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tales-unique · 3 years

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FAITH, LOST II

Tagging @chelseareferenced so she can read this goodness first hand! ;3

Chapter 2

“You have got to be joking!” Heisenberg can’t contain himself, not that he ever censored himself in the past. This is beyond ridiculous, even for the high and mighty bitch herself. He’s quick to turn on his heel to stare down the deceiver but he doesn’t call her out. Not yet anyway. He doesn’t need to, not when Lady Goliath looks about ready to burst a vein. “Mother Miranda, I must protest!” Lady Dimitrescu hisses, eyes practically glowing with rage. “Heisenberg hasn’t the faintest idea of the gift you are giving, he’d sooner throw it to the dogs!”

You wince at how little she regards you, conflicted. As it stands Lady Dimitrescu is fighting viciously to no doubt claim you as her own, which bodes marginally better than the man who would sooner toss you aside without a second thought than look at you. The Countess stands tall but her posture reminds you of a petulant child, demanding to be given what they want. Albeit a regal one. All while Heisenberg stands there with a mean snarl on his lips that brandishes his impressive canines, aimed squarely at Mother Miranda. Lady Beneviento sits silent as the grave watching the exchange while her devilish doll wiggles in excitement on her lap. Lord Moreau lingers on the edge of the fray, wringing his hands; he’s clearly distressed at the fighting and you almost feel ashamed for being the cause of the turmoil. “My decision is final,” Mother Miranda states firmly, voice echoing unnaturally around the room, her form already receding towards the doors. “Mother Miranda, please!” Lady Dimitrescu calls out, a brief look of panic flitting across her porcelain features when she receives no response at all. The cracks are already showing — she will not get her way today. In a desperate attempt to regain control she turns to Heisenberg, who stands tense as he watches Mother Miranda leave. “Heisenberg!” She seethes, hands balled tightly into fists that threaten to snap the delicate neck of her opera length cigarette holder into splinters, “say something!” You watch, helpless, as he casually lifts his hammer, taking his sweet time under Lady Dimitrescu’s smouldering gaze. The others have already made a hasty retreat, following their Mother’s steps closely, leaving you at the mercy of the feuding siblings. When Heisenberg finally locks eyes with her, hammer set proudly on his shoulder, the tension is so thick you struggle to breathe. Then, he smirks. The tautness of his body melts away into a well versed confident swagger, complete with a wolfish grin, and Lady Dimitrescu recoils so quickly in rage that you fear she’s given herself whiplash. The tirade of pure and unadulterated hatred that spills forth is in no way befitting of a woman of such high standing but Heisenberg seems unaffected. In fact, it amuses him to see her become undone when he ignores her. You don’t understand how he’s so calm when faced with such venom, practically cowering when she turns to you, face twisted in indignation. “Now don’t be a sore loser,” he tuts, quickly tugging you to his side, “Mother Miranda made her choice, are you really going to defy her?” He teases, grin widening at the sight of faint colour spreading on the Countess’ face. Heisenberg always knew how to get under skin and make her squirm. Sparing you one last glance Lady Dimitrescu turns sharply on her heel to leave, huffing in annoyance and frustration. Neither of you are worthy of even a biting retort, it seems. “You can breathe, you know.” You startle at Heisenberg’s teasing remark, finally releasing the breath that you didn’t realise you had been holding the whole time. You had been so transfixed on the very real prospect of your demise at the hands of a nine foot tall Vampire woman that you may have neglected that small fact of life. Lightheadedness makes your vision swim and for a moment you think you’re about to faint. If ever there was something to make you feel like you had one foot in the grave that moment was very much it. It does not bear repeating. Heisenberg takes in your deer-in-headlights expression, chuckling at the way his stare makes your little hummingbird heart flutter more. You’re absolutely petrified. It’s understandable, he knows that he’s dangerous and your little flock has more than enough stories about the big bad Lycan master that lets his hounds descend from the ominous Factory to feast on the nonbelievers. Utter bullshit. Well, mostly. But they don’t need to know that, of course. “So,” he drawls, tilting his head, “Mother Miranda says you’re my new— what was it? Ah, right, right, my new servant.” It’s a statement, but you’re not sure if he fully understands what he’s supposed to actually do with you, just like Lady Dimitrescu remarked. You nod shakily, bringing your still bound wrists up in a feeble attempt to warm yourself. It doesn’t offer much, the metal is so cold it brings your skin out in goosebumps. Thankfully, Heisenberg notices. “Oh, uh, sorry about that,” he clears his throat, a sudden switch, and with a flick of his wrist the shackles snap apart and shoot off to the side. They clatter to the ground unceremoniously, rusted and broken. It’s almost sad how much you relate to them at that moment. “T-thank you,” you answer meekly, rubbing at your sore wrists. The blood rushes to your fingers, making them tingle. It’s an odd, but muted, sensation, given the gravity of your situation. He doesn’t reply, merely tips his hat at you before motioning for you to go ahead of him. You’re unsure if it’s because he’s a gentleman or if it’s a power play but you move regardless, your pace hesitant. You’re not eager to be thrust out into the chill of the mountain, not that it’s any warmer inside at this point. You can only hope that the Factory is better than this.

It’s so much worse. The heat— it’s humid, stagnant, and downright heinous. Steam hisses and spits from rusted, internal pipes that streak across the walls and ceilings of the corridors, making the air humid and cloying. Your feet ache through your boots as you try to keep up with Heisenberg's strides, echoing off the metal grating underfoot in an annoying clank clank clank rhythm. In an attempt to cool yourself down you try to sweep up your damp hair from where it sticks to the back of your neck, grimacing at the wetness that covers your fingers. You’re a sweating mess and you hate it. The elevator is your near breaking point. In such a small space the heat intensifies, stuffy and borderline unbearable. It’s normal, your muddled mind tries to rationalize, since the lower levels are closer to the furnace, and it’ll get better once you go up, but it doesn’t take away from discomfort. You notice with great irritation that Heisenberg is barely batting an eyelid, though it’s to be expected. He lives there, of course he’d be used to it. The ride to the upper levels is uncomfortable and not just because of the humidity. His eyes are on you the entire time, at least you think so given those round glasses that he wears obscure his eyes from your view, no doubt wondering just why he’d taken in such a mess. And a mess you most certainly are. Heisenberg can see how your desperately try to keep stringy, moist hair from plastering itself to your sweat-soaked skin, failing miserably as the rebellious strands slip from your fingers. There are dark patches to your simple dress, made worse by how it clings to your body from the heat. He can barely stop himself from smirking when you curse quietly under your breath, rolling your eyes in irritation as you fuss over your hair. It’s the first time that you’ve shown some real spirit. Your annoyance is refreshing on your flushed face, the dim, artificial light casting you in a dewy, warm glow. Sadly, it’s not enough to overpower how badly you need a bath and fresh clothes. “Well, here we are,” he announces as the elevator stops and the door opens up; your new home. It’s another long hallway that looks similar to the dozen odd that you walked through to get here, but you do notice that it’s comparatively cooler. It must be near the top of the Factory. It’s a pleasant relief and you follow Heisenberg to a cluster of rooms a little lighter on your feet. The tour is, well, barely that, as he shows you a bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom, all outfitted with the barest of necessities and far too much scrap metal, tools, and other engineering components. You linger in the doorway of the modest bedroom, staring at the single bed pushed up in the corner as though that’s the out of place object in the room. He leaves you for a moment, fumbling through papers and projects on the heavily cluttered desk that takes up the length of one wall, and you wander the hallway, peeking inside rooms with doors slightly ajar. Most are storage rooms with all sorts of junk inside, but one looks salvageable with an old, banged up couch and minimal debris. As you look about envisioning how to make it more homely, leaning against the door frame, you’re not paying attention and it gives Heisenberg the perfect opportunity to scare you. “Found yourself a room, huh?” He whispers into your ear, pulling back quickly as you shriek in alarm and swing out your arm instinctively to hit him. You can barely hear your heart hammering wildly in your chest over the sound of his raucous laughter, retreating from him quickly. “Why would you do that?” You shout, wide eyes staring at him. Heisenberg can barely pull himself together, breaking into small fits of laughter at the sight of your astonished expression, exhaling deeply to try and ground himself. “Couldn’t help it,” he explains, grinning at you, “it was a perfect setup!” Flabbergasted, your mouth falls open at his response; this man was one of the four Lords of the village, not some child playing tricks! Noticing the offense you take at his actions Heisenberg scoffs, his own expression souring as he turns away from you. What was he honestly thinking? You were just another haughty, stuck-up, loyalist to Mother fucking Miranda that clearly wouldn’t know a joke if it came up and slapped you in the face. “Bathroom is right there, you reek,” he snaps harshly, pointing into a small room lined with cracked, dirty tiles and rusting, dated appliances. You glare at his back, wordlessly going inside and doping your best to slam the door shut, but all you manage is a half-descent rattle. You look about yourself and suppress a shiver of disgust, staring at the old, rusting shower that has clearly seen better days, questioning whether you can forgo washing after all. Needs must, you think to yourself, as you dig out the cleanest towel you can find from a rickety old cabinet in the corner. Thankfully the water is fine when you turn the handle and you quickly strip to take advantage of the first good thing since you came to the Factory. As you stand under the tepid spray you wonder if you are, as Mother Miranda had said, perfect for this task. Doubt nips at your resolve and tries to whittle down your faith, but you refuse to let it win. You must succeed, for Mother Miranda.

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagine #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heinsenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

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citowon · 3 years

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spring troupe and gender neutral s/o watch horror movies

about time i finally write for this blog... i was hit with the image of masumi watching a horror movie with his s/o, thought how lovely it would be if there was content of that, then realized i have that power now

word count: 1,935

tags: established relationship, non-detailed mentions of horror themes (gore, monsters, etc)

sakuya sakuma

🌸 when the topic of a horror movie date first comes up, he’s a bit scared. he’s only seen a couple, one of which was for mankai play research.

🌸 when it’s actually showing, though, he’s pretty calm! the anticipation was the worst part, and he somehow doesn’t get scared even during the most terrifying movie of the year. he’s great at reminding himself it’s just fictional in the end

🌸 vampires? not scary. aliens? he thinks they’re cute! gore? well, yeah, it’s unnerving at first but it’s all fake, and once he reminds himself of that he’s fine

🌸 he gets scared at the littlest things though. there might be a continuity error where a knife is in its holder on the counter in one shot and then removed the next, and no one in the movie acknowledges it nor is it supposed to mean anything but he can and will psych himself out thinking about just what moved it

🌸 king of predicting plot twists! he might be very good at spotting continuity errors, but he’s even better at picking out little bits of foreshadowing and putting together the mystery

🌸 gets spooked the most by jumpscares. every time he squeaks a bit (on really bad ones he might scream) and every time he always does the same embarrassed sigh afterwards and goes to squeeze your hand to calm himself

🌸 psychological horror is definitely the best pick for sakuya. he thinks a lot about what’ll happen next in the movie and loves to discuss about movies with you regardless of the genre, so with thought-provoking psychological films it fits him like a glove

🌸 and hey, if things ever get too intense he loves b-list horror movies! he thinks the bad acting is endearing and always finds something to compliment even with the trashiest, corniest flick

🌸 if you ever get uncomfortable, he might commentate in the movie and try to poke fun at it- i mean, the killer clown is kind of funny! look how bright and colorful it is compared to the rest of the set! he keeps his voice light and sunny so you have something comforting to concentrate on

masumi usui

🎧 he loves the idea of horror night. cuddling with you, holding you protectively as the suspense rises, stealing kisses to distract you from the monster and erase your fear...

🎧 he’s only seen a few horror movies in his life, less than the fingers he has on one hand, but whatever. it’s a movie. it’s not real. if he got too immersed he could just tell himself it’s fake and be done with it.

🎧 spoiler alert: he didn’t.

🎧 masumi did not, and i repeat, did NOT expect to get so invested??? even if you’re scared, he’s definitely the most terrified

🎧 that’s not to say he’ll show it. he’s doing everything to keep a neutral face, and you’ll probably assume he’s holding to you tighter during the scary parts like he’s protecting you.

🎧 (it’s actually because you’re the one [1] thing grounding him. you’re protecting him, not the other way around! in hindsight, he likes being cared for even when he thought he’d be the one spoiling you, not the other way around. he just wishes it didn’t have to be during such a scary movie, that’s all)

🎧 will take his fear to the grave... unless you ask him directly about it. please hold him and tell him the monsters aren’t real, even though he’s a heavy sleeper he will stay up until 3 am, his mind reminding him how creepy the movie was every time he’s about to drift off

🎧 so does not fuck with ghosts, if he didn’t believe in them before he certainly does now. the poor guy looks up how to ward away spirits and ends up carrying around a salt packet on him for the next two weeks

tsuzuru minagi

📖 tsuzuru’s not exactly a horror fan. he claims it’s brainless and pointless

📖 (admittedly he’s a little scared of them, but he still thinks they’re dependent on shock alone, and have zero rewatch value since the writing is more focused on in-the-moment spooks than actual plot.)

📖 he’ll roll his eyes and tease you a little but eventually he’ll go along with watching a horror movie

📖 to psych himself out of his fear tsuzuru decides to watch them critically and note what plot points to do (or more likely not to do) for future plays

📖 this works out for the beginning but by the middle of the movie he’s enraptured. he can’t tell if it’s actually good or if it’s a car wreck he can’t help but watch

📖 does the corny move where he yawns and wraps an arm around you, and you’d almost buy it from his earlier cynicism but then the killer shows their face and he tenses up like hell and you just know

📖 gets embarrassed every time he’s scared- he even turns pink, and gets even redder if you try to hold his hand or cuddle him closer (even though there’s nothing he’d want more after something that creepy)

📖 by the end he’s got a few new ideas that might go to autumn or winter troupe’s latest plays, and admits okay, fine, maybe horror isn’t so pointless after all

itaru chigasaki

🎮 screw movies, you’re playing horror games instead!

🎮 most of itaru’s horror games are single-player, so one of you takes the controller while the other sits next to the player, but itaru’ll drape his arms around you from behind in a back hug the entire time you play

🎮 he doesn’t really shut up. the entire time, he’s either cracking a joke or trying to freak you out more, if only so he doesn’t get in his head and overthink the creepy atmosphere

🎮 asshole only quiets down when the game gets tense, and then suddenly puts his hands around your shoulders or neck to scare you. regardless if you fall for it or not, he always laughs at himself and just-so-happens to break the tension as a scary cutscene plays

🎮 still commentates when he’s the player, but gasps or jumps even at small atmospheric scares

🎮 itaru definitely overthinks the game. he gets super cautious over tiny details and makes the missions way harder than they should be since he keeps overestimating the enemy line of sight and how noisy the avatar is

🎮 if you happen to be playing a co-op horror it’s a constant “no u” battle over who should do the scariest tasks

🎮 “reader, we need to cleanse the room next. you should do it” “no, you should do it. you have the quartz item remember” “i can give it to you since you have the ghost ward” “the ghost ward doesn’t apply to this quest, besides, you’re better at this ghost attack quick time event than me” “no it does, and you’re more optimized” “i can just give the items to you-“ “no you should do it” “no you” “no you” “no you” “no y-”

🎮 you both lose

citron

🍋 citron loves horror movies! he thinks they’re... comforting?

🍋 turns out he’s only seen movies about cursed dolls and b-horror, which explains a lot- he loves dolls too much to be scared by them and he thinks b-list horror is hilarious- but he’ll still proudly proclaim he’s unflappable and swear to protect you from the bad guys

🍋 when you’re actually watching the movie you can’t tell if he’s faking his reactions or not. he’s very noisy

🍋 he gets scared enough during the gruesome and horrific scenes to hold you close and tight like a teddy bear, and during the worst of it he might muffle a scream by diving into the crook of your neck, obscuring his vision until the scene changes

🍋 and yet, he laughs at the next scene’s unrealism, and manages to poke enough fun at the movie that you giggle and his terror disappears, he loves your laugh way more than he can be afraid of monsters

🍋 can’t do gore for the life of him, but when it comes to the actual plot, he’s rather critical of characters acting dumb. he catches on to nonsensical writing quick, but usually asks you to clarify the plot holes before realizing that he found a loophole in the writing

🍋 whenever you’re scared and not even his goofy reactions and commentary can help, he plants a sweet kiss on your cheek, strokes your hair, and holds you close to his chest until the fear goes away. he’s surprisingly good at protecting you from the movie

🍋 after the movie he’ll say his country has a similar legend to the movie monsters, but he claims the legends are true in zafra, and zafrans have a very specific tradition to prevent the monsters from attacking them

🍋 the movie also gave citron the idea of creepily standing behind you silently until you turn around and get startled, or occasionally chanting in a strange, cultish language and pretending he didn’t say a thing, or making a doll with the same markings as the clown puppet from the movie...

🍋 citron continues to be even scarier than the actual horror movie, but can’t wait until the next horror night! maybe watching it was a bad idea after all...

chikage utsuki

🌙 chikage just doesn’t get the appeal of horror. it’s just a fake movie, why do people get so creeped out by terrible sfx and unrealistic monsters?

🌙 he’s seen scarier things than any werewolf pack, zombie outbreak, or witch coven can throw at him. if you insist on watching a scary movie, fine, he’ll be happy to let you sit on his lap, just don’t expect to creep him out as well, or else you’ll be sorely disappointed.

🌙 he analyzes the movie more than he watches it, but doesn’t speak up even though the fight scenes look pitiful. if this were real life, he’d sweep the whole brood of shambling monstrosities in record time and be back home in time for izumi’s curry

🌙 chikage runs his hands under your shirt whenever the monster’s on screen to scare you. it’s actually really creepy- his fingers are light and quick and always makes you flinch, even if you know it’s just your boyfriend

🌙 he’ll listen to your thoughts about the movie, but doesn’t have strong opinions himself. he thinks the scares are mediocre at best, even without considering his background, but won’t mention how unrealistic it was unless you mention it first.

