gonna strain your back, Frankie,” she murmured, and he scoffed lightly.

“Are you calling me old?” he put her back down at the top of the stairs, hands sliding down her sides and back into her hands as she chuckled again, eyes fluttering open.

“I would never,” she said in mock offense, tipping her chin up. He caught her pouting lips in a quick kiss before leading her down the stairs, their hands joined behind his back.

He could feel her hesitate every now and then, lingering a step behind and turning her head before he squeezed her hands, encouraging her forward without turning to look at her. She’d done the same for him the times he’d woken up from a nightmare, clinging to her breathlessly until she woke with a startle, shushing him gently and coaxing him up and out of the bedroom, the kettle already on the stove before he fully came to it sitting at the kitchen counter–he did the same now, her eyes following him around as she sat on the counter itself.

The silence that accompanied his presence seemed to be doing part of the work already, her posture relaxing as her legs dangled and rocked slowly–he slotted himself between her knees before placing the fuming cups at her side, the tags of the tea bags wrapped around the handle. When he looked up at her, her eyes had softened, hands searching for him again now that he was within reach.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” he hummed the same question she asked him those nights, his hands running up and down her thighs slowly, a soothing motion that had her leaning forward. Frankie kissed her cheek, chaste and delicate, coaxing a quick smile out of her.

She basked in the feeling a moment longer, eyelids shut as she rested her hands over his, palm to knuckles–he hooked his thumbs between her thumb and forefinger, stopping rubbing her legs when she tapped against the back of his hands, exhaling slowly.

“He changed his mind,” she murmured, looking back up at him. Frankie frowned lightly.

“Who?” Camila sighed again, tilting her head back.

“Jason,” his name sounded almost like a groan, and Frankie kept his frown up a moment longer. “Or maybe he didn’t and he just happened to knock her up, the poor girl,” she scoffed, shaking her head lightly. “Or it was just me he didn’t want a family with, which–fine by me, that’s not what bothers me.”

“What is it, then?” drawing small circles over the back of her hand with his thumbs, Frankie brought her gaze back to him, his head slightly tilted, his eyes soft.

“He changed his mind,” she repeated, a worried edge in her voice. “So what if–if Sophie does, too? What if one day she just changes her mind and wants Alba back, and–she’s still her mother, Frankie,” the last sentence was whispered, eyes wide and glossed over. He sighed softly, letting go of her hands with one last squeeze to bring his own at the sides of her face, pulling her closer to kiss her forehead.

“She surrendered parental rights, you know that,” he started, voice gentle–still, Camila scoffed softly, looking down at her hands as she began picking at her nails again. It used to be a sore subject for Frankie, the way Sophie had cut ties so drastically, the I don’t want to have anything to do with either of you–not even for his sake, but for Alba’s, the possibility she might search for her mother one day and have to face the reality of the situation, maybe blame it on him. But not ever since Camila had entered their lives.

“She carried her, still, she–” a shuddering breath caught in her throat and she shook her head again. “Where would that leave me, then?” her voice cracked, cheeks flushed. Frankie picked up one of her hands again, stopping her picking, and bringing it up to his mouth, a delicate kiss to her knuckles.

“You’re her mom, Mila, in all the ways that matter,” with their joined hands, he brushed across her cheek, stopping the few tears that had escaped her. “How about this,” he said then, pushing gently underneath her chin to make her lift her gaze, “we’re going to take the day off work tomorrow, keep Alba home, and go sign some papers. I think it’s about time.”

“What?” it was her time to frown, sniffling slightly as he locked their hands together, fingers intertwined still under her chin.

“We’ve lived together for over a year now, no? That’s enough time,” he said, shrugging a little. He tilted his head when she did, too, as if perplexed, and smiled softly. “You are her mother, Camila. Just because you didn’t carry her doesn’t mean you’re not,” he added, careful to hold her gaze.

“I know,” she sighed, then shook her head again with a soft groan. “God, I know, I know–I just can’t help but think she’s not mine, and that terrifies me.”

“She’s yours just as much as she’s mine,” he let his free hand brush across her cheek and through her hair, pushing the dark locks away from her face and, in doing so, keeping her head upright. “And I meant what I said–we can go tomorrow morning, and it’ll be down on paper, too.”

“What about Alba? If she doesn’t–” Camila sounded a little breathless still.

“Mamá?” Alba sounded just like Frankie when she called her that–the same tilt of the voice, the same accent, too. She stood at the entrance of the kitchen and rubbed her eyes, hair standing on edge from where she’d rested on the pillow while she slept.

“Hi, sweetling,” she wiped her cheeks and eyes quickly, and Frankie helped her off the counter so she could walk up to the child. “What is it? You alright?”

“You weren’t up,” Alba pouted, arms extended towards her as soon as she was within reach. Camila picked her up right away, holding her on her hip–the kid let her head fall on her shoulder, buttheading her chin gently as she settled into the curve of her neck.

“I’m sorry, baby–dad and I were craving something warm,” she said just as softly, gaze flickering towards Frankie–he was holding both their mugs now, his eyebrows arched and that same smile softened furthermore, looking at them with a shimmer in his eyes. “Did something happen?”

“Sueño,” she mumbled, one of her hands wrapped around the collar of Camila’s pajama shirt.

“Buen sueño o mal sueño?” she asked, slowly rubbing her back as she began rocking side by side. Frankie got closer, her gaze lifting up to him, as he focused a moment longer on Alba.

“Bad,” the child said, a clear pout in her voice. Camila brushed her lips to the top of her head, sighing softly.

“How about,” she said, hoisting her up a little over her hip so that the child would look at her, “tonight we protect you in the big bed?” Alba was already nodding, tugging the collar of her shirt as Camila smiled. “Is that what you wanted? To stay with us?”

“Yes,” she nodded again, and Frankie chuckled softly, leaning in to leave a kiss to Alba’s head first, then Camila’s.

“Come on then,” he said, his voice softer than before. “Mama and I can have our drinks upstairs. Do you want anything else?” Alba shook her head, arms winding around Camila’s neck as she cuddled against her once more–Frankie looked at the woman then, still smiling, and gently bumped their hips together. “I think that answers your question,” he added in a whisper, to which Camila sighed.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and Frankie leaned in again to press a gentle kiss against her lips, brief and tender.

“Song,” Alba demanded, tugging Camila’s shirt twice with a tight fist.

“Song?” she asked in return, one last look towards Frankie before she turned for the stairs. The child nodded firmly, making her chuckle. “Of course, baby.”

Frankie lingered a few steps back, watching their heads bent together, dark hair of one and the other blending together as Camila began humming a song soft-voiced–she’d first sang Songbird for Alba to calm her down during a thunderstorm, both of them curled up on the child’s small bed (Camila had then complained about a backache). He’d watched the tears dry up on Alba’s face as the song went on and then started again, Camila’s gentle caresses across her face and head to soothe her furthermore, until she’d fallen asleep in spite of the storm raging on. When she could not sleep, Alba would ask for the song again–Frankie had tried, too, but she’d just started giggling, claiming it was not like mama’s. He couldn’t argue with her.

That night, he stayed awake a while longer, watching them sleep–Alba was curled into Camila’s chest, head notched underneath her chin, still clinging to her shirt. Camila had one arm wrapped around her, keeping her close, and the other extended towards Frankie, fingers hooked into the sleeve of his shirt as if in the process to bring him closer yet.

When sleep crept up to him, he turned to his side, sandwiching the little girl in the middle of them, and wrapped his arm around them both, leaving one last kiss to each of his girls’ heads.

Frankie believed he was seeing double. Maybe triple.

Camila held Alba’s hand tightly in the middle of the airport, while her other arm was wrapped around a woman’s shoulders with such strength he could see the strain in her muscles, head bent towards hers and a light shake in her shoulder, as if she was about to cry.

“Ya, ahora, ¿dónde está mi nieta?” the woman said, a gentle pat to Camila’s back as she pulled away. It was uncanny, really, the way the two looked alike–Camila’s mother hair had more gray, tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, and lines crossed her face, but other than that it seemed like a mirror. And Alba, with her dark curls and big brown eyes, a continuation of the picture. “Hola, muñeca,” Emilia said softly, the words almost lost in the chaos of the place.

Alba clung to Camila’s arm, shuffling to hide behind her leg when the woman bowed to her height, pressing her cheek into the fold of Camila’s skirt. The women chuckled softly, and Camila crouched down next to the child, one arm wrapped around her to keep her close while the other rubbed gently at her chest.

“Don’t you recognise her, nena?” she asked gently, a smile on her reddened face.

“’puter,” Alba said, wide-eyed, shying towards her mother’s touch. Camila's smile widened, holding her close to her side.

“That’s right–you saw her in the computer, that’s my mama,” she nodded, encouragingly.

Video calls with Camila’s mom had been frequent, Frankie shying away more often than not until Emilia demanded to see him, the same scowl on her face that Camila had when something did not go the way she’d planned it. She’d given him the talk over video call, met Alba and Santi, too–they’d celebrated one of Camila’s birthdays with her on the screen, and eventually invited her over for the next one.

They hadn’t seen each other physically in years.

“Mama?” Alba frowned, looking from one to the other. Emilia was smiling, too, her eyes shimmering as she watched the scene play out. “Yaya?” Alba asked then, and Camila scrunched up her nose with a soft laugh.

“Yes, sweetling–your yaya,” she nodded again, dropping the hand that was resting over her chest before tilting her head. “Wanna say hi?”

“Hi,” the child said, wide eyes lifted towards the older woman while she still partially hid behind Camila’s skirt, fist tightened around the folds. Frankie chuckled from his position a few steps behind, shifting forward to rest his hand on top of Alba’s head.

“Cami was the same,” Emilia shook her head softly, looking up at Frankie, grinning almost conspiratorially. “Tímida,” Camila huffed, a pout pulling at her lips as she stood, picking Alba up with her. Her mother arched her eyebrows as if to highlight her point, then stepped forward, opening her arms. “Come here, you.”

Frankie shuffled forward, placing Emilia’s back down carefully before leaning into her embrace–she was quick to pull him down, the hug leaving him slightly breathless in the tight wrap of her arm, one hand patting his back right between his shoulders.

“Gracias, mijo,” she whispered, a kiss to his cheek that reminded him all too much of his mother’s. “Me la has traído de vuelta.”

His breath stuttered, gaze flicking up to Camila’s face–she held Alba against her side, the girl looking up at her face while she looked at them, eyes shimmering and face flushed. Most of all, I missed my mother, whispered in the nights they’d spend talking about the days before.

Before–that’s how their lives were timed now. Before and after them.

Before, Camila had left home for college, to find a job, and had gone back once in 15 years. Before she didn’t miss home, but she did miss her mother, especially those days when she felt particularly alone. Lovely. Left back. Frankie would wish they’d met earlier then, perhaps their lives would’ve been different then, both of them less beat down by it.

“But we wouldn’t have Alba then.”

Alba clung to her, wide-eyed, a crease between her brows that made her look so much like Camila as she looked at her first, then Frankie and Emilia. Emilia, still patting his back with words of gratitude he’d heard before through a screen. You brought her back to me, as in you brought her back to life.