🌙 psychological horror, however, is a whole different story

🌙 maybe chikage can’t get scared by generic spirit halloween monsters but once you introduce thought-provoking plot, questions and dilemmas, now he’s hooked

🌙 he really likes wondering if the protagonist is actually the good guy and making theories about the origins of the monsters and why they’re so destructive, even if he forgets about them once the movie’s over.

🌙 love love looooves the “the monsters were harmless creatures before humans dished out the first blow” trope. he knows how common it is, but there’s a lot of ways to go about it, especially on a subtextual level, and he just can’t get enough

🌙 the deeper the plot is, expect a longer conversation about the ins and outs of it. they get surprisingly thoughtful and introspective, even if chikage throws in a few bullshit stories related to the movie just to watch you squirm

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elliottspond · 3 years

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Ordinary Guy

Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader

Summary: (Fluff) Reader gets stood up which leads to a conversation between them and Spencer.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Language, some self-deprecation

[Please do not steal my work. Reblogs are appreciated. Happy reading!]

You look down at your watch for what feels like the hundredth time, waiting for him to show up. He’s thirty minutes late, what are the chances of him coming now?

You come to the conclusion that you should leave, but going back to your apartment where you’ll be alone doesn’t sound appealing. Plus, you don’t have any food in your fridge and you’re starving.

Thinking of Spencer and how his fridge is always empty, you pull your phone out and debate calling him. It’s not that late, and you’re pretty positive that he hasn’t eaten yet, so you go for it.

“Hey Y/N.” As much as that man hates technology, you’ll always give him credit for how fast he picks up.

“Hey Spence.”

“You okay? Don’t you have your date tonight?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I kinda got stood up and was wondering if you could come get me?” You move your free hand up to your face, cringing at how pathetic you probably sound. You remind yourself that it’s Spencer, though, and he would never judge you for this.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah sure.” You smile, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Where are you?” You tell him where you were supposed to meet the other guy, then hang up when he says he’s on his way.

As you’re waiting for Spencer to arrive, you can’t keep your mind from wondering why he didn’t show up. You went on a date with him before, so why would he reach out to you again if he didn’t like you?

Because he’s an asshole.

When you see Spencer’s car pull up, you walk over and pull open the passenger door. After you settle in, you close the door with a little more force than necessary, surprising yourself and Spencer.

“You okay?” He asks cautiously, not sure if you’ll lash out at him.

“Yeah, fine. Just a bit mad.” You answer as you fasten your seatbelt. You make eye contact with him for the first time, and you notice his furrowed eyebrows. You give him a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes to convince him, “I’m fine, Spence.”

“Okay.” He nods his head hesitantly, still not convinced but you ignore it and move on.

“Have you eaten?”

“Uh,” he thinks, but you know he doesn’t have to. You both know the answer, he just doesn’t want to tell you because that would be admitting that he’s bad at taking care of himself. And god forbid he admits that. But being a profiler and Spencer’s best friend, you can tell when he’s lying. “Yeah.”

You let out a small laugh. “Okay, yeah. And I didn’t get stood up.” You try to lighten the mood and look over at Spencer with a small smile on your face, but drop it when you see Spencer’s serious expression. “Alright, not funny. What do you want to eat?” You ask, reaching to turn on the radio and you go through the different stations.

“We could go to our diner?” He slaps your hand away when a certain song comes on. You wince, and he mumbles a quick apology to you. “I like this song.”

“Well, you’re welcome for introducing it to you. And yeah, that sounds good.” You turn up the volume, both of you nodding your heads to the beat and you’re happy that something manages to lighten the mood.

“I’m an or-di-nar-y guy! Burning down the house!” You both sing along—him horribly off-key—and you try to keep singing through your fit of laughter.

Once he pulls into the diner parking lot and parks, you two get out and walk up to the familiar diner. This has been yours and Spencer’s spot for a while now, always coming here after a case. It’s a good way to feel at home again after being gone, and it’s usually your first actual meal in a few days.

Spencer pushes the door in making the bell above ring, and you walk in with Spencer trailing. “Y/N, Spencer!” The owner of the diner calls out, walking away from another customer’s table.

“Hi Mrs. Ellis.” You and Spencer greet at the same time as she walks up to you two.

“Did you guys just get back?” She eyes your outfit, which is different from your usual work clothes. Spencer, however, always dresses the same.

“Uh, no. We were just out and needed something to eat.” Spencer replies vaguely. Mrs. Ellis nods along, then tells you to sit down and she’ll bring coffees and your usual orders. You lead Spencer to your usual table in the back, both of you sitting down across from each other.

A silence falls over the two of you, not having the music you had in the car. You don’t want to talk about it, but you know Spencer will ask so you sit, waiting for it.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, but before you can answer, Mrs. Ellis comes up to the table. She sets down two coffee mugs, and you give her a smile as she walks away. You grab one of the mugs, taking a sip of your plain black coffee as Spencer pours an ungodly amount of sugar in his.

“I’m just a little mad.” You repeat yourself from when you got in Spencer’s car. He nods, taking a sip from his sweet coffee.

“Is this the same guy from last weekend?” He asks and you nod. Even though you do like Spencer in a romantic way, he’s also your best friend and the only person you tell everything. You feel guilty telling him about your love life, but the lack thereof makes up for it.

“Well, he’s a dick and you deserve better.” You let out a small laugh, making him smile. “So what are you gonna do now?” A general question, one you’re not sure how to answer.

He could be asking about the guy but Spencer knows you, so he also knows that you won’t see him again. The only other thing you could think of is your love life, or again, lack thereof.

“I guess I’m gonna take a break from dating. Our job takes up most of our time anyways.” You sigh, taking a sip from your coffee.

“And you have an amazing best friend who you love and who loves you.” You giggle at Spencer’s statement.

“Yes, I do have you.” You look at each other, smiling until they eventually fade.

Spencer looks like he wants to tell you something, but he can’t for some reason. He opens his mouth, but the words get caught in his throat.

You want to tell him that it’s just you, his best friend. You know everything about each other, except the one thing you’re too scared to tell him and he’s too scared to tell you. You want to tell him that whatever he has to say, he can say it.

But you can’t—you don’t get the chance.

Before either of you can speak a word, Mrs. Ellis walks up to your table and sets your usual orders down. You and Spencer thank her, and she nods before walking away.

You take your first bite, sighing in relief that you can finally feed your grumbling stomach. “Coming here tonight might just be the best idea you’ve ever had.” You mumble through your mouthful of food.

When the two of you finish, Spencer pays for the both of you after some arguing. You wave to Mrs. Ellis as you walk out, and get back into Spencer’s car.

Spencer starts driving to your apartment, and all you can think about is what he never said. If you’ve fallen for him, it’s possible he’s fallen for you...right?

But you’re you—Y/N. And he’s Spencer, the genius boy wonder in the BAU. You’re ordinary, he’s extraordinary.

They don’t like you, Spencer. They’re your best friend, and that’s all they’ll ever be. You’re just Spencer, a dork who rambles on and on. They’re Y/N, the kind-hearted soul who’ll do anything to make the people they love happy. You’re an ordinary guy compared to them.

Spencer pulls up to your apartment complex, but you can’t get yourself to get out of the car. You stare straight ahead, and out of the corner of your eye you see Spencer doing the same. You’re not sure how long you guys sit there, a minute or ten, but your heart feels as if it’s going to jump out of your chest.

“What were you gonna say?” You look over at him, but he keeps his stare on the car parked in front of you guys.

“I’ll walk you up.” He ignores your question, which feels like a stab in your heart. Is he ignoring it because he’s scared to admit it, or because he knows what you’re thinking and he doesn’t feel the same way?

He opens his door first and gets out, so you follow him up to your apartment. As you walk up the stairs, you pull out your keys and unlock your door when you reach it, leading Spencer inside your apartment. He closes the door and you set your keys down, now standing across from each other.

Neither of you say anything at first, both staring at the ground. But he eventually takes a step towards you, not close enough to touch you, and you look up at him to meet his soft eyes.

“I- I was gonna tell you that you’re a good person, and that you should be careful about who you let take you out. You don’t deserve to be stood up.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper. You offer him a small smile, trying to analyze his statement.

Your heart is pounding, though, and the tension in the air blurs your thoughts. But you need to know what he means. “I know. It’s just hard with our job to find someone decent.” You say at the same volume as him, not wanting to break the bubble around the two of you.

“Maybe,” he clears his throat, “maybe you don’t have to find someone.” You furrow your eyebrows, letting him know that he needs to elaborate. “Maybe you already know someone.”

Your body suddenly feels lighter with his confession. You know he’s referring to himself, but he didn’t specifically say it was him. He’s scared.

He feels the same way.

“I didn’t know what that someone thought of me.” He takes another few steps forward so he’s standing only a few inches away. You look down at his chest, the eye contact being too much to bear, but he lifts his hand, delicately touching your chin and moving your head so you’re looking at him again.

“They love you, Y/N. More than a friend.” He pauses, hesitating to say it. Hesitating to admit that it’s him. You stand there, waiting for him. Hoping he doesn’t back out now. And he doesn’t. “I love you, more than a friend.”

“I love you too, Spencer.” His hand stays on your chin, yours moving up to connect behind his neck. He starts to lean in, but you meet him halfway to finally kiss him.

It almost doesn’t feel real, his lips against yours, but you remind yourself that it is. And you scold yourself for wasting so much time trying to find someone when he was by your side all along.

He pulls away, but still lets your foreheads rest against each other. “More than a friend?” He asks, and you can’t help but laugh as you nod.

“Yeah, Spence. More than a friend.”

#spencer reid #gender neutral reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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galadhremmin · 3 years

Text

The Gardener

It is night when a small caravel drifts quietly into the port of Andúnië, somewhat outside of the trading season.

Its design is unremarkable, though thoroughly odd; no swan-prow adorns this Western ship, though it shines with the dust of gems as ships of such provenance are prone to do. Instead something like the natural shape of the tree the ship once was stretches its branches in the place of a figurehead, its leafless arms reaching for the Eastern sky. There is no sound of singing on this ship, though the Eldar are the only ones to come from the far West as this one has done, drifting in from the open ocean-- usually announcing their presence with their strong merry voices all the while.

No, this ship is silent, almost ghostly; and between its long branches the masts of every ship look again like the forest they once were. Seabirds settle on its masts, but keep conspiratorial silence.

The sole occupant emerges from the hull not too long after. Wrapped in a grey cloak, she cradles something to her breast as tenderly as a babe, and swaddled just the same. She walks down the plank into the harbor with careful steps, unquestioned yet; there are no armed guards here this early in the history of the island, not here, not to stand guard against the West. And so slips away untroubled, then avoids the paved stones and walks roads that are not quite roads, deep tracks in the white sand until it turns to mud. Eastwards, unshod; the traveler seems hardly to notice. She is physical and not, at some odds the the universe still, or simply not at ease with it. Something about this land feels not quite right, its roots pulled from the deepest Seas, still murmuring of waves beneath the earth. The traveler was used to densely woven foliage, when she last lived, with roots that knew no Sun.

There is nothing comparable in this too-open country even where trees grow, still bearing the imprint of the Powers. The land itself they shaped into a lopsided crest of Eärendil, that strange unnatural star. It blinks against the dark with cruel familiarity. A light seen around the neck of the one loved by all, then borne by her own love. The Nauglamír an anchor, tightening like a noose; a relic of one who left forever, its light at last muffled in the hurried swaddling of a child she had known she would not see again, not while she lived.

When the Sun rises the traveler dreams beneath a tarpaulin, hidden beneath some trees. There is no need at all, but there are many things to remember, and the traveler has never grown quite fond of the Sun. Even in a life in orbit of a star they had lived mostly beneath the Earth, and the Silmaril had seemed, sometimes, could only be observed only from afar-- those it did not burn to touch it hardly ever blinded, near yet far at the same time, like a fragment from another world. She supposes that is how he bears it on his brow, the man up in the sky who married her winged daughter.

It is night again when she enters the city at last, and she supposes there is no evading it now. Her hands are cramped beneath her cloak, though her arms are strong as they have always been. The roots curl around her fingers.

“Lady,” a voice says in Quenya; and even now she cringes at it still, though the lilt is not at all the same, has something of Eressëa in it. “Lady, why have you come to these gates? The guest-houses are in the Eastern quarter, and reputable merchants are asleep or somewhere drinking. Unless it is our King you wish to see, and this is not his audience hour.”

The guard steps out of the shadows, then another. They regard her with friendly suspicion; the Eldar are trusted still, and nothing about the Reborn easily conceals their nature.

“It is the King I wish to see,” she says, surprised there is no more tremble to her voice. She sounds like the Queen she once was and never will be again. A messenger is quickly dispatched; the King agrees to see her despite the hour. He is a traveler himself, always eager for anything new.

They lead her into a green courtyard, along many high arched openings. The way they build here is strange to her, with its many open windows to let in the Sun from every direction. Marble lines the floors that pass beneath her bare feet, inlaid with many colours. There is nothing of Menegroth in it, not even its memory. Not even an attempt at its memory, no matter how distorted. No, it is of Gondolin she thinks now, seeing these walls. The stories told of Golodh grandeur, the cold white mountain city loved too well. Some part of her is grateful to be spared the sting of almost, even while it grieves for the lack of familiarity.

When she faces Aldarion at last he is nothing like she expected.

Lúthien, they said, haunts her line through her likeliness, and the dark-haired twins she never saw sound so much like Dior she has been afraid to meet them. He is lost to her like his mother was, a separation unlike all others, beyond anything Miriel or Finwë ever knew. The most beautiful man in Beleriand they had called him at court, and a Man he had been, though age never left its trace on him. No, a sword had carved deeper lines before it. And so far he had failed to sing his way back into her world, perhaps only because his mother’s story was more beautiful through the impossibility of repeat, unique in all of history. The greater pattern, it seemed, often took precedence.

She blinks against the lamplight.

If Aldarion repeats anyone it is his star-bearing ancestor who sails the restless sky above every continent. She has briefly seen him a few times before he ascended into the high airs, unruly blond hair still shining with the light of the world, small and lively, nothing like grim Turgon. There is no objection to the strange hour, no questioning of her purpose; he looks at her with eyes full of curiosity, and invites for her to speak.

She finds it in herself to smile. The roots uncurl slowly from her fingers.

“I have come,” she begins, “to give your people a tree made in the image of Telperion, so that your people might remember the world that bloomed at night before the Sun. This sapling I grew myself from Celeborn in Eressëa. It will remember you in turn. As will I.”

He takes it from her with something like awe, though she can tell he is no forest dweller. There is something restless in him, like the Sea; utterly foreign. But when he cradles the sapling he suddenly looks at her from beneath his too-pale eyelashes, and it is almost too familiar, though still with hardly a trace of Dior. No, there is something of Thingol in it. Something perhaps of herself too, despite the strangeness (something of the pale twins she never saw again, can’t bear to think about, can only hope went safely with their father).

Her voice catches in her throat. “Nimloth.” she says. “call her Nimloth.”

“Nimloth,” he says quietly. “I will call her Nimloth. Should I call you the same?"

His voice is very cautious now, asking a question like holding ancient fabric too easily torn apart. But Nimloth is not so fragile, though memory is an unalterable burden. She suddenly ruffles the young King’s hair like she did her daughter’s, before they came.

“You may.”

The young blond King’s hair stands up to the side. He looks a bit dazed, surprised to have his hair ruffled by history, though a smile is starting to form. It reminds her of no one in particular.

“Lead on then, Nimloth, and let us plant your namesake while the stars are here to witness it.”

The tree blooms, for a time.

And if a lone gardener in a grey cloak sometimes comes out at night to water the white tree long centuries after, the guards know not to ask too many questions.

#nimloth #(both tree and woman)#tar-aldarion #numenor #idk fuck all about numenor i just had a nimloth (reborn) gives nimloth (tree) to tar aldarion fic in my drafts #is this canon compliant... maybe. does say the elves of tol eressea gave him the sapling #nimloth reborn can sail from there #silmarillion #my writing #aldarion #the white tree

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adenei · 3 years

Note

Hello!! Hope u r having a good day!! I rwally really enjoy ur writings.... So I was kinda hoping if u would do angst 6 from the prompt list 1 for HINNY.... Love U and u r writings 💖💖💖💖

Hi anon! Thank you so much for the ask!!! <3 I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get to this, but I hope you enjoy this little piece of summer before DH FLANGST!!!

***************

“You’re lying to me again. Why can’t you just tell me the truth for once?”

Ginny let out a loud sigh as she polished the last of the silverware for the upcoming wedding. Even though Fleur had become more tolerable since they’d returned for the summer holidays, her Mum had become a raging lunatic. Not that Ginny could entirely blame her. They were hosting a wedding, in the midst of a war, no less, which was no easy feat.

Setting the last knife into the drawer, Ginny brought the polishing cloth to the hamper with dirty clothes awaiting a wash. The house was blissfully quiet, in what was no doubt a rare moment. She was hopeful that she’d be able to sneak up to her bedroom unnoticed to relax a bit before—

“Oh, wonderful, you’ve finished!” Her mum observed as she bustled into the kitchen.

Ginny resisted the urge to groan. She’d been so close to a free moment. If only she’d been two minutes faster.

“Would you be a dear and go degnome the garden?” Ginny very well knew her mother wasn’t asking, even though she posed it as a question.

“But—”

“No ‘buts’, Ginevra! We’re—”

“—hosting a wedding in two days. Yeah, Mum, I know.”

“You don’t need to be fresh, young lady. Now, please go and do as I’ve asked. You can take a break for lunch once it’s finished.”

Ginny inwardly cursed Fred and George for moving out after they’d started the business. De-gnoming the garden had always been their job, but now that they weren’t around often, it fell on her shoulders. Ron’s too. She stalked off toward the door and shut it a little too hard in frustration. When she rounded the corner to the garden, she was surprised to see someone already tackling the task.

She paused where she was standing to watch Harry pull out the menacing creatures from the earth and fling them off into the neighboring field. They hadn’t had much of a chance to spend time together while he was staying there, since her mum was keeping them all so busy. Even though they’d ‘broken up’, she felt no shame in watching the muscles in his arms flexed as he worked. Ginny quickly found herself drifting off to those lazy Sunday afternoons by the lake, when those arms could be found wrapped around her waist.

She forced the thoughts from her head as she closed the distance between them. “Hey,” she greeted, alerting him to her presence. “Mum told me to come out here to take care of the gnomes. She must have forgotten she already assigned it to someone else.”

A smile crossed his lips as sweat poured down his face. “You’re more than welcome to help if you want.”

“I don’t know...I think watching you work might be more fun,” she smirked.

Harry laughed, and the sound was like music to her ears. “Well, I’m almost done anyways. Then, I suppose I’ll need a shower.”

Ginny nodded as she gave in and reached for one of the terrors nearest her. “You do have quite the stench about you,” she said, pinching her nose.

She grabbed the gnome and swung him around and around, until letting go and watching him soar across the field. A disgruntled sound escaped Harry’s lips.

“What? Jealous of my chaser skills? Or did you not expect to be outdone in gnome throwing today?”

“You wish! That was nothing compared to one I just threw before you came out here.”

Ginny laughed. “I watched you throw two before I came over, don’t lie. I had you beat by a long shot.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “Is that a challenge, Weasley?”

“Only if you’re up for it,” Ginny said as she reached for another gnome.

They both set off to throw as many gnomes as far and as fast as they could. It didn’t take long to finish emptying out the garden of the pesky vermin once they’d made a competition of it.

“Well, that worked out better than I planned,” Harry said, brushing his hands together in an attempt to clean off the excess dirt.

“What? Finishing the task, or the throwing contest? Because I’m pretty sure I beat you,” Ginny said as she bumped into his shoulder innocently.

She picked up the shovel that was laying on the ground and brought them over to the shed as Harry followed.

“I don’t think so! I definitely had you on a couple,” he argued playfully.

“Agree to disagree, then,” Ginny said.

She entered the tiny shed and placed the shovel on the back wall. Turning to exit, she didn’t realize how close Harry was and almost bumped into him. He caught her easily, and she found herself in his arms again. They both stood there, frozen, a mess of limbs and sweat. For a moment, Ginny thought Harry was going to kiss her. It’d be so easy to just lean in, one more time.

And just like that, Harry backed away. “Gin, we really shouldn’t.”

Hurt and disappointment swept over her. “Like you don’t want to,” she spat bitterly.

“I...don’t,” he said, the strain in his voice clearly evident.

“You’re lying to me again. Why can’t you just tell me the truth for once?”

Ginny wasn’t quite sure where that had come from. It was probably the frustration of the whole situation.

“Again?” Harry immediately became defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t trust me with information of what you three are planning! Haven’t I proven that you can tell me? I just want to know that you’ll be safe. How can I know if you won’t even—”

“Gin, you know I can’t tell you! It’s the same reason you can’t come with us. That and you won’t be of age, so the—”

“Yeah, I know. The bloody trace,” she said angrily as she kicked at the ground. “It’s not fair. None of it.”

She looked up to meet his gaze and immediately regretted her words. Sure, it wasn’t fair, but she was being awfully selfish. It was up to Harry to save the magical world as they knew it. The hurt and anguish on his face said more than any words could.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said.

Ginny wrapped her arms around him, wishing she could take away all of his stress and pain. “I just want to make things easier for you.”

She felt him nuzzle into her neck as he said, “You already do. Just promise me you’ll stay safe and out of trouble at Hogwarts this year. I’m doing all this for—”

He choked on his words as the remainder of his unfinished sentence hung in the air between them. You.

“I know,” she whispered back. “Just, promise me the same?”

“You know I’ll try, but—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare say it.”

It didn’t bear repeating, and she refused to let herself believe that these could be their final days together, even though she was well aware it was a possibility. She felt him pull away and immediately missed his warmth and touch, despite the hot July air.

“We should get back inside. I could use a shower after all that hard work,” he said reluctantly. It was an attempt to bring them back to the lightheartedness of a few moments ago.

“Yeah, Potter, you stink,” Ginny joked as a smile returned to her face.

She pretended to push him back out of the shed. He chuckled as he blocked her exit, their playful banter returning. And just like that, their serious conversation was over, though the moment would continue to replay in Ginny’s mind for many months to come.

#hinny #harry x ginny #Harry Potter #ginny weasley #hp dh #hp fanfic #adenei answers

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orlissa · 3 years

Text

So now we have “BatCatPussyGate” or whatever, and I have some thoughts on it—I mean, it does intersect with my area of research.

In case you missed it: a scene where Batman goes down on Catwoman was not included in the Harley Quinn animated series, because, basically, a Batman who gives oral is bad marketing, and makes merchandise hard to sell (they did use the word “toy” in the statement, but you just know they meant action figures aka collectibles aka whatever older male fans buy). It is not even the first such scandal involving Batman in recent years, but we’ll get to that later.

There is a LOT to unpack here, so let’s get started. I’ll try to make it as coherent as I can, but this post still might be a bit of a mess.

First of all, we have to make one thing clear in which Marvel and DC differ from each other (I think I might have talked about this before, but it bears repeating): it’s what I like to call “hierarchical structure of characters.” Basically, Marvel’s structure is like the nervous system: there are interconnected nodes, but no one, clearly defined center. The Avengers are important, but so are the X-Men, and Spider-Man, and the Fantastic Four… Plus Wolverine has been an X-Man and an Avenger, Spider-Man has his own lore, but he has been a member of the F4… you get the picture. A big pro of this structure is if that one node falls (a series doesn’t sell), it’s no big deal, because the system remains standing, so, basically, you can experiment with stories. If it doesn’t stick, it doesn’t stick, you move on. DC’s structure, on the other hand, is more like a spider web: you have the Holy Trinity—Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman—in the middle, and everything else connects through them. And if the center falls… everything falls. Which means that even though the Holy Trinity has HUGE cultural visibility (greater than of any single Marvel character), they are pretty much set in their ways. They cannot change much, because what they are now is what sells, and any significant change in representation might lead to failure, which then in turn would lead to the failure of the whole spider web. (I have a like 40 pages long paper on how, because of this, Wonder Woman needs to continuously appeal to both the male—sexualizing male gaze—and the female—identifying female gaze—gazes, compared to Carol Danvers, who keeps jumping between the two ends throughout her publication history.)

And within this scheme, Batman is the picture of hypermasculinity. He is powerful, intelligent, cannot do wrong, closed off from his emotions, and women fall for him, even if he cannot properly commit to a romantic relationship (this last thing is something that goes back to the Silver Age of comics, because male heroes just cannot have love, because nothing can be more important than their vigilantism, while female superheroes are lesser, because they are ready to hang up their capes for love).

Then what does academia has to say about this? Note: I’m going to be talking a lot about stuff that film criticism came up with, but since both movies and comics are a visual narrative medium, I’ve found that you can pretty much project everything about movies to comics.

So, first of all, one big shortcoming of feminist film criticism is that (not entirely unjustly) it is mostly focused on how women are portrayed in movies—especially how they are oppressed and objectified, while it leaves men/male characters… unstudied. Masculinity studies exists, but it’s pretty new and marginal. The availability of male bodies in film to the female gaze is also mostly unexamined (but I’ve dabbled in it! Talking about sexy male bodies in a detached academic manner is fun!), and it’s somewhat of a problem.

Richard Dyer studied the peculiarities of male pinups, and he came up with three instabilities: 1, it violates the codes of looking (because traditionally it’s the men who look, and women who are being looked at), 2, it rejects passivity (because being looked at is read as being passive, and the male body is supposed to be active, so, usually, male and female pinups are posed in a totally different way), and 3, it breaks the myth of the phallus (male power signified by the penis)—because once we start looking into it, we’ll discover that the phallus just… cannot live up to the hype. Therefore not studying the male body/male presence and focusing on the female body/presence actually serves the patriarchy, because the phallus can only keep its central, dominant position until it remains unexamined. Once we look into it, we discover that it’s not that great, and then we can displace patriarchy.

And then what does it mean in practice? Here comes the other Batman scandal I mentioned: about three years ago, DC came up with their new line of comics, where the big draw was the total lack of censoring. It was promised to be super bloody and full of gore and cursing and stuff. The first series of this line was Batman Damned, and the first issue featured the… batawang. I mean Batman’s penis. Returning from some mission, Batman starts undressing the moment he steps into the Batcave, stripping naked, and on some panels one can clearly see… little Bruce. It had no point. It could have easily been brushed out, and it would not have looked out of place. Or course, the internet had a field day with it, about the same way they are having a field day with his lack of oral sex now. It grew so big that within a couple of days DC announced that they’d airbrush out the batawang in the second printing and in any subsequently sold digital editions (which then caused the price of the first print editions skyrocket, to some $300, I believe). So to sum up: DC showed Batman’s penis for shock value. Seeing Batman’s penis wasn’t awe-inspiring, a show of power, but the butt of the joke—because examining the phallus shows that it cannot live up to the hype! So Batman’s power, his standing as a masculine ideal/male power fantasy was misplaced in a moment. (Something similar was happening behind the scenes of the Watchmen series as well: when Tom Mison had a full frontal nude scene, they actually used a penis-double—as there was no shot where his face and penis was shown at the same time—now imagine the casting for that role!)

In some way, this is happening now as well—not showing Batman performing oral sex is not because it “hurts toy sales;” it’s because it breaks the myth of the phallus, thus it breaks the myth of the Batman as an immaculate male power fantasy. Batman receives—power, admiration, and, of course, sex. But within the framework of sex, he needs to be the one that dominates, the one that mostly on the receiving end of the pleasure. What is important is that 1, he gets the woman and 2, he gets off. Whether the woman gets off is unimportant within this framework, because it doesn’t serve the myth of Batman/the male power fantasy. Within the fantasy, women need to want to sleep with him because he is Batman (because the male reader identifies with Batman, and he needs to feels as if the women in the comic want him just because he is him/Batman), but if he performs oral sex on the woman, it presupposes an active need for effort from his part from her to want him. It gives her agency, which elevates her to a partner, not an object to-be-looked-at.

So if Batman performs oral sex, his body will be put on display as something beyond the realm of the male power fantasy; it will be examined, and thus determined he is not all-powerful. His dominance within the narrative will be questioned. The role of the woman will be elevated. The patriarchal dominance displaced. So, yeah, that’s why Batman can’t give oral—not because it will hurt the toy sales.

I mean, it might. But because it will hurt Batman as a hypermasculine ideal

#batman #dc #masculinity #male power fantasy #batcatpussygate #mine

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roughentumble · 4 years

Text

geralt and roachie

@avrupasya asked for a fic/continuation of this post of mine, where modern au geralt’s roach is a stuffed animal. sortve told in, like, vignettes, i suppose?

[read on ao3 if you like!]

The one constant in Geralt's short, stressful life, is Roachie. The little brown stuffed horse, named after a fish with similarly colored eyes("I'm gonna' study animals when I'm big!" he proclaims to anyone who will listen, which isn't many, so he whispers it into his horse's mane instead) has been with him long enough that he has no memories without her in some peripheral corner-- clenched in his fist, sitting on his blanket, overflowing from a fit-to-bursting pocket of his shorts. She's been with him through two houses now. He likes to think that she was given to him the day he was born, that they'd never been separated, but he can hardly ask anyone for confirmation. It's just one of those certainties you hold in your heart as a child.

So of course, for his seventh birthday, a dog eats her.

(The kicker is that it isn't even his birthday. It's a government assigned day that may or may not be in the vicinity of the actual day of his birth. It's not like he was dropped off at the fire station with paperwork or anything. He is vaguely, sort of, aware of this, just enough that it feels like an extra kick while he's down.)

She is utterly and completely beyond repair. Her shape isn't even recognizable, and for all his inconsolable tears, she's gathered up and unceremoniously dumped in the trash.

He cries when he finds her, cries through dinner, cries late into the night, cries until he is informed by one of his caretakers through what seems to be a rather impressive headache that if he doesn't stop crying, he would be "given something to cry about," which...

He already had something to cry about. Hence the crying.

He chews on his fist, however, startled into silence by the shouting, and hiccups softly into his pillow. Even as he's left alone, in the dark, he can't settle-- the thought of Roach thrown away like garbage is one that just doesn't sit right with him. He waits until the house is silent, into the wee hours of the morning, then sneaks on silent feet to the kitchen. He rustles through the trash as quietly as he can, pulling out pieces of his old friend, now not simply in tatters but also covered in what was left of dinner.

He nearly loses it at the sight of her, destroyed and filthy. Tears well in his eyes, blurring the world around him, and he sniffles once, weakly, but he doesn't want to wake anyone, and who knows what they'd do if they found him rooting through the trash, so he steels his resolve. Stomps down on the urge to give into another round of crying fits.

The night air is cold against his hot, sticky face. It's refreshing, but he barely notices it as he shuffles into a far corner of the yard. He digs a shallow hole with his hands and reverently lays her body inside. He covers her back up, tamps the earth back down with his palms, and then sits back on his heels. He's a little too young to fully understand what goes on in a funeral-- he's never seen one before, after all-- but he's seen TV, and he knows you're supposed to say something nice, so he says something to the effect of "Roachie was the bestest friend, an' the prettiest horse, there ever was in the whole entire world," and then sits in silence for a few moments longer, sniffling in the cold night air.

He suddenly recalls headstones, and he doesn't have any rocks-- doesn't know how to carve words into one-- but he does see a stick nearby. He shoves it in the ground like a stake and looks over his work. About as good as any grave dug by a seven-year-old could hope to be. He stays there until the cold starts making the tip of his nose and the joints of his fingers hurt, and then he stumbles back inside and curls up in bed.

He's moved to a new house a week later.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He starts skipping lunches. He goes to school hungry, and comes home hungrier, and devours his dinners in this new house voraciously.

Every penny that would be spent on school lunches gets shoved in his pocket, then consolidated and shoved in his sock drawer when he gets home. Once he's gotten a decently-sized pile, he gathers it all up in his tiny little fists, shoves it in his pockets, and walks all the way to the local thrift store.

He'd gotten it into his head, somehow, that Roach still existed. Some childish idea that'd popped into his head as a comfort, and that got ingrained in his mind as he repeated it to himself over and over at night. He'd seen the rags, of course, what'd become of her after the dog had had it's way, he knew she was buried in the dirt a state away... but the core "soul" of his Roachie, that'd been with him and loved him and cared for him, was out there, in some other brown stuffed horse, waiting to be found again.

He marches into the toy section in the back of the thrift store with the determination of a soldier on a rescue mission.

And at the bottom of the bin, underneath all the teddy bears and off-brand babydolls, is one single brown stuffed horse.

Logic would dictate a coincidence-- but to his little eyes it looks a lot like magic.

He snatches her up instantly and runs to the front of the store, lest anything come and rip her from his arms again. He has to stand on his tip-toes, but he pushes her up on the counter, then pushes over the pile of money and asks if it's enough. The old lady looks at his pile, then pushes her glasses down the bridge of her nose to get a better look at the tag on the horse's ear. She squints, then glances at his wide, desperate eyes. "Well!" She announces. "Would you look at that. That's the exact right amount. Must be fate." Then winks down at him.

He gasps loudly, eyes getting impossibly wider. Fate-- Roach really had been waiting for him! He reaches up and makes a grabbing motion with his hands. "Can, can I... can I hold her, then?"

"She's all yours." The woman says gently, and places it in his waiting arms.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roach stays with him all the way to the doorstep of the Kaer Morhen Home for Wayward Boys. He's thirteen, and she has a few weak seams, a few patches where the fur's been worn away. She's heavily loved, and he hasn't spent a night without her since they were "reunited". He's worn as well-- tired of the constant cycle of new places, new "families".

A few months later, with no prospect of leaving in sight, he takes back his wish for someplace permanent.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He rooms with a boy named Eskel, who is about the only bright spot in Kaer Morhen, as far as Geralt is concerned. He is only mildly mocking of a thirteen year old sleeping with a stuffed animal every night, and it's mostly companionable ribbing, so even though the thought of anyone mocking Roachie gets under his skin, he lets it go. Eskel is his friend, after all. Of course, though, because that's the way of the world, some older boys overhear Eskel's teasing.

He comes back to his and Eskel's room that night, expecting to find Roach under his pillow-- he's too old to carry her everywhere, now, so that's where she lives-- and instead she's strewn across his bed.

He's old enough, now, to know that it maybe looks a little ridiculous from the outside, but he's too upset to be self-conscious, and Eskel is nothing if not understanding as Geralt sobs into his shoulder that night, quiet except for the occasional little soothing noise as he strokes a hand up and down Geralt's trembling back.

It's unsalvageable, at least for their inexperienced hands. Neither of them is a seamstress. After lights out, Geralt sneaks out-- this time with Eskel in tow-- and creeps into the backyard. Just like last time, he silently digs a hole and places her inside. That's what you do with Roaches, after all-- you bury them, then you find her all over again. The idea of Roach not existing out there, somewhere, is inconceivable.