“Come on now, let’s get home,” she said, walking up to them. Emilia mumbled something that sounded vaguely like impaciente, fondness in her voice as she released Frankie and turned around, hooking her arm with Camila’s. At the same time, she reached for her mother’s bag, gently nudging Alba towards her father. “You got her?”

“Yes,” he picked the child up, not wanting to risk the airport crowd. Alba’s arms fastened around his neck, a small pout forming on her face as she watched the other two walk ahead. “What is it, nena?”

“Is mama sad?” the little girl asked, her voice small. It took Frankie everything to not start laughing, the earnestness of her question catching him by surprise. “She’s crying,” she added, a justification of her pondering. He chuckled softly, leaving a quick kiss to her cheek.

“She’s not sad, sweetie–those are happy tears,” he explained softly, and the frown returned to the girl’s face. He reached up to smooth his thumb over the crease, something he’d do with Camila, too, when she focused too much on papers from work. “See, she hasn’t seen her mom in a long time, and now that they’re together again–that makes her happy.”

“Oh,” Alba kept pouting slightly, then tightened her hold on Frankie abruptly, bringing herself close to him. “I wanna keep seeing mama,” she said quickly, clinging to him. Frankie couldn’t help his laughter again, louder this time, to the point Camila looked over her shoulder with a questioning look. He smiled at her.

“Don’t worry, your mama’s not going anywhere.”

The backyard was lively with chatter and soft music, sun setting slow above their guests. Friends from Camila’s work would come and go, old friends from her college days who seemed to adore Frankie stayed longer, chatting mostly with her, or her mother, or Frankie himself, or the boys who, as always, had arrived first and would be the last to leave.

With Alba on her hip, a glass in her other hand, Camila laughed with Will and her whole face brightened up. Frankie smiled, silently walking up to them–Will was the first to notice him, reaching out for Alba and turning her around before she could spoil the surprise, but said nothing otherwise. Not until Frankie shifted forward, wrapping both his arms around Camila and pulling her back against his chest–she squealed and extended her arm as the drink spilled from the glass, letting out a laugh right after as he placed her back down.

“Let’s go bother your uncle Santi,” they heard Will tell Alba, while Camila turned to look up at Frankie. Her face was bright, cheeks flushed with laughter and smile lines etched at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

“Hi,” she hummed, the empty hand falling to his hip while she curled the other over his chest, glass now half-emptied held carefully between them. Frankie leaned in, leaving a quick peck to her mouth.

“Hi, cumpleañera,” she scrunched up her nose, following the slow rocking rhythm he’d set with his arms wrapped around her, fingertips tracing slow lines up and down her spine. “So–your mom just ambushed me.”

Camila’s eyes widened as she leaned into Frankie’s embrace, her head tilted back to look at him–her smile faltered slightly, brows knitting with worry as she mumbled a, “Oh, God.”

“Asking if Alba’s getting a sibling anytime soon,” he went on, slightly amused. Camila groaned softly, her head falling forward against his chest, her eyes screwing shut before the impact–chuckling softly, he wrapped his arms around her tighter, rubbing her back.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled with a light shake of her head. “I asked her not to, but–”

“Baby, it’s alright,” he pressed the words with a kiss to her temple, nudging her head to look back up. Eyes big again, a small pout formed on her lips as she did, and he left another kiss to her forehead before shifting slightly. “Have you ever thought about it?”

“Have you?” she asked tentatively, her voice unbelievably small. Frankie shrugged.

“Few times,” he admitted, and she tilted her head to the side just a little, inquisitive. “Alba’s almost four and–I don’t know, maybe it’d be nice for her to have a sibling. Not now, but maybe eventually.”

“Eventually?” it was her turn to chuckle, while a flush slowly crept up her neck–she looked around at the people around them, celebrating her, the ridiculous pile of birthday presents resting by the growing rosemary plant. “We’re not getting any younger, honey.”

“You calling me old?” she scoffed with a playful push against his chest that did nothing but make him laugh, his grip on her never faltering as he stepped back, bringing her with her and resuming the slow almost-dancing. “Is that what worries you?”

“Maybe,” she nibbled her bottom lip, taking a moment before looking back at him. “My mom had me when she was really young, and I always thought after 30 I just wouldn’t–” she sighed, leaning a little more into him, the hand holding the glass sliding up and past his shoulder, so they were standing chest to chest. He kept caressing her back slowly, tenderly, encouraging. “I did think about it.”

“You never said,” she sighed again.

“You forgot to feed yourself multiple times when we first started going out, Frankie,” he grimaced. “You were so worried for Alba, all the time, I just–I didn’t think you’d want to do that again.”

“Of course I was worried,” one of his hands traveled up her back, resting underneath her hair right between her shoulder blades. “I thought I was gonna have to do everything alone, I was terrified of fucking up.”

“Well, we could still do that,” she pointed out, and Frankie let out another laugh, shaking his head. “We could!” she protested, words cut short by the quick kiss he left on her lips.

“I don’t believe that–and I know you don’t, either,” he spun them around carefully, turning his head to where Alba was, playing with Santi under Will’s careful gaze, her laughter loud and contagious. “Look at her. I think we’re doing a pretty good job.”

“Yeah,” she rested her head against his chest, looking at them a moment longer. Though he couldn’t see it, he heard the soft smile in her next words. “Yes, you’re right.”

“We don’t have to make any decision now, baby,” he murmured, brushing the nape of her neck. “There’s no expiration date.”

“There is, actually,” with her cheek pressed against him, the words came out a little slurred. Frankie scoffed, the low rumble of his laughter bringing her closer, as close as she could get.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he chided, the feeling of her cheek being lifted with her smile widening making him shake his head. “Still, if one day we’d want to, we can try.”

“And if it doesn’t work out?” she didn’t move, her steps getting smaller, the music almost forgotten in favor of simply moving together. Frankie shrugged again, the movement small.

“Then it doesn’t work out,” again he guided her head back so she could meet his gaze. “I love our family as it is, Mila. You and Alba–this is more than I ever thought I’d get. I must’ve won some sort of existence lottery for having found you,” her smile returned, wide and a little trembling at the corners.

Lowering his head, his hand still cupping the nape of her neck, he kissed her tender and slow. Camila relaxed fully in his arms, her body almost limp in his hold as the arm over his shoulder curled around his neck, and he ignored the condensation dripping from the glass down to his shirt, deepening the kiss furthermore, making her lean backwards in a mock dipping motion. She chuckled into it, but didn’t tighten her hold.

She trusted him not to drop her.

“Although,” he mumbled, so close still she could feel the words twisting his lips even after he’d broken the kiss, “I am starting to think of giving it a try. Just now.”

“Now?” she giggled again, the tip of her tongue darting between her lips. He nodded.

“They won’t notice if we’re gone a few minutes, right?” brushing his lips across her cheek, he shifted until he was murmuring in her ear. “Bedroom’s just upstairs. Don’t even need to get you out of this dress.”

“Francisco,” though she was reprimanding him, he could still hear the laughter in her voice. She pulled her head back to look at him, cheeks red, and he grinned. “Behave,” she scolded.

“It was worth a try,” he shrugged, and her laughter returned more vibrant than before, head tilting back as he straightened them both. “Come on, Benny’s dying to give you his present–I haven’t seen him this excited in ages.”

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empirearchives · 10 months

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NAPOLEON - Official Trailer (HD) - YouTube

Do you see this bullshit, your majesty? Seriously, I'd like to know your opinion, because I don't think it looks very good. Basically, it seems like a truncated and simplified version of the 2002 French miniseries with Christian Clavier, and that one already suffered from having to cut corners in terms of time allotted to various historical events...

Yup, I definitely think it’s going to be oversimplified. Napoleon deserves a 10 hour series *minimum* to get anywhere close to grasping the whole scope of his life and legacy. But they can’t really do that with a single film 😅 Unfortunately, I think they have to cut a lot of stuff.

I have a lot of thoughts about this trailer.

About Napoleon:

I’m not sure why he’s mumbling so much. It seems like the actor is intentionally acting stiff and I don’t know why. Napoleon was described by his contemporaries as “energetic” and “electric”. Not mumbling and rigid. He should be very charismatic.

My guess is that the reason they are depicting him in such an emotionless way is because they want to portray him as a tyrant who doesn’t have any remorse or feelings and only cares about power. But I’m hoping they show more to him and his character in the actual film. Fingers crossed.

His age is wayyyyy off. He should be in his 20s, the age he was in the 1790s. 34 when he became emperor. Not 50s or whatever the actor is. That’s the age Napoleon was when he died.

About Josephine:

Okay I have a lottttt of thoughts but I feel that I need to see the film first before I make any judgements. First off, I like the actress they casted a lot (despite the fact that she’s younger than the Napoleon actor). I’m really intrigued with how they are characterizing her. I like that they are not depicting her as completely submissive and without any influence. I was worried they would try to portray her as powerless, which I don’t think she was. Instead it seems like they are doing the exact opposite. I had difficult time understanding everything in the trailer, but I think Josephine in the film told Napoleon that he was a “little brute that would be nothing without me.”

Um…… that’s an interesting take.

There’s a lot of little things I’m curious about, such as the depiction of Brumaire, the pyramids, etc. I guess we have to wait until it comes out to see those scenes in its entirety though. I’m also really excited to see their depiction of Talleyrand!!

The cinematography is really cool!! I noticed some shots which match real life paintings, which I love! 😊😊

The trailer actually gives me some hope that it might be a really good film despite the issues. I am hopeful but cautious! If it ends up being bad, at least we will have some more aesthetic shots to enjoy lol

#napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #ask #Napoleon film #text post #film #films

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lorei-writes · 1 year

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Nǐ hǎo! (Please excuse spelling and grammar errors, English is second language!) Could I request headcanon with (Chinese) contortionist MC? With Nobunaga and Kenshin or Mitsuhide (either one works, I have no preference). Chinese contortionist is very neat, and often times people don’t realize China invented it! Thank you very much.

Hello, Anon!

Sorry it took me so long to get to this. And no worries about errors -- English isn't my first language either, so I get that it can be hard to use it sometimes. As long as we can communicate, all is good.

Chinese! Contortionist! MC

Characters: Nobunaga & Kenshin

Content Warnings: none

Nobunaga

When she said she wanted to perform, he thought she meant a dance. Everything seemed to align with that -- the music, her taking a stance... Nobunaga sat back, a cup of sake held firmly in his hand.

The cup of sake did not stay in his hand for long.

Actually, it met the floor with record speed.

Kimonos aren't exactly ideal in regards to allowing for the range of movement necessary to perform contortions. Her undressing? First unexpected thing. But it did not occupy his mind for long, no.

Truth be told, Nobunaga didn't even take notice of her costume. It just didn't register for the longest time. He knew she was not naked, but... The reality sort of, kind of, dissolved itself before him. It just did not seem to be real. He had to be dreaming.

Except it wasn't a dream.

He did not know human body could move like so. His mouth was hanging open the entire time while he just tried to comprehend how it was all possible.

He failed at that miserably.

Truth be told, Nobunaga did not get to appreciate her first performance at all. He was just too stunned to pay attention to the way her movements aligned with the music, or to any finer gestures for that matter.

He took it upon himself to examine whether she was unhurt afterwards. (In a strictly medical sense of the word. He found it just that hard to believe, and wanted to be absolutely sure).

Overall, Nobunaga remained curious of it. He asked her to perform for him again. And again.

Eventually it grew to be something of a personal little thing they share. He developed some understanding and appreciation of this form of art.

Nobunaga performs for her in turn -- however, he can "only" dance.

Kenshin

When she wanted to perform for him, he was open to the idea. However, as soon as the actual performance part started, Kenshin panicked.

He wasn't used to seeing anything similar in healthy people. It just... scared him, a little? Not because the art itself is scary, no. It was more so because it was her, his lover, and what he saw brought forward rather gruesome images from his psyche. It as an unfortunate association, but he couldn't help it.

Kenshin asked her to stop.

He needed to see that she was well. That she was safe, unhurt, very breathing, and still very very much alive.

That was where it all ended that day. However, Kenshin didn't mean to hinder her interests, so inevitably, the topic resurfaced eventually.

He asked her to teach him, so that he could experience it for himself.

Of course, he didn't reach her level of mastery. But he didn't need to. He just wanted to assess that it was possible while also being safe.

And it was! Except! His bum! Was! TOO! FREAKING! STIFF!

He did terribly at first. Absolutely awfully. He never before realised that his body was that rigid.

In the end, it only increased the amount of respect he felt towards her. He understood what levels of dedication and self-discipline one must have to practise this art.

Kenshin didn't learn to do contortions, but stretching became a part of his daily routine. He managed to do splits eventually.

After several weeks, he worked up the courage to ask her to perform for him again. This time, he watched her with marvel and admiration she deserved.

Tag List: @cilokgoang @violettduchess @the12thnightproject @oda-princess @tele86

#answered #Anonymous #kenshin uesugi #ikesen kenshin #ikemen sengoku kenshin #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen series #nobunaga oda #ikesen nobunaga #ikemen sengoku nobunaga

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altschmerzes · 4 months

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🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

here's a clip from, as a bit of a curveball bc i was just recently reminded people also care for this project of mine and so very much do i, my gideon the ninth 'fix it but break it way worse first' resurrection fic :)

so, from my dead are mine (and yours as well as mine), from very far ahead in chapter 9, after the dust has settled and we all have to figure out what to do now, how to interact with each other in this weird new normal we're arriving to:

“Silas!” It’s impossible to tell which of the Fourth had been the one to holler the name from far across the room, and it takes Harrow a few moments to realize that this is because it hadn’t been one of them at all. The voice had been two voices, Jeannemary and Isaac yelling over in twin tandem, melting together into one high bird’s call that aims to summon the boy over to them for some unknown purpose. Glancing at Silas, Harrow is not surprised to see the hard, stone expression on his face or the rigid stiffness in his body. Colum is the only person she has ever heard refer to him by his first name. Harrow doesn’t know what sort of operation they’re running in the Fourth or Fifth, but she can’t imagine it’s smiled upon to take that sort of liberty in the Eighth House. He doesn’t react at first, just stands there and stares across the room at them. At his sides, Silas’s hands are held in tight fists.

“Silas, come here!” This time it’s just Jeannemary, exasperation tinging her voice as she yells to be heard from where she and Isaac stand, almost outside the room entirely. Harrow is not the only one who’s noticed the way Silas has reacted to them. Abigail, who’s seemed to materialize out of nowhere for the dozenth time, leading Harrow to wonder if that might be some kind of special necromancy they teach you in her House, gets his attention with a light touch to one tense shoulder. He gives a very faint, almost imperceptible twitch that Harrow might not have noticed if she hadn’t herself bit back enough flinches to know what it looks like when one is just barely not all the way smothered. “They mean it well,” Abigail tells him. Her own voice is quiet, deliberately kept low enough not to be heard by the teens she refers to. The sound of the words and the look on her face is not quite a warning, but it’s not quite not a warning either. “That’s probably our fault, Magnus and I. We’ve never been formal with them. But they mean it well.” There’s no reply. Silas barely glances at her before he’s looking back across at Jeannemary and Isaac, still impatiently waiting for him at the doorway. “If you must correct them,” Abigail goes on, once it becomes clear that he’s not going to say anything, “I’d ask you please do so kindly.” This time she gets an answer, if only in the form of a quick, sharp dip of Silas’s chin. He nods to Abigail, ignores Harrow completely, then starts across the room to where two pairs of hands have started to beckon him, waving in the air like they might physically pull him over faster by doing so. If Silas says anything to them about the name, rebukes them for using it or orders them never to call him such a thing again, he doesn’t do it within earshot, even of Harrow’s sharpened hearing. The only thing that filters through the doorway in that deep, resounding voice unmistakable for anyone else, is, “What is it, then?”

#gav gab #there's a lot of stuff with harrow and abigail and harrow and silas particularly that i'm excited about in chapter nine #i mean there's a lot of stuff in general #some sixth stuff some stuff with gideon trying to figure out wtf happened here #etc #but those two character combos are sooooooooo #gav answers #fic: my dead are mine (and yours as well as mine)#[points at harrow and silas] my horrible girl and my horrible boy :)#me like outta the way everyone i am the only one who understands silas and the potential of this dynamic-#(JOKE. BUT ALSO. SOMETIMES-)#ask box games #writing liveblog #always ALWAYS soliciting rose asks. btw.

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silentvoicescryingout · 1 year

Text

Steel - Chapter 1 (draft)

🔞🔞 NSFW / Adult Content 🔞🔞

And he is home

Sasuke arrived at the towering, daunting gates leading into Konohagakure, with the sun shining high in the sky and a gentle, warm breeze rustling through the trees. He inhaled deeply through his nose, taking in the scents of leaves, soil - the place he once called home.

The closer he stepped to the village’s entrance, the more the shadow it cast fell over his head and shoulders.

Slow, steady steps soon brought him mere feet away from the entrance into the village, and as he drew close to the guard-desk, he caught sight of a pair of heads, blonde and silver (or was it more white, now?). His lips quirked, just barely, and his eyes roved nearby the pair, seeking a special shock of color.

“Sasuke!” came the yell and then he was encompassed by the heat of an almost painfully tight embrace.

Naruto’s palm thumped heavily against his back once, twice, and then he was grasping at Sasuke’s shoulders, pulling back to grin at him with a smile so bright it rivaled the sun shining above.

“Welcome back,” Kakashi spoke in his typical lazy drawl, snapping his favorite book shut as he slunk closer. His hand was gentler as it came up to pat Sasuke’s shoulder, dark eyes sliding over his form briefly. “You’ve gotten tall, haven’t you?”

“Maybe you just shrank,” he replied, glancing around once more as Naruto guffawed in laughter at their former sensei’s expense.

There was a very important something— someone —missing from this reunion. Despite how hard he looked, in whatever direction, he did not catch even a glimpse of blossom-colored hair, nor twinkling green eyes.

“Where is Sakura?” he finally asked.

Silence met his question.

He halted his perusal of the entryway to the village to fix his gaze on Naruto and Kakashi again. Naruto shuffled in discomfort while Kakashi stared impassively, the only tell of his disquiet being the barely noticeable clench of his jaw under the cloth of his mask.

A frown took his face as they continued to stand, saying nothing. The muscles that had only just begun to feel relaxed after a long time (years, maybe) tensed up as his patience spread thin.

“She is on a mission,” Kakashi eventually supplied. His voice was casual. “I expect her to return today. Come, let’s take this conversation to my office.”

Sasuke only nodded, his mood slightly darkened by Sakura’s absence and especially by the way Naruto seemed to be holding something tight behind his lips, an outburst clinging to the tip of his tongue.

Something was amiss, and no one was telling him what it was.

He barely took notice of the changes in the village, more preoccupied with staring at the tense set of Kakashi’s shoulders, the stiffness of Naruto’s gait as they led him through the streets of a new Konoha. He could feel stares, but he had learned long ago to not acknowledge them.

His blonde-haired friend was babbling as he so often did, saying everything but also nothing at all.

“Hey, bastard,” Naruto spoke, hesitantly, hands fidgeting awkwardly in his lap. “I feel like I should say. Sakura’s- different, you know…”

He only tched in response, because of course she was. It had been nearly three years since he had left; he expected everyone had changed. But she was Sakura. She would always be Sakura, no matter how she had grown.

As a matter of fact, he was as close to excited as he thought himself capable. He longed to see just how different Sakura had become. And he wanted to see what she thought of his growth, too. Sasuke had atoned for his sins, and he had returned. Just as he’d told her.

For once, he’d kept his promise.

Sasuke was glad when they finally climbed the stairs of the Hokage tower. He stood rigid in the center of the room, watching with slightly narrowed eyes as Kakashi fell heavily into his seat behind the grand desk, Naruto flopping into a chair closeby.

“When exactly is Sakura due to return?” Sasuke asked, propping his hand on his hip.

Trying to shove away his petty anger at the robed-man before him was a feat. Sasuke had wanted to blame Kakashi for many things in his life, but this time it actually made some sense.

A hand was raked through locks of silver-white and the older man sighed deeply. “Soon. Don’t worry, I will...send her your way once she comes back and gives her report.”

Before he could inquire as to exactly why Sakura was absent when he had sent a missive of his return more than two weeks ago, his thoughts were interrupted by the quiet pop and puff of smoke that signaled the appearance of a fourth person in the room.

An anbu knelt just beside him, masked face tipped toward the floor as they bowed deeply before the Hokage. The first thing Sasuke noticed was the acrid scent of blood, thick, cloying— yet it was barely detectable to the eye due to the black of the nin’s outfit. He could neither make out the markings of the mask they wore, and every inch of skin was covered in an opaque black fabric; not even the individual’s hair was visible.

“Reporting, Hokage-sama,” came a decidedly feminine voice, startlingly soft but also extremely monotone.

Sasuke’s ears twitched in response and he found himself staring at the petite form as they rose slowly from the ground, stalking toward Kakashi silently, and materializing a scroll that was rusted in certain spots with specks of blood.

Uchiha Sasuke feared no one living or dead, but something about this anbu operative made the hairs on his arms stand at attention, his instincts set on edge. Their aura felt menacing, and if they had not been suppressing their chakra, Sasuke imagined it would feel cold and slimy, not unlike that of the snake sannin. Dangerous.

This was a trained assassin, a member of a prestigious and insidious organization, the shadow that fell at the edges of every hidden village.

A member of the organization that bred friend-murderers and killers of kin.

“Anbu-san,” Kakashi’s voice sounded odd, even as he formally addressed the individual who lingered in front of him. “Thank you. You are dismissed, off duty for the rest of the week.”

The figure’s head bobbed in a small nod, “Understood, Hokage-sama.”

“Anbu-san,” Kakashi addressed them again, leveling them with an intent stare and expression Sasuke could not figure out. “Tonight.”