He curls up next to Eskel that night, and it isn't the same, and he doesn't quite sleep... but it helps.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His first Roach had been about the side of a Beanie Baby, and had been a light, palomino sort of color. His second had been more the size of a Build-A-Bear, with slightly stiff limbs and brown fur so dark it was nearly black. The third time he finds Roach, she's a reddish sort of Bay, peeking out at him from behind a large Lego set on the thrift store shelf.

He'd already searched the bins three times and had come up empty-handed, not even a miscolored unicorn, or something else close-but-wrong to show for his efforts, and... there she is, sitting right there, like it's some sort of game. He gasps, and Eskel turns away from the slightly melted Barbies he'd been toying with at the sound. Geralt shoves the box aside and grabs at her, cradling her carefully in his hands. She's already a little on the worn side this time around-- one eye's a bit loose-- and she's right in the middle, size-wise, compared to her other two incarnations.

He loves her instantly.

It must show on his face, because Eskel laughs a little and throws an arm around his shoulders. "So, is this the fated horse, then?" He asks, teasing.

"Yeah," Geralt replies breathlessly, too excited to meet the teasing tone back, "I think so."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lambert shows up when he's thirteen and they're both sixteen.

He's loud, and violent, and instantly hones in on Geralt's preternaturally graying hair and the shock of white growing out of the back of his head(poliosis, born from stress, though none of them know that term). He's inhumanly annoying, a real pain in the ass, and somehow, against all odds, Geralt and Eskel both instantly adore him.

Maybe it's the way he talks back to their "caregivers", or the way he sometimes gets into fights on smaller kids' behalf, who knows, but the three of them form a little clique fairly quickly. Lambert pretends it's begrudging, but it's not hard to see that it's mostly a front. He's a brat, through and through, but he's their brat.

Which is why he's even in their room-- they're all hanging out, Geralt flipping through a book and Eskel attempting to study, while Lambert fiddles with Roach. He turns her over in his hands, examines the spot where the loose eye had fallen off a year back, picks at one of her loose seams. "I just don't get it," he says, scrunching up his nose, "like. What does it do?" He asks.

"Be careful with her." Geralt says, flicking a glance over at Lambert before returning to his book. "And she doesn't do anything. She's a stuffed animal, she just sits there."

"Well, yeah, no duh." Lambert replies, rolling his eyes. "I'm not stupid." Eskel mumbles 'Could've fooled me,' from his own bed, and Lambert hisses back 'Watch it,' and kicks his leg as he snickers. "I mean, what do you do with it? Give it wots and wots of hugs and kissews?" He asks mockingly. He's holding her by the front legs, wiggling them up and down like some sort of dance and shoving her in Geralt's direction. He's about to tell Lambert to knock it off, trying to bat him out of the way to continue reading when, one of her legs just... pops off. There's a stunned moment where Lambert just stares at the two pieces in his hands.

A strangled noise works its way out of Geralt's throat, and he snatches Roach out of Lambert's hands.

"I-- I didn't mean..." He tries, looking between Geralt and Eskel helplessly, but the tears are already welling up as Geralt clutches her closer to his chest.

"Oh, shit," Eskel mutters and scrambles to his side drawer, which hides in the bottom a small sewing kit. Lambert slips out of the room in between Geralt sobbing and Eskel rushing to reattach the limb.

The fabric is weak enough around the seam, and Eskel is inexperienced enough at sewing, that the limb is noticeably shorter than the rest, but she's whole and in one piece by the end of the night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lambert awkwardly shuffles in place in their doorway the next day. "I-- fuck, man, I really didn't mean to..." He mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Geralt holds Roach a little closer. "It's fine," he says tersely, "but no one's allowed to touch Roach anymore. Ever." He says firmly.

"Yeah, no, that works." Lambert tentatively steps into the room and then, when he isn't shooed out and no one starts crying, grows a bit bolder, sitting down on the edge of Eskel's bed. "I mean, except for nursemaid Eskel over here, right?" He says jokingly, and earns himself a punch on the shoulder from Eskel.

"Piss off, ya' little brat." He mutters fondly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Years pass and Geralt and Eskel age out of Kaer Morhen. They get an apartment, split the costs, because they've basically never not shared a room, and they need all the shoulders to lean on they can get. All they really get is each other, so they settle for that. A few more years and Lambert is shoved out at the healthy age of eighteen-- just like they were. He's invited to their little apartment, and he's loud, and complains that he went from one roommate to two, bitches about how they're both sticks-in-the-mud who don't know how to have fun, and that they snore, and that he'll never get a good night's rest.

It's exactly what they were missing, and Roach watches all of it from her spot on the shelf near Geralt's bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Then, Geralt meets Jaskier.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first time Jaskier comes over, Eskel and Lambert are both at work, so they have the apartment to themselves. Geralt opens the fridge to pull out two beers, and Jaskier flounces past him towards the shared bedroom. "I'm gonna' go root through your stuff without permission." He announces teasingly as he opens the door and slips inside.

Geralt snorts and rolls his eyes, taking his time popping open both bottles. He hears an exaggerated 'oooohh, interesting,' from the other room and carries the beers to his room. "There's really not much here to see." He says as he bumps the door open with his hip.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Jaskier replies from his place on Geralt's bed. "Who's this little cutie, huh?" His tone is light, teasing, and he's got Roach in his lap, playing with her ears.

Panic crawls up Geralt's throat-- she's old, now, and her ears were always a weak point. It's been years since he was sixteen, and her leg had come off so easily back then, so now... he shouts something strangled at Jaskier, maybe 'no' or 'stop', he isn't really sure, and Jaskier looks up with wide, startled eyes. He rushes over and drops the bottles on his night stand before scooping Roach out of Jaskier's hands. He doesn't yank-- terrified of what might happen to her stitching if he did-- but he isn't nice about it either.

He ignores Jaskier's stammering entirely, swiping his hand across her shelf to make sure there isn't any dust, before carefully sitting her precisely where she'd been. His hands tremble a little as they hover in the air in front of her, waiting to make sure she didn't fall, glancing over her to make sure nothing was out of place, that she still had all her limbs. After a moment, he lets out a shaky breath and steps back from the shelf.

"No one touches Roach." He says firmly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Jaskier starts, and Geralt whirls on his heel, grabs Jaskier's wrist.

"Swear it." He says, squeezes Jaskier's wrist tight. "Swear you won't touch her."

"I won't." He sounds a little mystified at the afternoon's sudden turn, but he gently places his other hand over Geralt's. "I promise."

Geralt deflates a little with relief, loosens his grip and lets Jaskier's wrist slip from between his fingers. "She's..." he starts quietly, eyes averted, guilt and embarrassment creeping in over his sudden outburst. "She's really fragile. I... I didn't mean to... just, please don't touch her." He finishes weakly.

Jaskier agrees once more, reaches out and squeezes Geralt's hand reassuringly. They drink their beer in the living room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Months pass and his friendship with Jaskier deepens.

Then, he meets Yen.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Hmm." She says thoughtfully, arms crossed over her chest. "I like your stupid little horse."

Her tone is light, teasing, and it strikes him right through the heart all the same. But, at least she isn't trying to touch Roach. He pulls her down into his bed, and the conversation is forgotten.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They dance around each other like that for far longer than either reasonably should. Fuck, then fight, then silent treatment, only to fall back into bed and start the cycle anew.

He cares, really he does, and he knows Yen cares back, in her own way, but it's just all so... much. It's a little hard to take, most nights. As he lays there, unable to sleep, he catches sight of Roach out of the corner of his eye. His bed is cold and lonely, and thoughts of Yen won't stop swirling around his mind, and he just... he just wants to feel settled. Before he can talk himself out of it, he's carrying Roach down off her perch and curling around her to sleep with his old friend for the first time in a long time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A few months later, Jaskier uses his spare key to open the door to Geralt's apartment after a few rounds of knocking goes ignored.

He's got snacks, and a six-pack of beer that he deposits in the fridge, before calling out into the apartment, announcing his presence. He gets back a muffled 'in here,' and opens the door to the bedroom to find Geralt planted on the middle of his bed, Roach cradled carefully to his chest. "Sorry," he says weakly, sniffling into his palm, "I- I guess I forgot we were supposed to hang out."

Jaskier's by his side in a moment, kneeling in front of him on the bed, gently brushing his hair out of his face. "Oh, Geralt, what happened?"

He shrugs a little, helplessly. "Yen and I broke up." He pauses for a moment, rubbing little circles into the back of Roach's head, and then adds, "For good this time."

Jaskier reaches out and gathers Geralt up in his arms, lets him tuck his face in the crook of his neck. "I'm so sorry..." He mumbles, nosing into Geralt's hair.

"It's fine," Geralt replies weakly, voice cracking, "it was bound to happen sooner or later. We're kinda'... volatile."

Jaskier huffs out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, that you were..." The past-tense on Jaskier's tongue hits Geralt like a bolt to the chest, and he chokes out a sob. "Oh," Jaskier croons back, reaching up to cradle the back of his head, "oh, it's alright... it'll be alright..."

As he collapses forward into Jaskier's arms, he lets himself be soothed by Jaskier's voice, his arms enveloping him, and the softness of Roach's fur beneath his fingers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A few months later they kiss for the first time there, on his bed, in full view of Roach, which doesn't occur to him until later, but once it does it makes some small part of him wish he'd turned her around. She's seen enough of him, she doesn't need front-row seats to... that.

Then he realizes that she was also there for Yennefer, and he feels a sudden surge of guilt mixed with a healthy dose of shame.

His poor little Roachie.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first time they fuck in his room, Geralt pauses with his hands on Jaskier's hips, blushing faintly. "Do... do you mind if I...?" He asks nervously.

"What is it, dearest?" Jaskier asks lowly, smoothing his hands up and down Geralt's bare chest, eyes all want and smoldering heat.

Geralt clears his throat awkwardly and lets go of Jaskier for a moment to reach up and carefully turn Roach so she was facing the wall. It's deeply embarrassing, but he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it ever since he had the realization about his time with Yen. He turns back around, expecting to be mocked, but Jaskier looks nothing except fond.

He laughs a little, but not meanly, and wraps his arms around Geralt's neck. "Good call," he says, pressing a kiss into Geralt's cheek, "don't want to subject poor Roachie to anything she didn't sign up for."

The complete lack of judgement, paired with the nickname, has a surge of affection swelling in Geralt's chest. He grabs Jaskier by the hips once more, and gently tosses him onto the bed. Jaskier laughs again, delighted, and opens his arms to grab at Geralt, who happily follows after him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Geralt, look at this!" Jaskier announces from the couch, tilting his phone screen to the side as Geralt scoots closer and hooks an arm around his shoulders for easier viewing. "It's a stuffed animal repair service, but she runs a blog with pictures of the process and calls herself Doctor Beth. Isn't that the cutest thing?"

"Hmm." Geralt hums back. He glances at the screen, scrolls a little, but he quickly abandons it in favor of burying his face in Jaskier's neck and depositing kisses along its length.

Jaskier laughs and snuggles closer, but holds out his phone screen more insistently. "C'mon, Geraaalt," he whines, "you have to actually look. It's cute! You have to say it's cute."

Geralt flicks his eyes towards the screen once more, then away just as quickly as he deadpans the word "Adorable." right into the curve of Jaskier's jaw.

"You are the worst!" He announces, but he's grinning like a fool, and he turns his head into Geralt's affection all the same.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Once the kissing has died down, and Jaskier is seated side-saddle in Geralt's lap, he pulls his phone back out. "In all seriousness," he says, tucked up comfortably against Geralt's chest, "it's actually very interesting. She's really good at her job-- look at this, the bear's practically rags before she reconstructs it."

Instead of trying to distract Jaskier again, Geralt dutifully listens, watching the pictures as Jaskier flips through them. She is rather good, he has to admit, and there is something interesting in watching the stuffed animal go from rags to repaired, in the same way it's relaxing to watch an episode of How It's Made. He 'hmm's again, though it's a more thoughtfully, agreeing sort of ‘hmm’ this time.

"I've actually been following her blog for a little while now, and... I was just thinking..." Jaskier fiddles with the edge of his phone case, "maybe you could... send Roach to her, and--"

"No." He says, swift and firm. The playfulness has left his tone entirely, just the thought of sending Roach anywhere enough to make anxiety race through his chest and his palms turn clammy.

Jaskier's mouth twists into a frown. "Oh... sorry. I just... I know she's fragile and I thought this might help, so I--"

Geralt slides a hand up and down Jaskier's back soothingly. "It's alright. Thank you, for thinking of her, just... I... I can't."

He nods in return and straightens up to press a kiss to Geralt's cheek. "Alright, love, whatever you're comfortable with."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Now that Jaskier's said it, though, the thought won't leave Geralt's head. He scrolls through Doctor Beth's blog when he's alone, gets a feel for her track record.

Roachie is fragile now. Close to ten years with him, and she was already thin in some places before he got to her.

On the other hand, does he really trust some stranger on the internet to treat her right? What if she comes back wrong? What if, somehow, she doesn't come back Roach? He reaches out to run his thumb gently across her snout, looking to soothe himself, and watches as little tufts of fur come away under his feather-light touch.

He's already buried two Roaches. He really doesn't want to do again.

"Well, Roachie," he murmurs into the empty room, "third time's the charm, right?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He is the closest to a nervous wreck that Jaskier's ever seen him in the intervening weeks. He'd packed the box with Roach so delicately, gently surrounding her with bubble wrap so she didn't get knocked around and somehow lose pieces in shipping, and as soon as the box was shipped he took to pacing the apartment and checking his phone every twenty minutes. Jaskier thought it was endearing, if a bit worrying.

It drove Eskel and Lambert up a wall.

There were a lot of movie nights in those weeks in an effort to keep Geralt's mind off of things, but inevitably about halfway through the movie he'd get a bit of a distant look in his eyes and he'd reach down to feel his phone in his pocket, make sure it was where he'd be able to feel it if he got an email.

Waiting to confirm materials, what color cloth to use and what eye matched best with her other in his opinion, what to do about her now rather sparse tail and mane.

Jaskier would touch his arm gently, bring him back to the present, and he'd turn his attention back to the movie, maybe sling his arm around Jaskier's shoulders. It was nice, and very sweet to see him so very concerned, but Jaskier did wish he could do a little more to ease some of Geralt's worries.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There are, as Jaskier recalls, a few posts where people had sent in video of the results, of them opening the box and seeing their little stuffed animal friend all fixed up. And he knows for a fact Geralt's going to be excited to see Roach again, so when the box finally arrives and Geralt sits down on the couch with it, Jaskier opens up the camera on his phone without much thought.

And then has to set it down almost immediately.

As soon as the box opens, before he could even get his hands on her, big, fat tears start rolling down Geralt's cheeks. Jaskier drops his phone on the table without even bothering to turn off the recording, rushing forward to envelop Geralt in a hug.

Geralt's hands grip the edge of the box so tightly his knuckles turn white, and Jaskier holds him closer, runs his fingers through Geralt's hair soothingly. "What is it, what's wrong?" He asks softly. Geralt shakes his head.

"She just-- she didn't even look this good when I first got her and I--" He's cut off by another sob, and Jaskier holds him a little tighter. "I just can't stop thinking about e- every time she... she broke and I couldn't fix her and I h- had to just... just buy a new one and I... I..."

"Shh, shhh..." Jaskier quiets him gently, pressing a kiss to his temple. "It's alright..."

"I know, I know, she just... she's like new, you know?" He says weakly into Jaskier's shoulder.

That gives Jaskier pause. "Love... are you," he asks incredulously, "are you crying because you're happy?" Geralt nods, and Jaskier can't help the little laugh that escapes him. "Oh, my dear heart..." He murmurs, almost sickeningly fond as he nuzzles into Geralt's hair. "Why don't you pick her up, then? I'm sure she missed you."

Geralt reluctantly pulls back from Jaskier's embrace to look down into the box.

She really does look good as new, and Geralt's almost afraid to touch her. Maybe the new stitching isn't as sturdy as it looks, maybe she'll fall apart in his hands, or maybe she just won't feel right... He sucks in a breath and carefully curls his hands around her. All his breath leaves him in a whoosh.

He holds her in his hands, and something he didn't even know was unsettled, settles in his chest.

As he presses her close to his chest, she still feels like Roach.

Except now she looks like herself again. Whole and complete and strong.

"Thank you," he turns to Jaskier and wraps an arm around him, tugging him in close while the other keeps a hold of Roach, "I never would've done this if you hadn't brought it up. I... Jask... thank you so much."

"Of course, love," he says gently, carding his fingers through Geralt's hair, "got to look out for dear Roachie... where would you be without her, hmm?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You know, she's so much sturdier now that she's all fixed up." Jaskier points out gently, after a few quiet moments have passed. "She could handle... well. Being handled more, again. She doesn't have to live up on that shelf anymore."

Which, kind of had been the whole point, but Geralt hadn't thought it through in so many words. The tears come back with a vengeance and he sniffles into Jaskier's shoulder, clutches her to his chest firmer than he's dared to in years.

That night, he falls asleep with Jaskier behind him, and his old friend clutched in his arms, and it's maybe a little silly, a little childish, but it's the best sleep he's had in his life.

#witcher tag #writing tag #ogc tag #uh!!! hope u like it #also jaskier definitely gets to cuddle roach at some point now that she's all fixed up #also also. sorry if geralt seems like a crybaby here. i swear he's not its just that we only see him during the few times in his life #that he does cry #pinky promise lol

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cheri-translates · 3 years

Text

[CN] Lucien’s R&S - Regarding what books don’t say (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (关于书上没说的事) was part of the Dream Heart Lake event which will unlikely come to EN!🍒

A character featured in @lucienism‘s translation of his 2020 birthday event is introduced here!