“As you wish, Hokage-sama,” they replied in a whisper.

The nin disappeared, once again in an instant of silence and brush of smoke.

Naruto seemed to release his breath in a whoosh and their former sense cleared his throat.

“So, Sasuke,” Kakashi sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and throwing an eye crinkle his way. “I technically need a ‘report’ of your travels, but I’d really just love for you to catch us up on what you’ve been up to the last few years.”

There was still a tingly sensation at the back of his neck and he found himself almost preoccupied with the interaction he had bore witness to, the anbu who seemed even more mysterious than others of their class. He shook his thoughts away to focus on Kakashi’s request.

Sasuke recounted parts of his travels, filtering out the unnecessary details. He spoke of the state of small civilian communities outside of the hidden villages and borders of the other countries. Many of them needed help, and he was most times able to provide it, as well as promises to take their troubles to the highest authorities he knew. He told them, quietly, that he felt better now, relieved of the albatross that had been slung about his neck.

What he did not tell them was that his stomach had been sickened with longing whenever he crossed paths with a cherry blossom tree. Sasuke left out retellings of the instances where he was attacked by men, by women, by children who despised him, who would rather spit upon his kindness than accept the atonement of a man who only knew sin. He did not speak of the nights he woke gasping, the taste of a sweet name bittered with salted tears on his tongue.

“It seems like you’ve seen quite a lot, and done many things as well,” Kakashi replied, eyes crinkling (more) at the edges. “From the way you speak, though, seems you feel there is more yet to see and do.”

Sasuke nodded, shifting his weight slightly, “Aa. I still have much to atone for, and… things to discover about myself. But I want to stay here for a while. Until it’s time to depart again.”

Until she’s ready to join me.

“As long as you stay your ass here long enough to actually spend time with your best friend,” Naruto interjected loudly, rising from his chair with a dramatic stretch, “sounds good to me. Speaking of which, you’ve given your report, I’m starving, so let’s go get some ramen.”

A younger version of himself might have scoffed, turned up his nose at the request, but he found Naruto’s display somewhat endearing, tugging at a nostalgic muscle that had been unworked for a long, long time. He was not as happy as he could have been, had the one he had been waiting and yearning to see been there. But he could share a meal with his best friend— he had missed him, too.

It was completely dark out by the time Sasuke stepped into the apartment Kakashi had provided for him. His jaw felt tired and overworked from carrying less than one-quarter of the conversation with Naruto at Ichiraku. The social battery that was perpetually at half-way empty seemed to be operating on fumes after dealing with the shocked greetings from former classmates, some he remembered and some who he swore he had never seen before in his life.

Sasuke blamed his exhaustion for how long it took him to notice her presence. He had already kicked off his sandals, set down his bag and begun padding into the dark living room before his eyes shot to the dimmest corner, crimson bleeding over his iris.

A petite figure unfurled itself from the shadows, slinking forward a few steps before a tiny light flickered on, illuminating delicate features.

Those eyes, they were bright and lovely as they had always been, but with an unfamiliar glint, an edge that he had never seen there before.

“Sasuke-kun,” his name in her mouth was familiar, so satisfying it made his head spin.

Her voice was different– still feminine, still Sakura but with a timbre that signaled age and a tone that was cooler, completely unlike the bubbly way she used to speak to him.

“Sakura,” he whispered, feeling as if the breath had been siphoned from his lungs.

They stood without words for a moment that could have been a century. In that moment his eyes swept over her like a flash. She looked just as he had remembered, but somehow also totally different. Slightly taller, but still so very small. Her face had matured, her hair grown longer. There was a sharpness about her jaw that made him think that she was no longer the girl who had loved him, but a woman that he hoped still did.

Her eyes flitted over him as well, taking him in fully. That gaze on him was almost a physical thing, a touch that he could nearly feel, but not really. It reminded him of days long past, of dreams long-treasured.

Unable to help himself, he strode toward her, reaching out to tug her against his aching chest.

He thought of the last time they had embraced, on a cool morning as the first rays of dawn were breaking over the horizon. She had clutched him so closely then, clinging to him even as she insisted she was fine with the fact that he had to go.

This time, her arms did not reach for him. This time, a tiny, tight fist caught his hand, before he could even get close.

Sakura’s eyes blinked slowly, as if confused by the fact that his fingers were clenched between her own. Then she was dropping his hand, her arm falling limp at her side.

A moment of heavy silence passed between them. Something like a dying flame glimmered deep in her gaze as her eyes ran over the breadth of his shoulders, slipping quickly over the lines of his face. It felt as if deep under the new, cold film overlaying her formerly warm, expressive eyes, there was a flicker of the familiar, recognizable appreciation.

Or perhaps it was just his own wishful thinking.

“Welcome back, Sasuke-kun,” she spoke again, quiet. The whisper of a smile twitched at her lips, but it looked almost mechanical, like she was out of practice. “Sorry I wasn’t able to meet you at the gate.”

“I wrote to you and told you I was coming,” he said, voice hoarse. His mind was still fixated on her reaction to his attempted touch, unable to focus as she stood at a casual, but meaningful distance away from him.

“I know,” she said. A rueful smile tugged at her mouth, but it seemed shaky, lacking the same light her smiles always had before. “This was an important mission. But I made sure to hurry back, you see? I didn’t even stop home to change.”

Small hands spread out at her sides and he drank in the sight of the pale skin of her arms, the only flesh exposed by dark, snug fitting clothes that covered her from neck to ankle.

“I see,” he nodded, swallowing as she took a small step in his direction. Something told him it would be a bad idea to mirror her movements, and so he remained perfectly still as she crept closer until her nose was inches away from his chest.

“That’s why I’m a little jumpy,” she said sheepishly, reaching out slowly–maddeningly slow– until her hands rested on his right arm and what remained of his left. “Adrenaline and all that.”

Sasuke would have questioned her further, had she not taken the final step that pushed their fronts against each other, and slipped her hands about his waist. Small palms pressed firmly into his back and her head rested lightly over his chest.

In the next seconds, he was returning the embrace. He clutched at her, so tightly he distantly feared it would be a trouble for her to breathe. There were no complaints, and she only squeezed him more tightly in response.

And Sasuke was finally, finally home.

Monster we made

The night Sasuke left the village to seek out his atonement was one that haunted him, just like many nights before it.

It was late, too late even for his staff to be around. The Hokage Tower was silent, dark save for the small lamp illuminating the paperwork strewn haphazardly before him.

Kakashi stiffened, hand freezing where it was poised to etch his name on a document that probably did not even need to pass over his desk. His eyes rose slowly, peering into the darkness in front of him, unable to make out the figure he knew stood in the shadows.

A slow inhale brought the stinging scent of iron to his sensitive nose. His hand lowered, setting the pen aside before moving slowly to finger the edge of the table. The exhale that filtered through his lungs was much like a sigh, if slightly more shaky.

“Sakura-chan,” he muttered. A brief moment of dead silence and then movement, so quiet he could barely make out the light footsteps as they drew nearer.

“Hokage-sama,” she greeted, and a chill shot down his spine as she entered the small pool of light, standing directly in front of him.

Despite the shadows cast over her features, he could see the blood splattered across half her face, deepening the red of her dress. Green eyes gazed at him, and so cold that he shivered again.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, eyes roving over her body, searching for injury. Fruitless, he knew, because her healing prowess had surpassed that of the formerly most skilled and innovative medical shinobi of multiple generations.

But, he also knew that it had been a bad day for her. Shinobi were known to act out of character on bad days.

“I think so,” she mumbled, and then she was leaning forward, her face looming closer to his as she gazed at him with wide, nearly expressionless eyes. “I did something, Kaka-sensei.”

“And what is that, Sakura-chan?” It took a gargantuan effort to keep his tone light, even as the scent of blood thickened with her proximity, as he noted the way her face seemed frozen stiff, save for a slight tremble at the very edges of her mouth.

“Sasuke-kun,” she started, invoking the name of her absent love instead of answering his question. “He told me things before he left. About...his clan, Itachi, the village. The Third, Danzo, the Elders.”

Now, the fine hairs on Kakashi’s arms stood up. Her gaze lowered, glossing over the desktop in between them as she continued her breathy monologue.

“I knew Danzo was a bastard, especially after what he tried to do to shishou,” she mused, and Kakashi remained quiet even as he began to feel she was no longer speaking to him. “I was happy when he died. Back then, I felt guilty for that. The Third...it was disappointing, finding out how complacent he was. We all looked up to him, but now...now I’m really glad he’s dead, too.”

“Sakura-chan, what-” Kakashi’s words froze in his throat as her green eyes shot back to his own, searing, looking so deep he felt as if she could see every single one of his secrets.

“Sasuke-kun cried when he told me, Kakashi-sensei,” the steadiness of her voice faltered here, and her eyes glazed over once more. Soft features pinched, furrowing with phantom dismay as if she were reliving this tragic storytelling all over again. “And when he stopped crying, he apologized... For being angry, for wanting to harm the village, for wanting to kill the people who wronged him.”

“Sasuke has grown,” Kakashi interjected, eyeing her carefully. “Him going on this journey to atone for his sins shows us that, doesn’t it, Sakura-chan?”

He was speaking in a tone he had not used in years, a voice he had adopted for his three emotional, dysfunctional, adorable genin students.

Sakura was not a genin anymore.

“He’s atoning for his sins,” she echoed, nodding slightly. Green eyes flashed to him again. “What about theirs?”

A thick swallow slid down his throat, nearly choking him as her head tilted in a horrible mockery of the way she used to do as a child. Seeing that innocently-confused, slightly troubled expression on a grown-up face, smeared with unknown blood and caked with gore was eery, despite the plethora of unnerving and terrible things he had seen. He fought back the urge to move, the instinct that shrieked in his blood to dispel the threat-

She is-was his student.

“Sakura-chan, can you tell me why you’re covered in blood?” he asked quietly, steeling himself as he rested a barely steady hand over her own. It, too, was smeared with red, half-damp still in some areas. “Let sensei help.”

She only shook her head, peering down at his hand over hers for a moment. Then she moved, flipping her palm up to grip at his fingers with her own, so tight Kakashi flinched in both surprise and discomfort.

“He called himself a monster,” she whispered, and the sudden tremble to her voice was heartbreaking, the first glimpse of the Sakura he knew. “And-and I told him he wasn’t but… I think he was. He had to be. It takes a monster to kill monsters, doesn’t it?”

Kakashi could barely follow her string of musings, and he was torn between signaling for his anbu guard or attempting to redirect the conversation so he could get some real answers.

“I think all of you were monsters,” she stated and Kakashi’s heart thudded before skipping a beat. “Naruto, Sasuke, you. Monsters in your own way. Not because you were bad, but because terrible things made you that way. Maybe that’s why I never really fit in.”

“Sakura,” Kakashi said firmly, “tell me what happened tonight.”

Tell me what you did.

Her eyes blinked at him for a long moment before her gaze lowered to their hands again.

“I killed them,” she stated, voice devoid of any emotion. “Because they should also atone for their sins.”