More Lucien R&S from this event:

> regarding what books don’t say ♡

> my love rival older brother

> the victim who disappeared

> since that rainy night

[ Chapter One ]

Everybody knows that there’s an especially intelligent child in the neighbourhood.

His parents are both high-ranking scientific researchers. Although husband and wife have always kept a low-profile, quite a lot of rumours involving their child still flowed into the streets - He knew over ten thousand words at the age of one, read “The Brief History of Time” at the age of three, and could already engage in scientific research with his parents at the age of five.

As for how much of it is true or false, the neighbours didn’t delve too deeply into it. They just needed “someone else’s child” as an example to enhance the persuasive effect when dealing with their own children. “Brat, could you stop making me worry! Just look at that little genius next door. He already knows how to read books obediently at the age of five!”

As time passed, the children developed a strong resistance towards this little genius who rarely showed himself.

Unlike what their parents hoped, they didn’t see him as a role model for studying. Instead, they chose the naive and cruel method to express their unhappiness which had accumulated over the years.

[ Chapter Two ]

To the children, “isolation” is an extreme punishment. However, this didn’t have much of an effect on the little genius. He has always holed himself up in the study room, immersing himself in scientific materials which even normal adults find cryptic and difficult to understand. After classes in the afternoon, he would occasionally hear the clamour of playing, and would close his book temporarily, laying on the window sill to take a look.

He can easily explain how the human mind operates, but is unable to understand why the boys in the yard enjoy running after a ball. Each time he sees them running themselves into a sweat-drenched state and yet able to laugh heartily, he remains puzzled despite pondering over it for a long time.

Although he has considered directly asking the children in the yard for their reasons, he can detect the alienation in their eyes even from afar.

It’s as though they are magnets with the same poles. Even if he tried taking a step closer to them, they would naturally take a step further. This caused him to gradually feel that even though he was a human being like them, there were also some slight differences.

Since he couldn’t quell his bewilderment through a survey sample, he had no choice but to have a hands-on experience. As such, he, who rarely brings up wanting anything, asked his father for a small soccer ball.

Seeing his son take the initiative to ask for a toy for the first time, his father agreed immediately. He even completed his work on hand early, and specially took a half-day leave to accompany his son to play in the grass patch in the park.

In the midst of the pleasantly warm summer breeze, father and son have a few exchanges. However, aside from “hot” and “tired”, the boy didn’t obtain more helpful information.

He lifts up the strands of hair on his forehead, which have been drenched with sweat He trots over to his father’s side, tugging onto his sleeve.

“Dad, are you tired? Why don’t we go home?”

His father crouches down, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his son’s sweat, thinking he was saying he was tired because he typically lacks exercise.

“Mm? Are you tired? In that case, should we take a break before continuing?”

The boy shakes his head, returning the small soccer ball to his father.

“Dad, is this the wrong playing method? Why do other kids look especially happy when they play this?”

In response to his son’s dead serious question, his extremely knowledgeable father actually couldn’t find an answer.

Because of how busy work is at the research centre, he and his wife are mostly able to only meet their son’s material needs. Giving him necessary company completely exhausts their limited free time.

Those books don’t mention the things they don’t have time to teach him. The things that are crucial for “normal kids” have been neglected without realising it--

For instance, “friends”. For instance, “friendship”.

“The next time you want to play with the little soccer ball, you can bring it up to the kids in yard.”

“Mm.” The boy nods, not telling his father about the icy look in the eyes of the other kids. He holds his dad’s hand tightly, and they return to the yard.

[ Chapter Three ]

That brand new little soccer ball never appeared again since that day, and nobody knew where he hid it. Even so, every time after school ended, he would still gaze towards the clamour occasionally.

Sometimes, the little soccer ball belonging to the kids would fall into the courtyard of his home. But every time he returned the little soccer ball to them, the kids would turn around and run away without even a word of thanks.

The boy didn’t harbour much unhappiness towards the way the kids treated him, but didn’t expect that a “busybody” neighbour would seek justice on his behalf.

“Hey, you guys! You don’t know how to say ‘thank you’?!” A tall and towering neighbour appears before the kids, looking as though he’s about to chase them down. While calling him “Stupid Policeman”, they scatter.

With sharp eyes and agile movements, he grabs the kid who took the ball. Grabbing him by the collar, he brings the kid to the boy. “Okay. Where’s the ‘thank you’?”

The kid who was grabbed unwillingly says a ‘thank you’. The boy, face expressionless, responds with a “You’re welcome”.

Without sensing anything out of the ordinary, the man releases his hold the kid. Even without taking a few steps, he turns around to pull his face into a mocking scowl.

“Stupid Police Uncle, he’s scowling at you.” Upon hearing this, the man chases him once again. Seeing the kid fleeing in fear, the little genius actually feels like his pent-up feelings have been released.

After the kids run out of the yard, the man returns. He shouts after the boy who is just about to walk into the house. “Hey, Boy! You don’t have anyone to play with? Want to come over to my house to play?”

“No need. Thank you, Uncle.” With this straightforward response, the boy returns into the house. With a remark reminiscent of a human trafficker, he decides that he should not entangle himself too much with this adult.

Ignoring the rejection, the man crosses the fence, stopping the closing door with his hands. “Brother is very good at playing games! Anything you want to play is fine. If you want to learn anything, I’ll teach you till you know it. I’ll keep you company!”

“Uncle, there’s really no need.” The boy hides behind the half-closed door. This is the first time he's met an adult who is so difficult to shake off.

“Come to think of it! You’ve been calling me ‘Uncle’ since just now!” He rubs his head in an exaggerated manner, the main point of his words digressing to strange places. “Do I look that old! Just call me “Brother”. Come, repeat after me. “Brother Zihang’.”

“... Brother Zihang.”

“That’s right, that’s it! Remember it!”

“Okay, Brother Zihang. I’ve remembered it, Brother Zihang. May I know if I could close the door now, Brother Zihang?”

"You won’t be able to grow tall if you keep holing yourself up at home!”

Hearing this, the boy finally wavers. He releases his hold on the door slightly. “In that case, we’ll just play one round of international chess.”

“Can’t you play something more suitable for kids?!” Despite what Fan Zihang says, he elatedly brings the boy towards his house next door.

[ Chapter Four ]

This is the first time the boy has been invited to someone else’s home. Although he wanted to pretend that it wasn’t something new, his wandering gaze had already betrayed him--

Although there’s a huge difference between the entranceway and decor of the living room as compared to his house, the overall getup is still similar. The most shocking thing to him is Fan Zihang’s room. It’s basically a disaster scene left behind after a dinosaur stepped on it.

Fan Zihang doesn’t seem to mind at all. With a normal expression, he steps through the piles of various objects on the floor, towards the side of the bed. Sticking his butt in the air, he searches underneath the bed.

“First things first. Even if my opponent is a kid, I'm not going to give any chances. Also, if you’ve finished looking around, give me a hand in searching for it.”

The boy stands on his tiptoes, bypassing the scattered objects. With a face full of curiosity, he asks, “Do you really have a chess board here? Actually, I could head home to get it.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m certain it’s here!” Fan Zihang says in a completely unpersuasive manner. He searches the bottom of his bed, which appears to be a black hole. Seeing his persistence, the boy has no choice but to provide assistance from the side, helping him tidy up the pile of items which have been unearthed.

After a very long time, Fan Zihang finally finds the chess board. As excited as a child, he exclaims, “I’ve found it!”

His cry is accompanied by the sound of his head banging against the board of the bed. Covering his head, he crawls out from underneath the bed with the chess board. In the process of arranging the chess pieces, they discover that the black king chess piece has disappeared.

“I’ll go home and get mine.”

Just as the boy prepares to stand up, the not-like-an-adult-at-all neighbour stops him. He opens a box of small bear biscuits. Picking a whole one, he places it on the position where the black king is supposed to be. “With this, it’d be fine!”

This is probably the most abnormal chess piece the boy has ever seen. In less than ten minutes, he wins this game of “Small Bear International Chess”.

“Oh my goodness! You’re too strong! No wonder nobody wants to play with you!” Fan Zihang plops the “black king”, which the boy was about to checkmate, into his mouth. As though he’s taking revenge, he munches it with force.

“So why did Big Brother want to play with me?” The boy looks at the neighbour, who is propping his leg up without a care about his image. At the same time, he starts packing up the chess pieces.

He taps the boy’s temple, stuffing a small bear biscuit into his hand. “Because you looked too pitiful just now. When you were standing at the door earlier, you looked like you were about to cry.”

“I... I wasn’t...” His tone evidently weakens. Originally staring straight at the other party, he slowly averts his gaze. At a glance, it’s clear that he’s pretending to be courageous.

Fan Zihang didn’t expect that this kid, who appears so gentle and quiet, to have a pretty stubborn streak. He can’t help but be mischievous. He leans in front of the boy. “If you play another round with me, I won’t tell others that you were about to cry!”

“I already said that I wasn’t crying!”

Although that’s what the boy argues, he has been goaded successfully. He takes out a small bear biscuit and places it on the black king’s position, the calm little adult image completely tossed to the back of his mind.

“Very good, very good. You’ve got a fighting spirit. This time, I won’t show any mercy either.” Seeing that the boy has regained his vigour, Fan Zihang feels gratified, patting his head.

“You’re obviously very weak.”

The boy takes the lead with a white chess piece, ridiculing him unreservedly.

“This is an average standard, okay! You’re obviously the one who’s too strong! Kids like you would have been brought to take part in ‘The World’s Greatest Mind’!”

While joking, Fan Zihang also follows closely behind. His style of chess is free and laid-back. Or rather, he does it recklessly.

“You’ll be checkmated very quickly again like this.”

“So what? It’s chess - being happy is what’s most important!”

A cool breeze blows by slowly. The clamour outside the windows remain. But between the two of them, there seems to be the occasional sound of descending chess pieces, mixed with the sounds of scattered munching.

[ Chapter Five ]

Since that day, the genius boy became a regular visitor of the house of that Stupid Police Officer.

Fan Zihang continued getting off work early each day, and would bring the neighbouring boy along before heading home. His mother would sometimes criticise him for playing with a little kid at his age. But she’s extremely affable towards the boy, and would leave a serving of whatever delicious dim sum there is for him.

They would sit together and eat the dim sum, play games, and be pretty friendly with each other. No matter what the topic starts with, their conversation would always return to the same conclusion.

“Just look at yourself. Loafing around at this age.”

“Mum, it’s a good thing that my position is idle! It proves that there’s justice in the world, and that the civilians are safe.”

Aunt Liu doesn’t listen to such glib words. The more he says such things, the more worried she gets. With such a silly son, she’s worried that even by the time she gets old, he wouldn’t be able to settle down and form a good family.

Evident from the facts, Murphy’s Law does exist. The more worried a person is about something, the more it will happen.

Take for example, this particular evening. Fan Zihang, reeking of alcohol, walks into the residential area. His eyes are red, and one can’t tell if it’s due to crying or from being drunk.

Just a few hours earlier, he received a text during work from a girl he had been dating for several years. The contents of the message were brief and to the point - she wanted to break up with him. He was so frantic that he kept making calls, but even till his phone shut off from a lack of battery, he couldn’t contact the girlfriend who had suddenly bid him farewell.

Intoxicated, he supports himself on the wall and walks forward. Because he can’t find his keys, he starts pressing on the doorbell frenetically.

After a consecutive stream of ringing from the doorbell, the door finally opens.

The person who comes out is a boy whose face is full of distaste.

“Hm? Why is it you?” Only now does Fan Zihang realise that he had walked to the wrong door. He decides to give up on himself, squatting down and giving him a hug. With snot and tears running down his face, he relates his own tale of tragedy. “Boy, what do you think! Brother is so tall and handsome. Why would he get dumped!”

The boy is about to faint from the smell of alcohol. Even though he pushes and beats him, struggling violently in his arms, he isn’t able to twist out of the other party’s brute force. In order to escape as soon as possible, he ponders for a moment, thinking that it’s best to answer his question honestly.

“Truthfully speaking, I think it’s nothing strange for someone like you - who refuses to admit defeat even when playing games with kids - to get dumped.

“What I need right now is comfort! Are there bad friends like you out there?!” Fan Zihang lifts his tear-stained face, facing the boy. But the boy grasps the only important point in his words.

“We’re friends?” The boy’s question is particularly sincere, adding another blow to Fan Zihang’s hurt feelings.

“Boy, you really lack a conscience!! If we weren’t friends, would I accompany you to play chess every day and be easily defeated by you!”

The boy is suddenly enlightened, and the look in his eyes brighten. He says softly, “So friends share such a relationship?”

“Boy, the main points you get are really off the mark...” Seeing the boy look as though he just resolved a difficult problem boggling the century, Fan Zihang can’t help but laugh. The gloomy and dismal clouds hanging above him have more or less dissipated without him realising it.

“This counts as an honour to you, Boy. Your first friend is me, an amazing criminal police officer!”

“Mm, a useless adult who weeps to a kid after getting dumped by his girlfriend.” Over the course of their interactions, his refined and polite appearance has long since disappeared. He would even bicker to no end with Fan Zihang.

“You really aren’t cute at all sometimes! How can a person mature without experiencing some blood and tears!” Fan Zihang rubs his fuzzy little head roughly, filled with anticipation for his future. “Whether it’s you or me, there will come a day when we become very amazing people!”

He knows that their paths have conveyed only temporarily. He knows the two of them will eventually walk down completely different life paths.

But at the very least, at this present moment, they can cry and smile, smile and cry, supporting each other.

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc lucien #cncancelled #baby lucien is such a SAVAGE

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4acoffee · 3 years

Text

To Anyone Else But Me

Happy Birthday to my actual prince

ADJEIHSY I LOVE MY PEPPERMINT

Also requests are stillll opennnnn

Summary: Y/n reminiscences about how Shoto has affected her life.

Thoughts plagued her as she walked.

To anyone else, she might have been walking around aimlessly with little purpose, hands shoved inside her jacket pockets and face blank as she swerved between people here and there, ignoring the shouts from the people inside the car she had just walked in front of on a red light.

But she kept walking with the sole idea of getting to the Todoroki household.

The directions were basically muscle memory to her now, after repeated trips to the place since she was little more than a child, regardless of the time or day.

A small smile danced across her lips as a memory found it’s way to the surface of her mind.

Endeavor and y/n’s parents, deep in conversation with each other about matters that neither of the children could comprehend at the time.

Small hesitant e/c eyes stared into the cold, seemingly empty gaze of the multi-hair colored boy seated on the other side of the room.

Not that she wasn’t familiar with the look herself, especially after having to hide her emotions so often from her own parents who had their own mold they tried to fit her in.

“Why don’t you two go play outside for a bit while we talk some more.”

The voice of your parents broke you out of whatever little staring concentration you were both partaking in.

“Yes, Shoto, take the girl to the gardens.” Endeavor said.

The girl in question decided immediately that she didn’t like the commanding tone the pro hero used on his own son.

‘I thought heroes were supposed to be kind and gentle?’ She thought to herself.

Then again, she had learned a long time ago that titles and personalities didn't always align.

The boy — Shoto, stood up and walked away without even sparingba glance her way. Y/n shot a look at her parents once more before getting up after him and following him out wordlessly.

She soon found herself in front of his house.

She looked up and took in the large building in front of her that screamed wealth and of highest class.

She opened the door which was already left unlocked in the mornings when she was more than expected to visit. To anyone else the quiet air of the house may have been peaceful, but to her it was painfully suffocating at times.

They walked to the gardens in complete silence, neither saying a word.

She sighed and walked past the dining table where Fuyumi was seated, doing her schoolwork. She smiled and offended her a hello and raised a hand in greeting to nice girl.

Out in the gardens she was the first to break the silence.

“You’re eyes are really pretty!” she blurted without thinking.

Shoto turned and blinked confusedly at the little girl who suddenly felt flustered.

“You...you don’t think, my scar looks weird?” He asked quietly, like he was afraid of scaring her.

Y/n had of course noticed the scar adorning his left eye, but in all honestly the reddened skin of the scar blended in with the colors of the sunset. The two had been standing in the warmth of the sunlight, and even though the atmosphere was anything but, she couldn’t help but think that he looked lovely with the dull orange and red hues of the sun painting his skin, making his eyes almost sparkle, as if the light was trying to give the lonely boy something of a warm and welcoming hug.

She shook her head

She walked up the stairs to where she knew Shoto’s room was.

To anyone else, the few steps to where she knew he would be were nothing special, but to her, those few steps felt like coming home. It really was.

She opened the door to his room and was met with those same heterochromatic eyes that she knew so well by now.

“You’re scar looks really cool! It’s like Zuko’s from Avatar!” she said excitedly, being remained of her cartoon hero.

Shoto looked bewildered by her second strange outburst of the day. He was not used to being praised for his scar, or be compared to a fictional character.

Y/n couldn’t stop the smile she had been suppressing from turning into a much larger one as she thought of the first time she had shown Shoto the wonders of the Avatar universe.

He scowled all off a sudden and looked away from her.

“Stop lying. No one thinks that about my scar. It’s a scar and it’s weird.”

She frowned.

“That’s not true.”

Y/n reached out to gently touch the scar, Shoto flinched slightly when her warm fingers met his rough skin.

“Your scars not weird, it’s awesome!” She narrowed her eyes. — “And you’re really stupid if you don’t think so.”

His eyes widened, from his conflicting feelings that were telling him not to believe her, or for being called stupid, he wasn’t sure but he looked down at his shoes and pouted.