“Who?” he asked, blood freezing cold in his veins. Who?

“The Elders,” she replied and Kakashi’s eyes widened, terror settling deep into the marrow of his bones-- deeper than that. “I would have come to you sooner, but I know you would have tried to stop me.”

“You’re fucking right I would,” Kakashi snapped in a harsh whisper, eyes roving about the room as if suddenly the walls had ears. He looked back to his former student, unable to mask the fear bubbling inside his guts. “They are some of the most important figures in this village, in this country. Way more important than me.”

The hat was all but decoration, his power reined tight in wrinkled, wealthy, wrathful hands.

Dead.

“They needed to die,” she whispered, her nostrils flaring. As quick as anger flitted over her face, her features settled back into a cool, almost blank expression. “You know why they had to.”

And the way she stared down at him made Kakashi feel sick because he did know, but he had not gotten to the point yet that they could. There was no reason this young kunoichi, favored as she was, should have been privy to the stakes that she seemed to be leveling at him now.

“You know,” he realized, voice barely audible.

She nodded, one barely perceptible dip of her chin.

“How?” he nearly choked on the question. “That information-”

“You would be surprised,” she murmured, “how much men are willing to tell when their lives are in your hands. It only took a little time for everything to click, Kakashi-sensei. Sasuke-kun’s story just made me need to move faster.”

“That was not your decision to make,” he hissed, free hand clenching so tight his knuckles popped with strain.

“You would not have made it,” her voice was still quiet, but startlingly sharp. “I couldn’t stand them breathing for a second longer. They deserved to die.”

And it was this, blaring so intensely in this moment, that made him rue the day Haruno Sakura was presented with her headband, when she was placed on his team of disasters. Loyalty, fickleness and violence wrapped up in a tiny, pretty package, fit to explode at the slightest disturbance. A pink-haired child who was prone to cry only half as much as she was equipped to rage.

“A lot of people deserve to die. That does not give you the right to assassinate village leaders in cold blood without my clearance,” Kakashi muttered fiercely, freeing his hand from her tight grasp and rising to his feet. He stalked his way toward the bookshelf behind his desk.

The touch of her palm on his back caused him to shiver.

“I know, Kaka-sensei,” and there was that soft, breathy tone that had made him so uncomfortable before. It was terrifying now.

“I don’t think you do,” he huffed a chuckle that bordered on hysterical, “I cannot protect you from this, if anyone finds out.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” she murmured, and he figured the stroke of her fingers was meant to be comforting. It was not. “I just need you to help me. Better yet… use me.”

“Sakura, what the fuck are you talking about?” he whirled on her, frustration sharpening his tone.

She was standing so close he could make out the whites of her eyes, the glow of green irises in the darkness.

“Kakashi-sensei, I want to be a monster, too,” she murmured, and when she slipped her arms around his waist, he felt the way she was trembling. “So I can get rid of them once and for all.”

“Sakura, you’re talking about entire systems and structures, underground dealings that have been in place since even before I was born,” he said earnestly. His arms hung limp at his sides even as the young woman clutched at him like the genin she once was. “I don’t have any real power, you know that. If this goes wrong-”

“You could solidify the power of your station. Do you want the Hokage to be just a figurehead to a corrupt institution when it's Naruto’s turn?” she asked, and Kakashi felt himself being swayed despite his best efforts. “Hasn’t he fought enough?”

The image of blonde hair, sky-blue eyes and a shining smile appeared in his head as if summoned by her very voice. Years of abuse and then struggle and finally recognition, well-documented in his mind and heart. Maybe now the only innocent soul left of the pitiful crew that he was meant to groom into top-tier assassins, protectors, heads of state.

“The elders’ remains have been dealt with,” Sakura continued, voice lilting as if she were reading him a bed-time story rather than confessing to murder and sabotage. “I made sure to save the good parts, to harvest information. I’ve found the location of files and scrolls holding information worth the price of the daimyo’s head. The elders were practically ancient, weak and sickly. I was their personal physician, of course. Only I have the clearance to tell exactly how and why they perished.”

Kakashi could only stare down at the top of her head. Belatedly, he realized the anbu entourage that accompanied him in his every waking moment should have appeared by now.

Their chakra was still there, he found. It was murky, constrained in a way that signaled only the strongest of genjutsu had kept them docile, entrapped in a world where the Hokage’s infamous student was not reeking of blood and death and cornering him in his own office.

“I can help you,” she whispered, hands pressing more firmly into his back as she locked him in her embrace.

“You are not a killer,” he said weakly. Her face drew back slightly and she speared him with an icy stare.

“You and I both know that isn’t true, Kakashi-sensei,” she said, almost chiding. Green eyes blinked wide up at his face. “I was trained to be a killer.”

“You were never supposed to have to do things like this,” he whispered, shutting his eyes to shield himself from her penetrating gaze. “By the gods, not you.”

Wide green eyes blinked at him, glazed over but so, so cold, “Perhaps you should have disposed of me, then. It’s too late now. And we...we have a job to do, sensei.”

Edge like steel

The room was silent save for the sound of soft breathing and the rustle of fabric in response to slow, careful movements.

His lips found her jaw and then trailed slowly, carefully, to the protrusion of her collar bone. Here, he planted an open mouthed kiss, following with a tender lap of his tongue.

Sakura breathed above him— inhale, exhale, the weight of her body slight on his hips. Her left hand remained planted on his chest as the other hovered about the shoulder of his missing arm.

A breath rattled through the cavern of his chest when the hand on his chest began stroking in tiny circles, a harmless touch bringing forth a heat he was only beginning to understand within him. Cautious, he remembered, as he moved the hand from her hip into her line of sight. He inched it toward her shoulder, cupping it gently and pulling her toward him gradually as he stared into the quivering green pools of her irises.

By the gods, he had missed this– her.

Another shaking inhale and her bare chest was pressed flush to his, her left hand trapped between them. Fingers dug into his shoulder as their lips met, molded, gliding past each other like a whisper of wind. Then harder, like grinding rock smoothed by the force of the waving current. An exhale from her mouth formed an inhale into his lungs and his hand moved, sliding around to cup the side of her neck, thumb brushing, fleetingly, over the pulse thrumming there.

And then her right hand flashed from his shoulder, reappearing at the base of his jugular, a materialized kunai’s edge pressed cold into heated flesh. Both quivering bodies turned into solid ice from warm, flowing water.

The moments passed between them like an eternity of bated breath. Sasuke did not dare to even blink.

“You could have killed me in a second,” she finally said, edge like steel. An explanation, maybe even an apology—spoken like an accusation and underscored with a threat.

“I wouldn’t,” he murmured, fingers falling weakly away from the column of her neck. Green eyes shone down at him, like a well overflowing. He bit his lip as his heart pounded under her left palm. “I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Sakura whispered fiercely, voice shaking like dry leaves in an autumn wind. The blade she held to Sasuke’s throat was steady. “I know.”

A thick swallow pushed down his throat and he moved his hand haltingly, so slow it could barely be called movement at all, until he could rest it behind his head. Green eyes watched his every move, a mixture of vulnerability and distrust swimming about in the irises. His heart felt fit to wilt inside the cage of his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, exhaling, relaxing each of his muscles in increments. “I’ll be more careful.”

Pink locks billowed like a curtain around them as she shook her head back and forth. A ragged breath expanded her chest and, finally, the hand at his neck trembled before being ripped away. The kunai fell against the mattress with a quiet thump.

“It’s not you,” half a sob seeped through gritted teeth, “it’s me. It’s me…”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, running his eyes over her form like he wished his hand could. A gentle caress, running languid over every inch of soft flesh covering iron-forged muscle.

How heartbreaking, that she could look so beautiful as she wept.

Tears slid down reddened cheeks even as her eyes fixed on his chest, unfocused, and her hands settled over her thighs, the press of her fingers dimpling soft flesh. Sasuke bit his lips against the urge to reach for those hands, knowing that it would only cause both of them more pain.

“Sakura,” he breathed, fixing his eyes on her face once more. “Look at me, Sak.”

Quick as a flash her eyes were sharp and alert once more, boring into his own. They were still wet, droplets clinging to long pale lashes and he felt that he was drowning in them, like they could see past his skin and sinew, all the way to the core of his bones.

His tongue undulated behind his teeth, tasting, testing words of comfort but then a small, warm palm was pressed against the center of his chest and she was leaning over him again. Her face drew closer until all he could see was green, black, pink.

The whoosh of air through her lungs was all he could hear and then her mouth was pressed against his, her body stretching over every inch of his that she could reach. The hand on his chest remained, another coming to grip the wrist of his bent arm, a heavy pressure making it immovable, pinned to the bed.

Her lips moved over his as she breathed, “I want to be close to you. I never want to be close to anyone else.”

“Come as close as you like,” he whispered back, breath quickening as his blood began its dance once more, heat sweeping like flame against his insides.

A shuddering sigh slipped through her lips before they began to move against his again. The press of her kiss was achingly familiar, reminding him of months spent in darkness, his only senses stimulated by a sweet voice, a soft mouth molding against his own in stolen moments of quiet. But it was also different, as she was now, her kisses more forceful; a contradicting balance between hesitance and desperation. The grip on his wrist became bruising but he would not complain, if it meant he could be closer.

Sakura ripped her mouth away from his only to delve into the crook of his neck, tongue slithering hot over his pulse, flicking over and warming the part that had been subject to the cool pressure of her blade. Her shifting caused her hips to move, the spot between her legs brushing over him intimately— a small sound escaped his mouth with his next breath.

She moved back slightly to peer down into his face, head tilting calculatingly. Then came an intentional roll of her hips, a twist that caused him to press against the damp warmth of her center. Sasuke groaned quietly again, barely able to keep his eyes open, clinging to his control just barely enough to keep his arm steady in her hold.

“You look like you could fall apart,” she stated, eyeing him in a way that caused a shiver to creep down his spine. She began a gentle rocking motion, not enough to bring him toward the edge, but just enough to make him feel like he would go mad.

“I could,” he grit, his own hips undulating, seeking more friction. Her thighs clenched tight like vices around him and his head fell back onto the pillows weakly as he panted, “I would fall apart for you.”

Sakura inhaled sharply through her nose, face drawing close to his once again.

“What if I can’t put you back together, anymore?” she asked, and she sounded so unguarded then, so much like his Sakura that his eyes slipped shut and he craned his neck to push his forehead against hers.

“It doesn’t matter,” he breathed, “as long as you’ll still have me, even in pieces.”

There were no more words spoken as she crashed her mouth against his again, the weight of her bearing down heavier than was natural, pushing him deep into the mattress. The chakra she kept suppressed more often than not these days came alive, spreading around them like a heavy blanket. Distantly, he wondered if it was a jutsu; surely, he would struggle to free himself from her grip even if he tried. The presence of chakra, of her, was almost suffocating, but the air spilling from her lips was enough to fill his lungs, anyway.

He groaned into her mouth and she responded with a soft sigh that contrasted starkly with the tight grip of her hand about his wrist, the way her sharp nails scratched against his chest.

She lifted her hips up and away from his straining arousal, prepping to sheath herself over him, but he ripped his mouth away from her kiss with a gasp.

“Wait,” he rasped, his own voice sounding distant and unfamiliar in his ears, “let me taste…”

“Taste?” her lips formed around the word almost inaudibly. Sasuke watched with heavy lidded eyes as she dragged her hand away from his chest to reach for her center, staring intently as her finger tips slid through her slick, pink folds.

“Please…” he whispered wantonly, hypnotized by the gentle stroke of her hand on herself, mesmerized by the way the wetness gathered and spread with her ministrations.

She brought glistening fingers up to his face, fluttering them tantalizingly across his gaze before swiping them against his lips, smearing her essence.

He sucked the appendages into his mouth, hungrily, becoming dizzy and drunk at the taste of her on his tongue. His eyes rose to hers pleadingly, crimson bleeding across his vision as a deep moan rumbled through his chest.

Quickly, her eyes flitted away from his to focus on his mouth. Another desperate sound slipped around her fingers and she tilted her head again before pulling her hand away.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” she asked, and if he were a different man he might have fallen for the innocence of her expression, the feigned uncertainty.

But he knew this Sakura had been groomed into a world of lies and deceit and that she was playing him.

“Sakura,” he entreated, tongue slipping out to lap at the vestiges of her nectar that clung to his mouth. A flash of pride burned hot through his breast when Sakura’s chest expanded with a heavy breath, and her gaze sharpened at the movement.

“Oh,” she murmured. A pink flush spread across her cheeks and heavy lids slipped down partially over green eyes as she continued to stare at his mouth. “Like this, you mean.”

So quickly he barely even caught the movement with his sharingan, Sakura repositioned so both her knees pressed hard on his shoulders and his sole arm was stretched straight, shackled far above his head in her tight grip.

He groaned as her dripping core settled over his mouth, slipping his tongue through her folds and sighing at the taste. The thighs caging his head trembled as did her breath above him.

“Good, good, Sasuke-kun,” she sighed, rocking her hips gently as he laved at her bundle of nerves with his tongue, and sucked the petals of her labia between his lips.

The praises caused his pulse to race faster and his arousal to throb furiously between his legs. He doubled his efforts, moving his mouth against her hungrily, neck straining and jaw becoming sore as he licked and sucked and lapped at the juices trickling from her center.

He was becoming slightly light-headed, partially due to the way her thighs were tightening about his head and how she was settling more heavily onto his face. Also, because the way she was whimpering and gasping and uttering soft praises was euphoric, making him want to work harder, to bring her more pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so good. So good for me, Sasuke-kun,” Sakura whispered above him. Sasuke echoed the quiet moan that came shortly after, latching his mouth onto the pearly nub peeking through her blushing folds and sucking hard.

A keening cry sounded above his head as the muscles under her soft, silky skin drew tight and the inner parts of her thighs trembled against his cheeks. He felt as if he were drowning as her essence spilled over his lips, smeared across his chin and up to his nose as she undulated and bucked over him.

Sasuke was still gasping for air by the gulp when she slithered down his chest and seated herself onto him in one fluid motion. And then he could do nothing but clench his fist beneath her iron grip as she rose and fell over him with the grace and control of a well-trained machine, her innermost parts squeezing him in such a way he thought he might die for the bliss.

“Shit, Sak,” he panted, moaning pitifully as his hips bucked upwards, spearing into her each time she slammed herself down. “Sakura.”

Choking on a shout, he bit down on his lip so hard he could taste iron. Sakura shifted ever so slightly, allowing her to take him deeper, so deep his eyes rolled back before fluttering shut. A sudden pressure at the sides of his jaw nearly startled him, causing a chill to creep down his spine as small fingers gripped his face.

Sakura squeezed until his lips parted slightly with a low whine before she delved into his mouth with her middle and index, hooking them behind his teeth and yanking down until he was gaping, harsh pants and groans spilling. His cheeks twinged with soreness from being stretched to their limit, but nothing could overshadow the feeling of her hot and slick, gripping and sliding over him like a heady mixture of punishment and reward.

He gazed up at her, helpless, lost in the pain and the pleasure. She moaned nastily, stretched his lips even wider. Dribbles of saliva slipped from the corners of his mouth, mixing in with her juices stickily about his lips.

“Open your mouth,” she hissed, breathless as she crashed over him harder, faster, cheeks red and eyes brimming. “Scream.”

Sasuke’s back arched off the bed, head falling back onto his shoulders as he did just that.

#steel #sasusakufanfiction #sasusaku #sasusakuangst #morally grey sakura #anbu sakura #alternate universe #silentfics #dark content #silent writes #canon divergence #silentvoicescryingout #this shit is gonna be intense #expirimental writing #slow updates #steel chapter 1 #draft

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sunstone-smiles · 11 months

Note

Hi! I was wondering if you could write something with lee! Clive (Clavell)? I was thinking maybe Juliana is well aware of the fact that Clive and Clavell are the same person, due to how painfully obvious it is. So she decides to mess with him to get him to loosen up and fit in a little more.

A/N: Hello Anon! Cute prompt! I’ve been wanting to write something for Clavell—*Ahem,* or Clive in this case, for a bit now so thanks for sending a request in! Also, thank you so much for your patience! I hope you enjoy!

Young at Heart

Series: Pokemon Scarlet and Violet

Characters: Juliana and Clive (AKA Clavell)

Word count: 1,415

Summary: To get Clive, or Clavell, to act less stiff, Juliana thinks up a playful method that can loosen him up. Enjoy!

—

“Let’s see…” Juliana talks to herself while she glances at her Rotom phone. She walks along a path that’s bordered by a grassy route, where docile pokemon of Deerling, Lechonk, and Litleo wander. “So according to the map, the next Team Star base should be right around…”

“Ah, Juliana. Perfect timing.”

The girl looks up from her phone and notices another student approaching her. He’s attired in the academy’s gray winter blazer, paired with tangerine-colored academy shorts, usually worn in the summer, that don’t match whatsoever. The most prominent feature of all though is the student’s extravagant pompadour hair that swoops towards the clouds. This absurd outfit can only be one person in particular.

“Oh, Clive! Good to see you,” Juliana greets her Operation Starfall partner. “Since you’re here too, I assume the next Team Star base is just up ahead?”

“Your assumption would be correct,” Clive says a little too formally. He clears his throat. “I’ve already scoped out the perimeter. There’s one member standing at the front gate while the rest are waiting inside, so nothing different from the other base we’ve gone to. I also made sure that there were no unexpected traps laid out for us this time as well.”

“Wow, taking it extra seriously today, huh?”

“I don’t want to take any chances.” Clive pauses for a brief moment. “Although, I hope I’m not being too serious. I still like to stay easygoing like my fellow students,” he ends his sentence with both hands moving to slick the sides of his pompadour hair.

Juliana lets out a quiet sigh to herself. Even though this is only the second Team Star base the two are heading towards, Director Clavell is still holding on to his silly Clive persona. It wasn’t hard for Juliana to figure out it was the Director the first time she saw the new “student.” When she questioned him, he would deny all relation to anyone named “Director Clavell” and insisted that she referred to him as “Clive.” Per his request, she went along with his act. She knows that his attempts to hide his appearance is his way of fitting in with his students. On top of this, he wants to find out the truth about Team Star when no one else will. She respects him for that.

Although sometimes the masked appearance becomes a bit too obstructive. Juliana wants to connect more with Director Clavell not Clive, but it’s difficult to do so when he keeps up the whole “fellow student” act. Despite this, she still knows Director Clavell is keeping a watchful eye when hints of his mature authority slip through the guise. His hands are usually positioned behind his back, his posture is rigid, and his gaze observes everything around him, just like he’s doing now.

That settles it then. Before the next Team Star base, Juliana wants to have some fun with him. A game that can let the real Director Clavell shine through, even with the disguise on. Plus, letting loose could help his disguise become more convincing. She scans Clive up and down, focusing on his stiff posture. With this, she thinks up a strategy that she hopes will be effective. Clive had already searched for traps earlier, but now Juliana needs to lure him into one.

“Well, if I’m being honest, Clive,” Juliana responds to his previous comment, “you do seem a little stiff.”

“Stiff?” Clive straightens up his spine on reflex. “How so?” he rolls his shoulders back and tries to act casual.

“You look a little tense, maybe even stressed,” Juliana lays it on thick, “Not very easygoing if you ask me.”

“I see,” Clive pushes up his purple rimmed glasses, slightly anxious due to his charade being put on the spot. “Do you have any suggestions then on how to prevent this stiffness?”

Juliana smiles. Now for the final piece for her disguise wavering puzzle. “As a matter of fact, I do!”

“Oh! That’s good to hear.” Clive watches as the girl casually approaches him. Juliana stops in front of his side. “So what exactly does this strategy consist of—AH!” Clive suddenly flinches when Juliana darts her hands under his blazer to tickle him as fast as a pokemon using quick attack.

“A tickle attack, of course!” Juliana exclaims.

Clive takes a small step back with Juliana’s fingers still locked onto his sides. A wobbly smile tugs at the corners of his mouth while he attempts to suppress the childish giggles bubbling in his throat. “T-Tickling is the strategy?” Clive tries to cover his twitchy smile behind a balled up hand, also turning his head away from the girl to hide his uncharacteristic expression.

“Yep! It’s a perfect method to get almost anyone smiling and to prevent stiffness!” the girl innocently beams while her fingers skitter across his sides and stomach. “So, do you feel loosened up yet?”

“I d-dohohon’t know,” Clive lets some giggles slip out, which allows the rest of the joyful laughter he was holding back to release like a pack of schoolchildren running outside to play. He’s been completely taken aback from the surprise barrage of tickles that he can’t think of a response as Clive, meaning the plan to see more of Director Clavell is working!

“Well, we can’t have that! Time to boost the attack power!”

“Nohohow wahahait a sehehecohohond!” Clive takes another step back, then twists to the side to try and escape, but Juliana catches him by his lower ribs and scribbles her little hands into the fabric of his undershirt to reach the ticklish area.

Clive yelps and squishes his arms to his sides, nearly toppling backwards. “Ohohohoh nohoho! Nohohot the rihihibs!” Immobilized by Juliana’s playful strategy, Clive curls himself up and slides to the ground. Juliana shifts herself to the side of him to keep her tiny fingers caught under his blazer, while Clive repositions himself as a rolled up ball of laughter in an attempt to ward off the tickles.

“Hehe, I didn’t think you would be this ticklish Director Cla—Er. I mean, Clive,” Juliana quickly corrects herself. Luckily for her, Clive was too preoccupied with trying to wriggle away from her fingers fluttering along his tummy that he didn’t notice.

“I fohohohorgot hohohow tihihihicklish I was tohohohoo!” Clive turns onto his side and tries to bury his silly expression in his chest, but Juliana can still see the bright smile on his face.

Despite Director Clavell saying that he feels out of touch with his students, his own laugh is as giddy as a child’s, filled with little squeaks and carefree cheer. Juliana sees that this looser side of himself removes any worry of that disconnection with his students. She’s glad for that.