“Well, anyone else would think it's weird.”

She grinned brightly.

“Anyone else but me.”

Her smile only widened as she made her way to Shoto who was seated on his ridiculously neat bed. She didn’t miss the way his eyes brightened just a bit at her sight even if the small frown on his face didn’t cease. To anyone else, the little action was nothing special, but knowing that the mask he constantly wore to hide what he was feeling could be awfully tiring, and the fact the she could be a bit of relief was rewarding in it’s own way.

Making her way next to him she moved closer until their shoulders were touching and nudged him.

“Your dad?” she asked.

He nodded and somberly looked away.

Y/n tch’ed at him and rolled her eyes.

“Come on peppermint, you should know better by now than to get upset over some Garbage Fire throwing a fit.”

He looked up at her through his eyelashes and pouted, resembling something of a little puppy after being refused treats.

She sighed fondly and held her arms open invitingly to the touch starved boy who eagerly wrapped his arms around her back and buried his face into the crook of her neck.

To anyone else, it could just be a normal show of affection, but to her, it was a show of trust, she knew that there was no one else he felt comfortable laying himself out to like this. The moment was special, to each the other was a solace, a place to put the troubles of their lives aside and bask in knowing there was nothing to hide.

He dragged his face down your chest and gazed up towards the smaller girl in appreciation and contentment that you equally reciprocated.

Shoto

To anyone else he was an enigma,— mysterious, indifferent and an unbelievably powerful hero to be.

But to y/n, he was a relief, a comfort, someone you could confide in, your little bit of peace in the intense grueling weight of all the responsibilities and expectations in your life.

To anyone else, he was Shoto Todoroki, an amazing hero to be, who would bear the responsibility of protecting thousands of civilians every day.

But to y/n,

To you,

He was Shoto Todoroki, the shy, awkward little boy who hugged her delicately for the first time when she scraped her knee during training. The same kid who didn't let you kill a spider that crawled into your room because it has a life of it's own too. The boy that you were convinced deserved the whole world but never got the half of it. He was Shoto Todoroki in all his glory.

Your Shoto.

#Shoto #Shoto Todoroki #Mha #Bnha #Mha x Reader #Bnha x reader #todoroki x y/n #todoroki x reader #x reader #happy birthday todoroki #requests still open

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tomurasprincess · 4 years

Text

If Only (Shigaraki x Reader)

Summary: Tomura Shigaraki meets a young woman at a local convention that leaves an impression on him and has him wondering: could he really have a normal life with her, or is his life destined to be nothing but destruction?

Pairing: Shigaraki x Reader Rating: G. Warnings: Angst, manga spoilers for Shigaraki’s backstory. Word Count: 3.5k+ Note: My entry for the BNHarem Discord collab! Yes, this is a SFW one, and yes I did enter it. It was a bit of a challenge for me to write but I like how it turned out! The full masterlist can be found here, so make sure you check out the fics from all of the talented writers!

Tomura Shigaraki decided this was a mistake within the first ten minutes of entering the convention center. Furthermore, he had decided to correct this mistake within the first fifteen, leaving without the thing he went to the convention for in the first place. The entire hall was too loud, too noisy, too full of people. The atmosphere was stifling, the air conditioners running at full blast still not being enough to cool down such an enormous space with so many people crammed in at once.

But one thing happened that made him change his plans. He ran into someone. Literally. As he is turning a corner, trying to find an area that was not packed full of people so that he could catch his breath, he runs directly into someone. The sudden collision takes you by surprise as you barely right yourself from toppling over.

As you gather your bearings, Shigaraki finds himself taking the opportunity to study your outfit. You are cosplaying as a character from a video game series that he is a big fan of, the costume remarkably true to the character herself. He finds himself appreciative of your attention to detail and the level of work you must have put into the cosplay.. But annoyance bubbles up inside of him as he sees that you ran into him because you weren’t paying a bit of attention to where you were going, choosing to stare at your phone instead.

“How about you watch where you’re going?” He sneers at you, giving the glare that usually gets people to back down immediately. But he is mildly surprised when he sees you are not intimidated by his presence, choosing instead to give him a bright smile.

“Sorry, but I am so close to beating this level! Didn’t want to put it down.”

He blinks at your response before leaning around to glance at your phone. You’re playing a popular mobile RPG on a particularly difficult level. He knows this because he plays the same game, and even he had a hell of a time beating it.

You curse under your breath as you lose, putting up a good fight but ultimately being overwhelmed by the third phase of the boss. When you look up at him to see him staring at you, you blush and quickly glance away. Huh, he thinks, that’s new. You’re not afraid of him, not disgusted by his appearance like others.

“The third phase is the hardest,” he finally ventures as he points to a few skills and characters on your screen. “Try using those instead.”

Your face turns serious as you revise your setup, restarting the level and playing through it again. You are so focused on your game that you don't even notice Shigaraki watching you like you are something new and unique. He tears his eyes away long enough to start watching your screen as you enter the third phase, utilizing the characters and skills he told you about with a decent amount of skill.

When you finally beat the level, you do a happy fist pump and a squeal before moving towards him. He tenses, anticipating an attack and ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. But when he feels arms wrapping around his neck, he freezes completely.

This is new territory for him. The only way people touch him is with malice as they try to kill him, as they try to harm him. Not with kindness or gratitude. He’s still trying to process it as it ends with you pulling away with a big smile on your face. He finds himself wanting to help you again in some way so that he can experience the feeling of being hugged again.

“Thank you, I’ve been trying to beat that level all day!”

“It’s no big deal.” He shuffles a bit in place before scratching at his neck.

“Well I appreciate it anyway. I was on my way to lunch when we bumped into each other. Do you want to go with me?”

“You can stop mocking me,” he narrows his eyes at you. “I don’t appreciate it.” Nobody is this nice, he thinks, you must be making fun of him somehow. His fingers itch to wrap around your neck, to kill you for this offense against him.

He expects you to finally be afraid, to stop talking to him and leave him to his solitude again. But instead, you furiously shake your head. “Oh no, not mocking you at all!” You bite your lip and fidget with your costume. “I just think you seem cool, is all. My friends make fun of me for liking games, and they definitely don’t help me beat levels.”

This time, the rage he feels is directed at anyone who would make fun of this woman in front of her. He’s shocked by this realization, and at the fact that he really does want to talk more. To get to know the one person who doesn’t seem to be bothered by him. He glances down at his shoes as he mumbles an apology, not knowing what else to say.

“Well there’s only one way to make it up to me.” Of course you want something. Nobody ever wants him for him, only what he can do for them. He was stupid for thinking anyone could be different, that -

“You gotta take me to lunch,” you happily explain. “It’ll be my treat!”

He gives you a slow blink, staring as if trying to process your words. Someone wants to spend time with him? Voluntarily, simply because they seem to like him? He didn’t expect anything like this, and yet there doesn’t seem to be any deception from you. You’re simply standing there as you wait for his answer with a hopeful look on your face.

“I, I guess that’s fine,” he agrees hesitantly, “I still have some time before the thing I want starts.”

You instantly light up as you hear his agreement. “What is it that you’re waiting for?” You ask as you begin to lead the way to the dining hall. “Maybe we could go together?”

“Oh, it’s the big event for Cyberpunk 2077. Been waiting for that game for years and since I was in the area, I thought I’d stop by.”

“Oh god, I am so excited for that one. The character customization alone is going to take me hours.”

He chuckles at that, your sheer excitement for everything shining through as you discuss the details of the game together while walking to the dining area. True to your word, you happily pay as you finally choose a place to eat, and the two of you settle in to continue to talk about games. He finds himself really enjoying talking to you. You are so innocent compared to what he’s used to, so carefree and eager to talk about things you enjoy.

“You know, I was wondering something. Why are you here alone?”

Your face falls at that statement as you glance away from him. It was the first time he saw such a sad look on your face, and he finds himself almost mad at being the one who caused that look, even if it was indirectly.

“Ah, I was supposed to be here with a few friends.”

He waits for you to finish your sentence, but you trail off and say nothing. “And? Where are they?”

“They - they had to cancel. But it’s totally okay!” You wave your hands quickly as you try to change the subject. But Shigaraki is not about to have it.

“They abandoned you,” he states flatly.

“Abandoned is a strong word,” you hedge. “They said they just had other things to do. It really is okay.”

His eyes narrow at the last part. He knows a lie when he hears one, and this is the first that he’s noticed since he started talking to you.

“They didn’t just have other things to do, did they?”

You glance anywhere but at his face, willing him to not ask any more questions. But now his curiosity has peaked, and he repeats the question.

“Okay, fine,” you give a long drawn out sigh. “They were supposed to be here today, cosplaying with me. All of us as a character from the group, you know?”

He nods his head as he internally realizes where this is going, the very thought making his blood boil.

“But well, they - they said,” your voice wavers just a bit, “they said this morning that they had better things to do and cancelled. It’s okay, really.”

But he is perceptive enough to realize that it’s not okay. The look in your eyes says you’re hurt, but you’re also used to it. You simply accept being abandoned by your friends as a thing that happens. He knows the look of defeat and rejection in your eyes very well. After all, he sees it every day in the mirror.

“That’s why I asked you to join me for lunch, you know.”

He gives you a questioning look as his thoughts race to figure out what you mean. Do you mean that you invited him to lunch just so you wouldn’t be alone? That thought hurts, for some reason that he couldn’t explain.

“You’re alone too, aren’t you?” You look him directly in his crimson eyes and hold his gaze. He knows on some instinctive level that you don’t just mean at this convention. You’re more perceptive than you initially give off, he realizes suddenly.

He finally nods his head. “I have a few people who support me, but -”

“But you don’t have your person yet, do you?”

This question confuses him, and he waits for you to elaborate on it.

“You know, your person!” Your voice is back to a slightly happier tone, and he’s glad to hear it. “That one person you really connect with, who you would do anything for.”

“That is a rather naive concept,” he says automatically, without considering what he’s saying. But you don’t seem phased by his slightly rude comment.

“Naive, maybe. But I think it’s true. That you just connect with people sometimes.”

He must have inadvertently started frowning at your words, because you give him an adorable pout. “Don’t give me that look,” you playfully reprimand him as you give him a light poke to the forehead.

He gawks at you in sheer surprise for several moments, leaving you to giggle at his expression. He has never had anyone touch him as casually as you do. Instead of making him uncomfortable, however, it makes him feel strangely warm.

It’s then that he hears an announcement come over the convention hall speakers, informing everyone that the keynote presentation for Cyberpunk 2077 is about to begin in 10 minutes. He glances at you, waiting to see your reaction.

“There’s your cue, right? Go have fun!” You give him a smile that appears forced, as if you don’t want him to leave but are holding yourself back from saying so.

“I mean, you could come with me,” he murmurs, “I guess I wouldn’t mind you tagging along.”

“Ah, I don’t have a ticket for that part. Couldn’t afford it. But go ahead, I wouldn’t want you to miss it on my behalf.” You stand up from the table as you turn to leave. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s grabbing your arm and gently pulling you back towards him. You stare up at him with both surprise and hope in your eyes as he tucks you into his body, wrapping his arms around you. You feel stiff for only one second before you link your arms around him as well, burrowing your face against his chest with a contented sigh.

You stay there for what feels like hours, neither of you wanting to part. But when you finally do, it is with reluctance on both your parts. “Hey, one last thing before I go,” he begins, “I just wanted to let you know that I really wish -” He is interrupted when another announcement blares over the speaker, warning of 10 minutes left until the presentation. Your face turns to one of disappointment as he shrugs off what he was about to say. “I have to go, bye.”

He turns on his heel as he quickly leaves, trying not to remember the look on your face as you wondered what he was about to say. In truth, even he’s not sure of it. He doesn’t know how to feel about you, about his feelings. But he does know one thing. He liked you, liked talking to you. He thinks he’d like to get to know you more. Could someone like him, a villain who destroys everything he touches, really have someone like you, someone kind and upbeat?

Probably best that he doesn’t answer that question, even to himself.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

The presentation finally ends, crowds of people filtering suddenly out of the biggest convention hall on the property. The crowd is finally starting to bother him, too many people pushing against him, and he is eager to finally leave when he hears the sound of crashing glass and screams. His head turns in the direction of the commotion, vowing to leave, when he hears his name being mentioned and something else that makes his blood turn cold. Your voice, saying something with sheer terror in it.

He’s moving before he’s even aware of it, racing around the corner and pushing people aside to get to you immediately. When he finally makes it to you, his vision almost goes red with the sheer rage that he is feeling at what he sees in front of him. You’re laying on the ground with minor cuts and bruises from broken glass and two heroes in costume standing over you.

“Where is Tomura Shigaraki?”

“I don’t know!”

“Yes you do, we have witnesses saying you were eating with him earlier.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I ate alone.”

He is shocked at the fact that you, of all people, are lying to heroes. To protect him, even though you must realize who he truly is at this point. He doesn’t understand why he feels he has to do something to prevent these heroes from hurting you. Only that he does.

“If it’s me you want, I’m right here.” They whirl around instantly to attack him, but he’s ready for that. These are heroes who have no business hunting down a villain such as him, and he disposes of one of them instantly, knocking him completely out before turning away to meet the other one.

But fear floods his veins as he sees the hero has lifted you up and is holding you by your neck. You look at him with wide, tear filled eyes, as if asking him to save you.

“She has nothing to do with this,” he hisses at the hero, “leave her alone and deal with me.”

“You mean to tell me that someone like her willingly spent time with you, not knowing who you are? I don’t believe that at all.” The words cause Shigaraki to almost physically recoil, but he holds it back as he glares at the hero.

“Jet let her go.”

“Do you happen to care about her? I didn’t think you could care.” He narrows his eyes at Shigaraki. “Just turn yourself in and she doesn’t have to get hurt.”

At these words, rage unlike anything Shigaraki has ever felt fills him, and before he can even think of what he’s doing, he’s grabbing the hero with all of his fingers, tossing him away as he grabs for you.

“You saved me,” you mumble quietly as you look up at him, tracing a finger down his face tenderly.

He puts you down just a shade too quickly, causing you to lean against the wall for support. “I did not save you, you were just here.”

“No, I saw you. You were going in the opposite direction when you heard me. You came back for me.”

“Why were you even in this area to begin with? You said you didn’t have the ticket to be here.”

You glance away from his harsh tone, but your cheeks look flushed. “I went ahead and bought one. So that I could see you again.”

The wind is taken from his lungs as he realizes that you were here waiting for him. You were injured because you were waiting for him. You’re too vulnerable, too weak, not able to defend yourself. Everything in him rebels in what he’s about to do, but he has to. He squeezes his eyes shut as he realises this is it. This is his answer to the question of whether someone like him could have someone like you.

“Yeah? Well I sure as hell didn’t want to see you again.”

Your eyes go wide as you shake your head. “You’re - you’re lying. You wanted to say something to me before you left. It was that you wanted to see me again, right?”

He lets his expression grow cold. “No. I decided to be nice and not tell you how much I hate you. How much I wanted to leave so that I didn’t have to spend a moment longer with you.”

“You’re only saying these mean things because you want to push me away.” Tears run down your face as you try to deny his words. “But I won’t let that happen. I care about you!”

“You don’t even know me,” he snarls, “I could kill you in an instant and would think nothing of it.”

You let out a small gasp as you continue to try and deny his words. “No, you’re lying, you don’t mean any of these things. You didn’t have to save me but you did.”

“Maybe it’s because I wanted to fight them. Wanted to kill them.”

“But you didn’t! They’re still alive. You’re a good guy, you just -”

He growls at you as he steps aside, pointing backwards to something on the floor. You stare in incomprehension, trying to figure out what you see. When you glance back up at him, he knows you realize what happened. But he also sees the desperate need you have to deny it.

“Fine, I’ll show you the truth.” He wraps his hand all the way around the unconscious hero’s leg, watching your reaction closely. You begin to tremble, not looking at him but at what is happening to what used to be a man.

Ah, he thinks, there it finally is. The look he’s been expecting to see since the moment he met you. The fear. The disgust. The hatred. It’s written all over your face, all the expressions that he never wanted to see.

“Why,” you whisper as tears run down your cheeks. “They didn’t have to die, there was no reason for it.”

“I told you. Because I wanted to. And I could kill you just as easily, if you don’t get the fuck out of here right now.”

“But I love you!” You blurt the words out suddenly, and he feels the whole world collapse around him. No no no, this was not supposed to happen. He lunges at you, pressing your back against the wall as he raises a finger up over your skin.

“Yeah? Well I don’t love you. You’re useless and annoying, and it’s no wonder your friends abandoned you. Keep your worthless love.”

“No,” you choke back a sob as you pull away from him completely, an action that he allows with reluctance. Even in these circumstances, he doesn’t want to let you go. But he waits for the words that he knows he’ll hear from you. To be called a monster, less than a person, nothing but a being of chaos and destruction who lives only to destroy.

“Well you still have it,” you sob, “you need it more than I do.” And with that, he watches as you take slow steps away from him, and he watches as you turn away and flee. Running out of his life for good.

It had to be this way, he tries to convince himself. There was no other way. Someone so innocent, so kind, would never make it in his world. If she couldn’t handle what she saw just now, there was no chance.

But your final words keep echoing in his head, refusing to leave. So he briefly allows himself to consider the possibilities, as he wipes away a tear that he pretends was never there at all.

If only his quirk hadn’t activated as it did, killing the few people in this world who cared about him. If only he hadn’t committed his first murder shortly after that, killing his own father. If only he hadn’t been taken by All for One, manipulated and molded into a weapon of nothing but destruction and decay. If only, if only, if only. So many places where things could have been different, where he could have had a life where he was loved. But he knows, deep in his heart, the only “if only” that truly matters.