“Julianahahaha!’ Clive’s exclamation of laughter pulls the girl from her thoughts, “Nohoho more! Nohoho mohohore, plehehease!”

“Oh! Sorry!” Juliana reels back her hands towards her chest, like she has gotten in trouble. Clive leans his head back onto the dirt path, gulping down air that he had lost in the midst of Juliana’s game. He no longer looked as stiff as before, but Juliana fears that she may have “loosened” him up too much.

With worried eyes, she grabs both of his arms and pulls him forward so he can sit upright. “Are you alright Clive?” she leans on her knees.

He must have sensed her concern. Knowing that a student was in need of reassurance, Director Clavell looks up at her with a soft, comforting smile.

“I’m fine,” he responds. “Please, don't worry. As a matter of fact, I feel much less stiff than I did before.”

“You…you do?” Juliana‘s voice quivers. She couldn’t tell if he was just saying that to make her feel better.

“I do,” he speaks with the mature clarity of an academy director. “Thank you.”

After observing his expression, Juliana notices the softness lingering on his face. It’s Director Clavell who was talking to her just now, not Clive. Her method really did help.

“That’s a relief then,” she returns the soft smile. She then lends him a hand back to his feet.

“Now, what are we waiting for?” Juliana swivels to face the path ahead of her. “Look out Team star! Here comes the members of Operation Starfall!” she shouts enthusiastically. Juliana turns to see Clive’s newly relaxed appearance through his disguise. It’s clear to her that he feels more accepted, knowing he’s a part of a team with a caring student by his side.

#A request from Sunstone!#pokemon #pokemon scarlet and violet #pokemon sv #pokemon clive #pokemon clavell #pokemon juliana #pokemon fanfiction #pokemon fanfic #sfw fanfiction #sfw fanfic #sfw tickle fic #tickle fic

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yuulina-vre · 11 months

Text

Fear - Prologue

Summary: Y/N lives the life she always dreamed about. a job she loves, a fiancé that does everything for her, and a house she dreamed of. There are hiccups on the way, but Y/N's still pretty satisfied with where she stands in life. Though a word can be powerful, especially if it's said to the wrong person. Y/N would never have thought that she ever gets to experience how bad it can turn out. For her and the loved ones around her.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions of violence

Series Masterlist // Masterlist

I am excited. Very excited. And I’m afraid. How should I react? What should I do if they asked questions I was not prepared for? I had no answers for? But mainly, how should I stand it without him?

A feeling of nausea rises in my stomach, and a lump forms in my throat. I feel like throwing up at any given moment. Swallowing feels difficult as the lump slowly grows, making me wish for a glass of cool water to appear to help. I can feel myself fidgeting nervously, my hand wringing on themselves, pulling on loose threads of my shirt, or running restlessly through my hair, messing it up even more.

The seat suddenly feels way too hard when it felt soft and comfy moments before. I shuffle back and forth, trying to find a position that’s comfortable again and doesn’t put pressure on my stitches. It’s funny how things change with some time sitting and growing nervousness. It feels like we’ve been sitting here for hours now, but with a look at the clock at the end of the hall, it’s confirmed that it’s merely about fifteen minutes now. A nervous sigh leaves my lips as I start shuffling once again.

A warm hand covers mine and tears me from my running thoughts. I look to my right and instantly am graced with Bucky’s ocean-blue eyes. They’re gazing deeply into mine, gentle like a soft breeze over Caribbean water. His eyes always hold a warmth that manages to calm me down without him doing anything. They also seem to have developed the ability to see when I’m getting too much into my head. However, that could easily be a trait Bucky always had. And that not just applies to his eyes. A small smile shows up on his lips. He doesn’t say a word, but somehow, I feel like he’s calming me down. Sometimes just looking at him has that effect on me. I always wonder how he does it. I can feel my body slowly calming, going from its straight and rigid position to a more slouched and relaxed one. I haven’t noticed how stiff I’ve been until now. Relaxing my muscles takes away the slight pain I have felt in my stomach for minutes now.

Bucky starts to rub his thumb comfortingly over the skin of the back of my hand, drawing an invisible pattern that sends shocks of calm and love through my nerves.

Deep relief floods me, spreading into every small nook my body has to offer, fighting the nervousness and nausea. Now I need it more than ever, and I’m relieved that Buck does that without being asked. He’s observant that way, though I feel he might be just as nervous as I am. Since what happened happened, we’ve been no more than ten minutes apart from each other. He can’t go back to work with his injuries, and I… I can’t leave the house alone anymore. At this moment, I promise never to take Bucky for granted.

I take a deep stuttering breath, schooling my features into something less worried, and look at my hands. Bucky’s left one surrounds them, holding them in his as if they’re meant to be there. I notice how small mine are compared to his. He can almost wholly envelop both of mine with just one hand. They’re warm and calloused, showing that he was a hardworking back before he worked with the police. Work at the docks has left its traces. A warm feeling spreads through me just thinking about these hands that hold me so softly like I’m made out of glass, while they used to grab things firmly and roughly. But he holds me like he could shatter me with just a bit too much pressure. He probably could, but I know Bucky never would. He once broke down because he left a bruise on my arm after pulling me away from the street. I would have been run over by a car that hadn’t bothered stopping at its red light. It took me hours to get Bucky to accept that it was okay and that I didn’t hold a grudge. He saved my life. I still suspect him to feel guilty about it, even after the two years it has been.

He leans over, crowding into my space and spreading his scent. Something woodsy and entirely Bucky fills my nostrils. My heart rate spikes up, this time for a whole other reason. He softly whispers in my ear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Don’t cry.” His hand loosens around mine for just a second to come up and wipe a tear away. When did I start crying?

“Everything will be fine. I’ll wait here for you, and if you feel uncomfortable or it is too much to bear, you can call after me. We can take a break then, okay?” I nod, but somehow, I feel like we both know I won’t call for him. Because I already decided I won’t.

This, I’ll manage. I can’t call after him for everything that’s uncomfortable for me. I have to work and stand on my own again. I can’t run anymore. I have to prove myself now. I have to prove that I can be independent, to me and him.

I love Bucky. I love him like I never thought I could love someone. And I trust him with my whole heart. Many nights we laid in our bed, shaken with nightmares and guilt, and all that held us together was our love and trust for each other. But guilt buries deep in someone’s mind. No matter how much he reassures me, here I am, at fault for all of this. This feeling won’t let go of me. Bucky can say all the reassurance and sweet nothings he can come up with, can hold me as tight and stroke my hair as gently as he likes until we both burst with love and affection, can tell me I’m not at fault as many times until his voice is raw. It won’t leave me. No. It is my fault. It’s my fault that he was in hospital for weeks. That his arm is shattered and probably will hold a lot of scars.

That he was tortured.

But mostly, I would never be able to give him what he desires most. To fulfill this one wish. It was taken from me. And he doesn’t know. I lacked the courage to tell him back then, and with each passing day, my guilt rises, and the courage to tell him swindles into thin air. It’s getting harder and harder to keep this secret, but telling him feels like betraying him. Betray the trust he puts in me. No one except the doctors and me knows. And it’s unfair. Unfair to me to have and keep it a secret. Unfair to him that he’ll probably never know. Unfair to us that we don’t even have a chance at the miracle other couples have.

While still staring at my hands, my thoughts ran wild. I could tell him now, get it over with and flee to the interview I’m about to get into. And if it shatters him, I don’t have to see him crumble, don’t have to see him walk out of my life forever. I could sit there blissfully unaware of how he feels and copes because I’m faced with past traumas that will keep me occupied for the following hours if not days. It feels like I’m a coward, but I don’t see another chance to tell him. I can’t bear the sadness in his eyes. the betrayed look. Maybe even the disgust? Well, no. That’s unfair. I know Bucky would never be disgusted by that, but the fear that he could be when it’s about me spirals in my mind. Maybe now’s for the best.

I take another deep breath. Then I look into his eyes. “Buck?”

“Yes, doll?” He smiles softly at me, his eyes raking over my face. The adoration in his eyes lets me swallow past that lump in my throat again. Nausea returns stronger than before. If he didn’t hold my hands again, I probably would be running to the nearest bathroom right now.

“T-There’s something I need to tell you. It... it’s not easy for me. I have carried it around for a while now. I-I know it’s not the best time now and especially not here, but I think if I don’t do it now, I… M-maybe I never will.” He looks curiously and confused at me. His eyes give me some hope. They radiated something calming and warm. At the same time, I’m terrified of his reaction.

“What is it, doll?” He asks as I stop talking. The breath is stuck in my throat; airways closed up with a feeling of nausea that has me almost toppling over in my seat. My head starts pounding with another sort of blinding fear. Different from the one I felt for months prior. This one roots much deeper. “You need to breathe, Y/N.” Bucky shuffles on his seat so he sits completely facing me, never taking his hand off mine. I nod, managing a stuttering breath as fresh tears cloud my vision again. “As... W-when that happened,” I gesture at his arm that’s in a sling, cast a stark contrast to his warm skin. My eyes wander from our hands to his dress shirt. They stop at the spot I know the bandages are. The ones that cover his burns and stab wound. Then I continue looking up just to meet his eyes for a fraction of a second before averting my gaze again. I free one of my hands from his grip and placed it onto my stomach, right over my stitches. “W-well, h-he had me already, you know. I was able to hear you, but… H-he gave me something, and I couldn’t call for you or move!” My voice rises in a desperate attempt to make him understand what I couldn’t exactly tell him. His eyes widen in shock. His face paling and staring at me as if he had lost me a second-time ins just a few months. A shocked gasp leaves my lips as I stare at his forming a silent ‘o’.

Oh, God! Hadn’t he known? Wasn’t it explained to him?

“Y-you didn’t know.” It’s not a question, but Bucky still shakes his head. “Sweetheart.” It’s a breathless sound, almost silent against the clock’s loud ticking. I try to avoid his searching eyes again as I continue, knowing that I never would tell him if I don’t get it over now. “Eh… B-before he-”

“Miss Y/L/N. It’s time.” A man comes out of the door next to our bench. I look at him for a second before his words reach my brain. Panicking, my eyes fly to Bucky, head whipping so fast I feel my neck heating up with its strain. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” Bucky attempts a smile that I can tell doesn’t reach his eyes. His mind is probably running a mile a minute while he comprehends what I just told him or what I didn’t. It isn’t even what I really am trying to say to him! “Tell me later, okay? Concentrate on this first. It’s more important. Everything will be all right.”

But what I want to say is just as important, damn it! Worried, I bite my lower lip, eyes switching between the man who called me and Bucky, unsure what to do. Can I ask for five more minutes? Should I?

“It’s okay. I’ll be here.” Bucky squeezes my hand, smiling at me like he has no other business than to be here for my sake and safety. The realization hits me as his lips softly press to my forehead. My moment has passed.

So, I say nothing. Just look at him. Then I nod, slowly coming to a stand, and follow the man in a suit. The door closes behind me with a soft click, the hallway’s light vanishing together with the calmness that Bucky had provided to my already frayed nerves. Now I was alone. Alone with three men, I don’t know. Two agents that I had never seen before and my boyfriend’s boss.