The one that, if true, would change everything, make everything in his life be okay again. Allow him to have love and a life worth living for instead of worth dying for.

If only he were still Tenko Shimura.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Tags: @thewheezingwyvern, @animewh0re, @dee-madwriter, @ttamaki, @lildreamer93, @yaoyorozuwrites, @redbeanteax, @kittygonyan, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @daedaep69, @heyybrittannia, @groovydreamertrash, @hisoknen, @chou-maitresse, @shoutogepi, @togasknifes, @kingtamakimurder, @1-800-callmekatsuki, @league-of-thots, @ichor-and-symbiosis

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnharem collab

346 notes · View notes

maxwell-grant · 3 years

Note

Thoughts on the Shadow's Doppelganger, Lamont Cranston

The funny thing about Cranston in the original stories is that, yeah, one of the most famous scenes across all Shadow media is the “Lamont Cranston Talks to Himself” chapter in The Shadow Laughs, where we learn that The Shadow is not Lamont Cranston, but has usurped his identity, and now shows up at his bedside looking like him, talking like him, knowing more about his own life than he himself does, and ordering him to leave town, effectively blackmailing him into letting him use his face. It’s a very iconic scene that exemplifies a lot of what makes The Shadow unique as a character, and you can imagine why so many adaptations have gone with the idea of Cranston being either a hapless stooge bullied into submission, or an actual villain, because that whole scene is very much a horror movie scenario.

Thing is, none of them seem to remember how Cranston and The Shadow’s relationship developed past this. I’ll post this excerpt from Atoms of Death:

"Good morning, Cranston," came a quiet tone from the foot of the bed.

"Good morning, yourself," returned Cranston, rubbing his eyes without noticing the visitor.

"You should say: Good morning, myself," chuckled The Shadow, dryly.

Cranston was pulling down the sleeves of his pajama jacket. He sat bolt upright, staring. Then a slow smile showed on his lips; one that was almost a replica of The Shadow's.

"So it's you," remarked Cranston, sleepily. "Well, I knew that last night. It was about time we crossed paths again. Well, old man, you landed me in for plenty this trip."

Cranston shoved bedclothes aside and perched on the edge of the bed. He found cigarettes on the telephone table; The Shadow supplied a flame from a lighter before Cranston could ignite a match. The millionaire noted that The Shadow's lighter bore the initials "L. C."

"You handle every detail, don't you?" questioned Cranston in admiration. “Jove! I remember the first time I met you. In this very room. You dropped cloak and hat and left me looking at my own face as plainly as if I had seen it in a mirror. Just as it is today."

"And I advised you," recalled The Shadow, in Cranston's own tone, "to take a trip abroad, while I used your identity. You were a bit exasperated at first."

"I must admit that I was. I threatened to have you arrested, as an impostor, until you proved that you knew more about my affairs than I did. I really believe that if it had come to a showdown, I would have been proven the impostor and you the genuine Lamont Cranston. Jove!"

"Jove," repeated The Shadow, quietly, "You have acquired that expression recently, Cranston. I shall remember it for future reference. You have a penchant for acquiring anglicisms during your sojourns in British colonies. Jove!"

"Bounder and blighter," laughed Cranston. "Don't forget those. I still use them occasionally."

Or this excerpt from The Hydra, which is an incredible book where the chemistry between the two really shines:

Lamont Cranston woke up and wondered why his head still whirled. It took him about half a minute to learn that the motion came from the fact he was riding in his limousine. Someone must have put him back in the limousine and Stanley was driving him home.

He didn't have to guess who had helped him on his way, for at that moment Cranston heard a low-toned laugh beside him. He turned to see the black-cloaked figure of The Shadow.

"What did you hit me with?" asked Cranston. "All four of your automatics?"

"I'm only carrying a pair tonight," replied The Shadow

Look at these two dorks, just palling around and getting into shenanigans and The Shadow outright joking around Cranston, like they are just two old chums having a laugh at the weirdness of their lives. The “real” Cranston didn’t show up very often in the original stories, especially in the last stories when Lamont Cranston essentially became the real identity of The Shadow, but when he did, part of what makes him stand out as his own character is that he’s funny. Gibson gets a lot of mileage out of Cranston as this guy who is completely nonchalant and chill about all the weird shit that happens to him, even in The Hydra after he kills a man with an elephant gun, he’s still more or less the same, he largely just walks out of it with a newfound realization.

Relieving Cranston of the elephant gun, The Shadow steered his friend into the closet. Hauling the big weapon with him, The Shadow opened the door to meet and dismiss arriving servants who had dashed upstairs when they felt the house quake.

"Whenever I see this gun," began Cranston, coming from the closet, "I'll remember what I did with it -"

“Quite right," interposed The Shadow approvingly. "What you did to Mance will make amends for any elephants you may have killed. Too bad Mance didn't bring along a few more Hydra Heads.”

Slowly, understanding dawned on Cranston. He'd never compared his big-game hunts with The Shadow's quests for men of crime. He felt that The Shadow's cause was justified, but it had seemed outside the field of sport. It still was, but Cranston, now that he had dealt with a murderer who deserved to die, was realizing that his game hunts were more deserving of rebuke.

His encounters with The Shadow gradually changed Cranston from a useless millionaire wasting his resources and talents on idle pursuits, to...still largely a useless millionaire, except his resources and talents are no longer wasted and he’s gradually grown into a useful ally and friend to The Shadow. The Shadow tends to have that effect on people who work by his side and even Cranston, the guy whose main role in his organization is to just stay away and be useless somewhere else, can’t help but change a little into a better person when he appears.

There’s an interesting article written by Bob Sampson called “The Third Shadow” which refers to the Bruce Elliot run of The Shadow Magazine, which is incredibly maligned by fans and not without reason, the stories all largely suck and the Shadow bears little resemblance to his former self, instead mostly feeling like a diet take on the radio show Lamont, more of an average detective. The theory Sampson puts out is that, during this period, it was actually Lamont Cranston who became active as The Shadow while Allard was busy overseas, and I definitely like this theory. It makes sense specially considering The Hydra sets up for Cranston to become more pro-active and serious:

While not the towering master-mind of Allard, he does become the next best thing: A post-war sleuth. He even indulges in wearing the cloak and slouch hat from time to time (to varying degrees of effectiveness), while trying to laugh like Allard (also to varying degrees of effectiveness) as if to fulfill that forbidden fantasy until he finally gets it out of his system. After all, The Shadow pretended to be him, why not the other way around?

As Bob Sampson put it: “It is always Cranston who explains all and takes the credit”.

Probably very cathartic for Lamont, who for the last 18 years was relegated to being a distant supporting player in his own life. Cranston is still in contact with the agents however. He even receives "assignments" from Burbank.

This entire arrangement could only be with The Shadow's tacit approval. Let us remember, Cranston was not merely some insipid fop. He certainly had done his own share of exploring and was indeed a hunter. He could handle a variety of firearms, was familiar with exotic peoples and their customs, knew how to stalk dangerous animals through the jungle and veldt, but he was not, nor ever claimed to be, a master secret-agent and soldier.

I think it is fitting that the writing is completely different for this period as well. Not the enigmatic journalistic style of Allards exploits, but the witty, modern champagne fizz of Cranston's odyssey in a Post-War world. He feels a full range of emotions. In the Gibson stories, The Shadow is at arms length. In the Elliott stories, Cranston is sitting right next to you on a train or an airplane or roadster.

It’s also interesting to consider how Lamont Cranston has basically become the true name of The Shadow in pop culture. Often times it’s the name people use when they specifically want to reference The Shadow, the supposed “Ghost of Gay Street” hauntings in Gibson’s former apartment took the form of Lamont Cranston, and even in the stories, more and more people became aware of it as the years went by (which also helps reinforce the idea that the “real” Cranston eventually took to acting as a fill-in for The Shadow, to draw attention away from the real Shadow’s operations), and Gibson even mentioned a few times that Cranston was The Shadow’s “favorite” identity along with Arnaud. Which is kinda fascinating to think about and does hint at some weird underlying aspects of The Shadow’s psyche, that his favorite identity is one not his own.

And at last, there’s these passages from The Whispering Eyes, a book that does not mention Allard once, and the very last Shadow novel:

From beneath the seat he was taking his black garb. Cloaked and hatted as he stepped from the cab, Cranston merged immediately with the darkness. He had become The Shadow.

Cranston's switch to his other self could well be attributed to a hypnotic mood. The mental lapses produced through hypnosis were the sort that would often cause a subject to revert to habit. Now, as The Shadow, Cranston was still in what might be termed a haphazard mood. He was skirting through darkness, pausing, changing direction, behaving generally as though avoiding something that did not exist.

Lang had flung away his glasses; his eyes now showed the shining, hypnotic force that the lenses normally softened. He recognized the eyes that met his above a leveled gun muzzle.

The Shadow's eyes, yet strangely Cranston's, for this was one time The Shadow did not care to disguise them.

Which begs the question: Did Cranston succeed in fully becoming The Shadow? Or did The Shadow succeed in fully becoming Cranston?

#replies tag #pulp heroes #pulp fiction #the shadow #lamont cranston

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annhellsing · 4 years

Text

Delicate Monsters.

notes: so i haven’t seen season three and i don’t plan to, but have some enthusiastically consensual sex with d/s elements because i stand by my firm belief that alucard is a sub!! rating: explicit as fuuuuuuck!!! pairing: alucard / reader, referred to from this point as ‘adrian’ word count: 3,051

You are the breath in his lungs, you must be. Adrian smells the perfume you dab behind your ears, even in his sleep. Half-awake, coaxed from soft dreams, he reaches out across the bed. You’re still there, lying next to him and similarly caught in-between states. Your mouth opens a fraction, enough to let out a soft noise of contentment before you sluggishly turn over.

“Another bad dream, love of mine?” you mumble, your words so strung together as to become one. Adrian shakes his head very slowly, opening his eyes just a crack. But you haven’t done the same, so he vocalizes his answer,

“No, no,” he sighs, if only as an excuse to breathe in again. “Nothing is wrong.”

It isn’t your blood that haunts him, compels him to act as a real man might. It’s everything else, the warmth of your skin and the soap in your hair. You made scones earlier, he can still smell butter and sugar on your fingers when you lift your hand.

“Give me the truth, my love,” you say, and this time your eyes do open. You look at him, only a foot away with so much fondness in your eyes. You could fit more affection, he is certain, in your pupil that he could in every inch of his chest. Such is the beauty of humanity.

Your fingers find his hair, long and mussed from turning in his sleep. You pet it, brushing it back from his face. You’re so alive, he can feel blood rushing from your wrist to warm his cheek. Adrian can’t help it, he leans into the touch and feels no shame about it.

“I’ve told you the truth,” he assures you, knowing you only press out of a desire to protect him. Even though you know you can’t, his night-time burdens are his own to bear. Still, you’re there when he wakes up. “I had a good dream, for once.”

“And what was it about?” you smile, nudging closer towards him. Your hand slips around the back of his neck, pulling him gently in your direction. He wants to do nothing more than follow.

“You, of course,” he replies, “what else do I have that’s good?”

“Sypha and Trevor,” you say, your grin softened by lingering exhaustion. He’s sure you’d like to go back to sleep, but you seem more intent on this conversation. Adrian huffs.

“Sypha, perhaps,” he says, a slight edge to his voice that betrays how he teases. You tut, your voice still barely above a whisper.

“You are rich in friends, dear heart,” you say, “no matter how much you try to deny it.”

“I am,” he finally relents, “but now I am merely distracting you.”

His arms around your waist loosen, having proved himself right. You haven’t left, not yet. And while he fully expects you to turn again and shut your eyes, they stay open.

“You’re the one who woke me,” you sigh, but your smile remains unchanged, “so you must do as I say, not the other way around.”

“I would do as you say even if you had woken me,” he tells you. A heat rises in your cheeks, you nod.

“You’re so lovely,” you mumble. Your hand on his neck tugs him closer, still. Close enough to kiss.

Adrian yields, pressing his mouth to yours and allowing himself to fall against you. It is the best feeling, your kiss. Nothing compares to your slight hesitancy before teeth begin to worry on his lower lip. Your tongue follows soon after, brushing gently where you bit. With no resistance, he lets you in.

Your tongue greets his, the gesture more passionate than midnight affairs usually afford. It appears you’ve woken up more than you let on, but still your hands at his neck and in his hair are careful not to grip too tightly. Your poor love, he’s been hurt too much already.

“Do you want it?” you ask, breaking the kiss for much-needed air. For him, breathing is optional, but he lets his lungs overwork themselves. He’s nearly overwhelmed by how good you smell, giggling at him in the soft moonlight. It occurs to him that you expect an answer.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Do you want to do what I tell you?” you continue. He nods, shaking the fog from his head. Adrian feels warmer, now. You are hot to the touch.

“Yes,” he sighs, “a thousand times, yes.”

“Then lie back,” your orders are always easy to follow. He never tires of your impishly commanding voice, the sweetness and love that it always holds. He does as you say, happily turning over on his back and kicking the blankets down from his waist.

You sit up, a little slower than you might if the sun were out. But you crawl towards him over the comforter and sheets with a mock-predatory stance. The look in your eyes is one of clarified lust, you're not the least bit upset to be awake. He swallows hard, caught in your stare.

There is a throbbing under his shift. He stiffens and shivers as you settle next to him on your knees. You put a hand beside his head, resting all of your weight on it as you lift a knee to straddle him. Adrian inhales pointlessly, the smell of your perfume stronger now. The air around you is charged, but not electric. Despite the fact that you are unwilling to slink back off to sleep, there is no urgency in how you conduct yourself.

You sit back on his thighs, admiring the expanse of his still-covered chest and the elegant column of his neck. His hair is fanned out across the pillows, framing his head like a halo.

“Beautiful,” you sigh, “just gorgeous. And so well-behaved, too. You’re so very good.”

You reach out again, taking his face in your hands and claiming another kiss. Adrrian feels your chest flush against his, the soft swell of your breasts and the hummingbird heart that beats underneath it. You’re as excited as he, even if there are no outward signs.

His, on the other hand, make themselves clear. You can feel him under your belly, half-hard and in need of attention. It makes you giggle again, breaking the silence occupied only by heavy breathing and thudding hearts.

“My goodness,” he says when your kiss is once again distracted, “I love you.”

“I feel the same,” you return. And then, to dispel any doubt, you add, “I love you, more.”

“Doubtful,” he mutters, “what have you done to me?”

“Well, I haven’t made you soft,” you giggle again. The sound is sweet and rounded. You lean back and give a toss of your hair. He can pinpoint what it smells like, now. Lavender and vanilla. Perhaps a hint of lemon. But it doesn’t matter, it only smells like you.

His laugh sounds reedy and low, like a half-growl. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up with anticipation.

“No,” he agrees, “you haven’t done that.”

Admitting love so freely, however, that is new. Or perhaps he’s just had no one to offer it before. It’s as powerful a feeling as it is vulnerable, offering one’s heart up at another’s altar.

“I think I’ll take care of that,” you muse, “lie still. You can touch me, but not yourself. Understood?”

“I do,” he agrees. Obeying you is its own euphoria, but he reaches out immediately once given permission. He grips your waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs.

“Very good,” you say. You do not miss the second shudder that grips him, despite his warmth. Nor the insistent throb under your belly.

You rise up fully, straightening your back. With slow hands, you push up the hem of his shift and find the proof of his around. You give a smile, sweet and in love with the sight. You take him in hand with no preamble, giving a lazy pump to encourage him before letting go.

“More,” he exhales, “more, please.”

“I want to undress you, first,” you say. “Can you wait that long?”

“I suppose I’ll have to. Here--” he cuts himself off, sitting up to help you tug his shift over his head. You brace your arm behind you to keep your balance, and tug on his sleeves to pull the fabric from his wrists.

He lies back down right away, never one to forget a command. Adrian’s given a kiss for good measure, his head swims at the press of your mouth against his.

“Are you sure you want this?” you whisper, checking yet again for any signs of guilt-ridden compliance on his face. There are none to be found.

“I do,” he repeats. He does not voice his utter shock that you want to do this with him. Such expressions only upset you.

“Good,” you say, “and you know that--”

“I can change my mind, yes,” he says. The first traces of impatience make themselves known in his voice, making you smile again. God, it’s a beautiful sight.

“Excuse me,” you feign apology, “clearly I am neglecting you.”

“Indeed,” he teases. But somewhere deep in his mind, Adrian rebels against that agreement. You’ve taken good care of him.

“But how can such a body go unadmired?” you ask, lavish in your praise in the hopes of flustering him. You know what he wants, even languid in the middle of the night and insisting that there is no time but time to waste. So you pause a moment.

You explore him, your fingers trailing up his lean chest. His stomach dips and bulges, the muscles underneath fluttering like butterflies with every air-light touch. You can undo him so easily.

“Oh, Adrian,” you mumble when you come to the edge of the scar. Your index finger brushes the edge, where red flesh meets smooth skin. “May I kiss you here?”

“Gently,” he agrees on that condition. You not and dip your head, barely ghosting your lips over that dark and physical memory.

“I love you,” you remind him.

“I know, I love you,” he replies.

“You’re wonderful,” you say, your tone shifting just slightly as the mood edges away from heavy and serious. “I’ve been doing nothing but leading you on and you’re barely cross with me. What an improvement.”

“My thanks,” he laughs, you’re wrapped up in that reedy sound again.

“I think I’m ready,” you say.

You take his cock in hand again, its interest hasn’t dulled in the slightest. Adrian grunts low in his throat, his hips bucking minutely. His hands are still at your hips, his fingers squeezing your soft skin and urging you forward.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, shaking your head. Adrian squeezes more insistently, but does not force you to move past your pace. You note his desire and press a kiss to the centre of his collarbones.