Now it’s time. Now it is on me. Please let them believe me. I’m not at fault. Tell me that all of it is not my fault and make me believe it!

#Bucky Branes #Bucky x Reader #Reader insert #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes x Female Reader #yuulina writes #Fear

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vacantgodling · 1 year

Text

a distraction

wip: vampires don’t take road trips (sorta; this won’t appear in the actual narrative bc it’s first person pov and darren would have no way of knowing — nor does he need to know — his uncle’s sex life 💀)

character(s): laurent rouzet-blanc (darren’s uncle, younger brother of liz but still 200+), raymond cromwell (laurent’s best friend) ; mentions of antoinette rouzet-blanc (laurent’s daughter with his deceased human wife emìlie “emily” shingle so a half-bloodling), carlotta sinclaire, viktor sinclaire, and erasmus sinclaire (carlotta & viktor’s father)

some minor spoilers to plot related things surprisingly. also grief and second chances at love & all of that. tagging as suggestive bc handsy making out. read at your own digression etc etc

The tick of the grandfather clock was on time to the click of brown leather dress shoes on the dark oak wood floor of the drawing room. Laurent looked up from the magazine draped elegantly over the gray-clad suit pants of his lap up at one Raymond Cromwell, arriving quite unannounced. His dark suspenders were strapped tight, a habit from his far off youth, and his brown coat was clutched tightly between his side and arm, like a lifeline he was loathe to release. A pipe was tightly clutched in his other palm, his entire stance and body language stiff and rigid and Laurent folded the magazine; gingerly laying it on his drawing room table.

“To what honor do I owe this visit?” Laurent asked plainly, not questioning how he got in, nor necessarily why. It was a disguised question, a verbal bait and switch for words that Laurent dared not ask, but their meaning felt. Raymond took a steadying breath, and Laurent sat at further attention.

“Smoke first.” Raymond decided after a heavy beat.

In a fluid motion his coat was tossed over a nearby floral chair, and his ever present newsboy cap followed. Wavy, thick, salt and chocolate tresses revealed themselves from underneath, stuck up and on end from their previous enclosure. Raymond ripped a hand through this unruly mop, only succeeding in making it messier. He sat down on the chaise immediately behind the one Laurent lounged on with a loud sigh and stuck the pipe in his mouth. He leant his head back until it was brushing against Laurent’s shoulder, exposing the smooth column of his neck.

“Do you have a light?” He drawled. Laurent nodded and reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket for his book of matches he always kept close for this purpose. “Upright.” Laurent chided, jostling him. Raymond complied and sat up straight, leaning into Laurent’s space enough so the other man could cup a hand around the black, worn bowl. He brought the delicate flame to the herbs within, illuminating just how bloodshot the sclera around Raymond’s deep crimson eyes were. But still, he didn’t prod. He leaned back when the pipe was lit, shaking out the match and tucking it into a different pocket in his coat to dispose of later. As he did so, he felt the shuddering inhale of Raymond’s lungs, turning his head to witness it all billow out of his friend’s nose and mouth, not entirely dissimilar to a dragon, milky and white.

It was another moment before Raymond finally said, with a noticeable lack of forewarning, “She’s dead, Laur.”

Laurent felt his shoulders tense, but when he turned to glance at Raymond out of the corner of his eyes, his expression was oh, so, carefully neutral.

“… Carlotta?” He asked, carefully. Raymond let out another shuddering breath and pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand not gripping his pipe. Laurent heard the pipe cracking between his friend’s distraught fingers. “That bastard fucking killed her.”

“Viktor?” Laurent hesitated to ask but Raymond immediately sucked his teeth.

“No. Erasmus.” That wasn’t who Laurent was expecting to hear. He turned again, draping his arm over the other chaise to look at Raymond fully but the man wouldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he stared out of the large bay window before him, unseeing.

“How do you wager that, old friend?” In a rare show of physical contact, Laurent bumped Raymond’s elbow with his own and it finally made Raymond shift. His eyes slid back to Laurent’s.

“I’ve been watching that miserable piece of shit for a long time. I just know.”

Laurent studied Raymond’s face and not finding a trace of insincerity he closed his eyes, trying not to heave a sigh himself.

“I believe you.”

“She’s gone.” Raymond’s voice cracked a bit on the second word, but he didn’t have to say it for Laurent knew. He knew what he was feeling. What he never got to say. Two moths that were dancing around a mutual flame and it was suddenly, without warning, extinguished. Even if losing Emìlie wasn’t the same, Laurent knew. He knew.

“How long does it hurt, Laur?” Raymond asked, already scanning his thoughts. “It’s been nearly a century.” Laurent said quietly. “And I still feel her absence like the day I buried her.” From his peripheral, he saw Raymond bob his head, until it was tucked against his chest.

Silence fell.

Eventually Laurent grasped Raymond’s arm.

“She knew you loved her.” Was all he said. Raymond didn’t move still, the pipe nearly half fallen out of his lips. Laurent was almost worried that in his grief, Raymond simply passed out, but suddenly his friend jolted to his feet. The pipe still did fall, and Laurent reached out, grasping it before it clattered to the ground.

“Raymond?” It wasn’t often Laurent said his name. But at it, Raymond looked. Tears had finally begun to streak down his dark, chiseled face, and Laurent was up on his feet until Raymond was in front of him, pushing him back down into the chaise. Laurent wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but Raymond dropping onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips wasn’t one of the myriad of scenarios flipping through his mind.

Raymond crowded in close, until their noses were brushing, and Laurent draped his arms around his friend’s waist, studying him—waiting for his next move.

“I need a smoke.” Raymond’s whisper was husky and rasp, then dark lips were pressing into Laurent’s easier than breathing.

He didn’t push him away.

Laurent stroked long fingers against the bunched material of Raymond’s shirt tucked into his dress pants, and let his friend work his mouth open with long, languid drags of his tongue. Laurent’s eyes, half lidded and not fully closed, studied the half furrow of Raymond’s brows. If it was stress, or relief, pain or pleasure, he couldn’t tell. But he licked back against Raymond’s tongue as it started to retreat, coaxing him back to him after a scant parting for breath.

Raymond’s hands slid into Laurent’s long loose tresses of ink and silver, tugging until he let out an involuntary small gasp. It was then that the first rock of Raymond’s hips startled Laurent into this sudden reality. The reality that Carlotta was dead, and his beloved wife was long gone; where his best friend was kissing him and was perched on his lap. The reality that perhaps the two of them had always been this close to this cliff’s edge. The reality that this was all it took for them to finally tumble over it. Laurent’s hands gripped Raymond’s hips, holding him fast and steady, encouraging his hips to move again and they did with a dark, rumble of a moan in tandem against Laurent’s chest.

Raymond pulled back. He wiped a hand across his lips, perhaps to hide the wry, delighted grin that was tracing across his face.

“Damn.” He said. Laurent didn’t say anything. With their eyes still locked, Raymond rolled his hips once more. Testing. Prodding. Laurent hissed when they caught against his growing arousal.

“That thing you do with your eyebrows when you feel pleasure is quite… interesting.” His friend’s voice dropped to a inquisitive murmur, making Laurent scoff.

“My eyebrows aren’t doing anything.” However, Raymond paid him no mind, instead skating his fingers against Laurent’s jaw, then leant down to follow the trail with his lips.

“Laur…” Raymond’s voice was a heady rumble and Laurent just barely managed to stave off the urge to shiver. “Let me guess,” He reached up to card a hand through Raymond’s tousled hair. “You’ve wanted this for awhile.” Raymond huffed out a laugh. “Oh since we met, old friend. You’ve always been easy on the eyes.” Raymond pulled back only slightly to peek at Laurent’s raised eyebrow. Something warm stirred within him when it caused his friend to laugh. “Trust me. There’s only one reason I’ve ever fallen into Saph’s chambers—and it wasn’t for him.” Laurent couldn’t help his laugh if he tried, though as always, it bubbled as a low, dark chuckle. “So then were you jealous?” He couldn’t help but ask. “Of Em and I?”

“No.” That answer did give Laurent pause and he regarded him. The grief was still there, ever present in his eyes. But there was some spark of life beginning to return to them; a dollop of rich, bright hazel intermingling like a dance in his crimson eyes. Curiously, Laurent found himself lifting a hand to trail it thoughtfully against his friend’s dark cheek. Unless it were his imagination, Raymond lent into it.

“I was happy you found someone who made you less miserable. I still am.” Raymond’s smile was soft and pliable. “And you know Emily was a dear friend of mine. I felt partially responsible for your meeting.” Raymond chuckled, but finally leaned in once more, back into Laurent’s space. The heat, the arousal, it was all still there, and Raymond’s head fell to his neck. He pressed an exploring kiss there, then another one more searing when Laurent tilted his head to let him continue. “And before you worry your head about it, this doesn’t have to change anything between us.” Raymond’s voice was a hoarse rasp, circling the shell of his ear like a thick smoke. “I just need—“ Laurent pushed his hips up and Raymond’s words caught in his throat, clipped on a gasp. “A distraction.” Laurent finished for him. Yet, this felt like more than that. It was as if the strength of the revelation 100 years ago with Emìlie reached forward in time to strike him again, with interest—their history. Laurent wouldn’t pretend he’d looked at Raymond like this before, but he’d never looked at anyone, never thought himself capable of the emotions. Yet, he’d married, had a child, grieved—still grieved—and now his best friend’s comfortable weight on his lap felt just as right now as Emily’s did then. He couldn’t change the past, neither of them. They couldn’t restore what either of them lost. But their companionship, a distraction, an inquest into something more… Perhaps that was in order.

Before the topic could be breached or Laurent could make his thoughts known, the door to the study swung open to reveal a familiar tidy head of ginger hair; Antoinette’s darker, but still as vibrant as her mother’s.

“Father?” She called softly, her voice always comparable to a mouse. And well, Laurent knew wouldn’t take long for her eyes to find the two of them, entangled as they were. Raymond made no move to pull away, but he did pause his exploration towards Laurent’s jugular. Laurent tilted his head so he could meet his daughter’s eyes.

Her face blossomed red before he could say a word, and she quickly spun around and hurried back into the connecting corridor, without another word.

Against his neck, Raymond chuckled. “Poor Nettie. She wasn’t expecting to see her da like this I’m sure.” Laurent scoffed in reply, tilting his head back to gaze at the ceiling. He’d talk to Antoinette later, if she would see him. It was no different than the first time she’d stumbled upon him and her mother, though that was ages ago. She hadn’t looked him in the eyes for a week. He really wasn’t sure where her demureness came from.

“I didn’t say stop.” Laurent murmured instead. Raymond’s laugh and grip on his shoulders, tight and sure, as he got back to business made something warm and comfortable coil in Laurent’s gut.

They’d have more time to discover it later.

#s: darren and co #suggestive #ren writing #i’m only tagging suggestive bc there’s no penetration or nakedness just making out and getting hands #anyway #spoilers ig

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