All the while, your hand works over him. Until it pauses, releases him and tucks itself between your legs.

“Let me--” he starts. He looks at your face, finding his favourite brand of passion in your eyes. “I am allowed to touch you, after all.”

“Yes, you are,” you say. But you do not move to grant any ease of entry.

“Allow me to occupy myself,” he replies, “I would like the opportunity to return your careful attention.”

“As you wish,” you sigh, sitting up on your knees and withdrawing your own hand.

Adrian pushes his fingers between your thighs, eager to please. You push your legs apart and he wastes no time. He cups your sex, feeling it under his palm. You’re hot, wet, as needy as he but far better at hiding it. He drags a finger up your hairline fracture, the pad of his middle finger catching on your clit.

You moan, the sound of you is almost as addling as the smell. Your desire is another perfume, it makes it difficult to concentrate enough to please. But you have been just as good for him, he admits, and you deserve the best that he can offer.

“Do you like this?” he asks as his finger draws small circles. You nod, catching a moan between your teeth and trapping it. You’re never as loud as he, you keep your noises locked up tight.

That’s all right, he thinks. There is enough time to undo you, too.

His finger grazes you, moving lower until it’s poised over your entrance. Adrian dips it inside you, careful not to demand anything of your body too quickly. You give a sound like a weight has been lifted and part your thighs a little more. You lower your hips, finding a comfortable position so that he can satisfy.

“It’s good,” you say, “you’re good at this.”

His finger curls, sinking into you. He works it in and out almost lazily, the task of caring for your clit delegated to his thumb. It makes your legs shake with almost no effort on his part, Adrian’s delighted.

He presses his index finger into you shortly after, delighting in your audible gasp. You smile at him, brushing his hair from his eyes yet again. You press a kiss to his forehead, then to the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes shut tight when he curls his fingers just right, seeking out a spot inside you that will pull you from silence. Its discovery is heralded with a loud moan of his name.

“All right,” you say, “I’m ready for more.”

And though he could easily entertain you like this all night, Adrian allows you to leave his hand and sit back up. He puts his fingers to his tongue, cleaning them as you stare with a sheepish smile on your face.

“Out to murder me,” you huff. He gives a small shrug. No use in denying it.

His hand returns to your hip as you pick his cock up from his belly. It’s pale as his skin, but flushed red and a pretty pink near the head. It’s as beautiful as the rest of him, you note. You line him up and settle on his length with a shaky sigh, wasting no more time now.

“Oh, my love,” you say. He grips you tighter and watches your shifting expression. From excitement to relief as you take him in, Adrian is awestruck by how beautiful you look.

“Yes?” he asks, barely able to form a single-syllable word. Everything feels pleasantly hazy, the night embraces the two of you as easily as you hold him.

“Fuck me,” you say, “until I finish.”

You’re satisfied with his work, clearly. Adrian smiles, showing sharp fangs before his hips begin to move against yours. Up and down, his thrusts shallow, he does his best to please you a second time.

It’s perfect, your hair tickles his face with your forward lean. And other than a few shifts on your part to meet his upward lunges, he’s left to his own devices to do right by you. You rest your hands on either side of his head, leaning in for kiss after perfect kiss.

He breathes out of habit, because you do it. Your natural behaviour is naturally emulated. He can feel your heart racing in your chest, Adrian draws a hand up from your hip and presses his palm to the valley between your breasts so that he can feel how it races.

Your eyes close, you’re lost in a good feeling. His hand at your breast is short-lived, quickly relocated where it was before you decided you wanted more. Adrian’s middle finger prods your clit again, making you straighten up and sigh his name yet again.

He thrusts with all the eagerness and desperation of someone needing to prove themself. But he knows that no such action is required of him, you trust him completely. It’s a comforting thought, to know that there is no possibility in which he could fail to give you what you want.

He is what you want, he remembers. And you already have all of him.

His shoulders tense, it’s difficult to remain lying down while trying to give you what you need. He could sit up and get a better angle, but that isn’t what you asked of him. Adrian has his orders, to fuck and make you come. He intends to do both.

You are so warm around him, gripping like a vice even as you remain still. He pours his heart into the task, lifting his knees a little to find purchase on the bed. It helps, it gives him a new angle for him to sink into you.

And the new wave of pleasure that washes over you is quickly shown to him. You fall forward, your hands finding his hair and giving short tugs. You know how much he cares for that, he keens and bucks against you.

“Good,” you repeat, “just like that.”

His thrusts falter as exhaustion creeps up on him again. While Adrian is no stranger to physical exertions, he finds himself tiring very quickly. And still, he hasn’t completed his task. You note him slowing, but make no move to push him beyond his limits.

“Are you all right?” you ask. He gives a slower, more languid thrust and nods. “We have all night,” you remind him.

“I know,” he exhales.

“And all morning,” you say, “all afternoon, all night again.” You giggle, the sound is like music. Carefully, you trace the outline of his scar with your finger. “Take as long as you need.”

He hums, pausing a moment and bringing his hand to your cheek. You’re warm in the face, and he is too when you turn your head to kiss his palm. It’s the reassurance he needs.

A few, loving moments pass before he feels up to continuing. The meantime is spent exchanging kisses and fond looks. You put no pressure on him, even with your ability to order him as no one else could. Though you hold the power to make him want to do as is asked of him, that fact is never used as a weapon.

You love him, he thinks. You really do.

And you kiss him every time he begins to miss the feeling of your soft lips against his.

#alucard #alucard x reader #adrian tepes #adrian tepes x reader #castlevania #nsft #so basically he's baby!!!!!#he needed some soft smut okay i'm tired of this grimdark shit #anniewrites

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mikasaluna · 3 years

Text

生きていたんだよな

⚠ WARNINGS：potentionally triggering content ! graphic suicide descriptions ! self harm ! dark content !

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED IMMEDIATELY.

「 Keep in mind your triggers and do not engage if it will provoke negative emotions. You are responsible for your own actions. 」

♥️

notes：gender neutral pronouns, angst, fluff (kind of?), 1,640 words

If you need help I recommend posting on r/suicidewatch or searching for your area’s local suicide helpline using ctrl+f on the following wikipedia page.

♥️

A/N：Also, I didn’t realise until now as I’m writing the tags, that most people spell Kuroo’s first name as “Tetsuro” without the “u”. I wrote it differently because that’s just the direct Japanese spelling and I didn’t know. Sorry about that.

Haikyuu!! / ハイキュー!!

Kuroo Tetsurou 黒尾鉄朗

Kaji, hatsu, mame. Kaji, hatsu, mame. Kaji, hatsu, mame. You repeated the radicles to yourself as you wrote out the character over and over, feeling the muscle memory in your wrist kicking into gear. Your head was throbbing, hundreds of kanji readings swimming around in your mind. Now more than ever, the pressure of growing up had began to weigh down on you like a pile of bricks. Trying to make sense of all the pre-set rules in your life was difficult enough as it was, but just trying was never good enough. Nothing ever was. For every happy person in the world, there had to be an opposite, there had to be a person like you. It was pathetic. You were so damn pathetic.

Your relationship with your mother, who’d left Japan to raise you all on her own, was hanging by threads. Could you really blame her though? Your grades had been falling steadily over the semester, and the scholarship which you’d worked so hard for was slipping through your fingers. You’d given up on yourself, and you wouldn’t be surprised if she’d given up on you too. The things that used to be so easy, laughing together at your little wooden dining table, became so far away, every night like a video tape stuck on repeat.

一体何を思ってるんだろう！バカの？

“What the hell are you thinking! Are you stupid?”

Why should you care? Maybe things would be easier if you just let your life fall to pieces. Maybe once you had nothing left to hold on to, you could finally break free. Maybe all this time, all you ever were was stupid.

わかんない。

“I don’t know.”

You were lying through your teeth. Of course you knew. You were stupid for ever believing in all the things that made your life worth living, because they didn’t mean a thing at all. Locking yourself in your room, like you always did, isolating yourself. Too craven to face your problems, too tired to care. I can’t do this anymore. You’d been wandering through life aimlessly for so long. Searching for something, anything; waiting for that reason to come into your life, like every other person was insistent it would. Forcing yourself through each and every day, waiting and waiting; but it was time you realised, that reason never really existed at all. It was just another lie people told themselves, to try and make sense of their own existence. You were sure they knew as well as you did now, somewhere deep in their hearts, that their lives, your life, was just another figure on the chart. Another meaningless statistic. Your thoughts were racing, clogging up your brain and threatening to spew out of your mouth. You pulled your diary out from under your pillow;

’Thursday, 24th of December’

「Today’s a special day, isn’t it? I don’t know if I’ll be around for Christmas this year, that’s okay, it was never really my thing anyway.

お母さん、ごめんなさい。いま、離れなくちゃダメだ。　　」

“Okaa-san, I’m sorry. I have to leave you now.”

With that, you couldn’t take it anymore. You’d been thinking about this day longer than you could bear, drafting your final words over and over in your head. But when it came down to it, was there really a right thing to say?

Grabbing your grey hoodie, you plugged some headphones into your i-pod. You’d figured that leaving your phone behind was a better idea, it meant that no one could call or track you. You’d do it right, and this time you’d make sure not to wake up ever again. Reaching the pavement outside, you began moving along you streets. You walked slowly, taking the time to look along the streets one last time. It was almost nostalgic, dream-like in a sense. The urban road you grew up which you had never payed much mind, was calming. For once in a long time, you felt truly at peace.

There was a parking building nearby, one which your Okaa-san often parked in. It was tall and old, reaching 7 storeys into the sky, surrounded below by solid, grey asphalt. This was it. In the elevator ride to the top floor your heart was beating hard in your chest, thoughts so loud you thought they’d grow out of your mind and become real. You couldn’t allow yourself to look back now.

Standing by the ledge of the building, you looked out over the city, and wondered if anybody could see you up there. What would they think of you, somebody who’d throw their life away so easily? Hitting play on your i-pod, 生きていたんだよな (ikiteitandayona) by あいみょん (aimyon) began to play. The lyrics were tragic and bittersweet, but the rhythm made your adrenaline pump. You teetered even closer to the building’s edge, legs wobbling. The height made you feel dizzy as you peered down off the drop, and all the way down to the pavement below. But not for a second did you feel scared.

冷たいアスファルトに流れるあの血

♩ ‘On the cold asphalt, their blood flows.’

赤さが綺麗で綺麗で

♩ ‘That red is beautiful, beautiful.’

How long would you fall? You thought, sitting down and swinging your legs over the side of the building. You almost wanted to laugh. It reminded you of all those times you had snuck onto the school roof with your classmate in high school, what was his name again? Kuroo? Right, Kuroo Tetsurou. On the last week of school while you were skipping last period maths together, you had convinced him to smoke a joint with you right there on the roof. Those were the final memories you had ever made together, since you’d each left for different universities. Why were you thinking of him now, of all times?

最後のサヨナラは他の誰でもなく

♩ ‘Their last goodbye,'

Standing up, you leaned back and looking out over the view, one last time.

自分に叫んだんだろう

♩ ‘screamed to nobody but themself.’

You took a breath in, deep enough to feel your lungs burn. Tears stung at your eyes, but you bit them back and closed your eyes. Part of you wished you could fix this all, but you didn’t know how. You didn’t have the energy to try and make things better.

鳥になって雲をつかんで

♩ ‘becoming a bird and grabbing the clouds’

Shuffling your toes over the edge, you had made the decision in your head.

風になって

♩ ‘becoming the wind...’

Your muscles relaxed, and you allowed yourself to fall off of the edge.

“WAIT-!” You heard a scream for a split second, a hand grabbing hopelessly at the back of your hoodie as you began to descend. It was too late now. The wind in your ears blocked out the voice yelling from above, muffling the sound. It was strangely tranquil here, floating down off the the 7th floor, the clearest your head had felt in months. Nevertheless, you couldn’t help but wonder.

Was this the right choice?

Finally, the concrete embraced you as your body slammed into the ground.

[This artwork does not belong to me. I saved it to my laptop a long time ago and now I can’t find the source, if you know the artist please send me a message so I can credit properly.]

________________________________________________________________

Your eyes fluttered open and bright white light flooded your vision.

Where the hell am I?

Everything hurt. Your head was pounding and your mind was fuzzy. Cotton sheets lay underneath your aching body and a mess of black hair lay beside you. Someone was sitting on a chair next to the bed, his cheek resting on your arm, shoulders rising and falling slowly in his sleep.

“Tetsurou?” Your voice came out broken and hoarse.

He lifted his head slowly, eyes red and swollen, had he been crying?

“W-where am I?”

“We’re in the hospital,” he said shakily “the firefighters caught you when you fell.”

The memories came flooding back. That’s right, you jumped. So, that wasn’t the ground you felt back then? Your head was filled with questions, but you weren’t sure where to start. He probably thought you were pathetic too, but part of you was just so happy. Happy you were alive to see him again. Kuroo had to be the only friend who ever really understood you and your stupid humor, having him there reminded you of that. Maybe it had impacted you more than you realised, not having a single person at uni who really got you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He uttered quietly from beside you.

“Tell you what, Tetsurou?” You looked over, sitting up steadily. His eyes were filled with pain.

“I was so scared, why didn’t you tell me what was going on!” Kuroo covered his face with his hand, but you could still see the tears falling onto his lap as he spoke. “I-I love you, you know that right? I still love you, and I would do anything... so why the hell didn’t you come talk to me!” His confession was broken and hurt, but it made your stomach twist. You couldn’t even understand it yourself, why you felt like this.

“What was I supposed to say? I’m pathetic, I don’t have any other reason.” It was true. Compared to most people, your life was easy. You had a family, a home, friends, education. What reason did you really have? To try to end your life, to be unhappy at all.

“I don’t care about that, just please... don’t leave me again.” It was the first time you’d ever heard Kuroo being so serious, and it almost scared you. Tears were stinging in your eyes at his words. You felt his big arms wrap around you, enveloping you in a safe, warm hug as your tears stained his shirt. Were you really so oblivious that you never realised how he felt about you?

“O-okay... and, Tetsurou?”

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”

#haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #kuroo x gender neutral reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo angst #kuroo x reader angst #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo imagine #kuroo tetsuro x reader angst #kuroo tetsuro angst #kuroo tetsuro scenarios #kuroo tetsuro drabble #kuroo tetsuro fanfiction #kuroo tetsuro imagine

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the-odd-job · 3 years

Text

Close Your Eyes to This Disaster Chapter 6: And You Say…

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Chose Not to Use, Rape/Non-Con Category: Other Fandom: Transformers G1 Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Megatron/Sideswipe, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Megatron Additional Tags: Dubcon, Sticky, Abusive Relationships, Mind Games, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Canon-Typical Violence Words: 3163

( Previous )

The Prime—or Prowl, rather, he was the one to set up the schedules—kept his word: they were never put to any patrol longer than frustratingly short. On top of that, they no longer had patrols together, always paired with someone else rather than each other. That one had given them a fit that slagging Ironhide had needed to talk them out of. Since when was Ironhide the voice of reason?

That was discrediting the weapons specialist a little, admittedly. Age had granted him at least some sense, to the effect that he was perfectly reasonable with his arguments. Unfortunately he was also fairly hot-headed, as were the twins. There had been quite a bit of yelling from everyone involved. They had even gained an audience before the time that the twins accepted the fact that in this instance they were safer apart than together.

It still didn’t sit well with them, but they put up with it, in large part because the patrols were short enough that they were never away from each other’s vicinity for long. Despite the other mitigating factors on top of that, such as never being paired with anyone they didn’t get along with—mostly applying to Sunstreaker, that one—it was still enough to have the both of them turn irritable. Even Sideswipe, so known for his high spirits, was just as highly affected by what became the state of their spark. Was he not supposed to be, somehow? No, that was an impossibility.

And of course, there was the fact it wasn’t wise for them to leave the proximity of the Autobot base. It ceased to be an actual order, likely because Prowl realized they would’ve been that much more eager to go against it if it was one, but it was a piece of healthy advice that they actually did follow, for once. They weren’t free of their own concerns in regards to the situation, after all. With all of the memories… They knew more about Megatron now than they had ever thought possible, and a very large part of what they knew wasn’t flattering.

The physical disparity between them was bad enough, but pile on top of that Megatron’s personality and his pattern of always getting what he wanted… Could anyone blame them for harboring some worry, no matter how rare that was for them? They didn’t want to give in to Megatron, but slag, in practice that might be hellishly difficult.

Avoidance wasn’t going to work forever, they knew that much, but it was all they had for now.

End result was that they were a stressed mess on the inside, and it bled to the outside more than just a little. Everyone got in the habit of keeping as much distance from Sunstreaker as possible after the fourth time he got his aft locked in the brig for attacking someone without any real provocation—first Cliffjumper, then Tracks, the usual suspects they were, but after that it was Ironhide, then Hound of all mecha.

He didn’t get off any lighter than usual despite the command making it clear they understood why he was acting out so badly. They were assigned more combat practice as a response, though, just to give them more chances to burn off some of their unnerved energy. Ironhide took to being the one to mostly spar with Sunstreaker, after he, again, failed to go easy enough for it to really count as sparring anymore. The old mech could handle it even when Sunstreaker lost his cool and hit too hard—and Sideswipe wasn’t that much more careful.

Eventually it was the repeated rants they got from Ratchet when he was performing post-“spar” repairs that convinced them to hold back just a bit more.

And then there were the battles. First one, then two, and those were further help when they could just fragging let loose and beat someone to scrap. Prowl had to tell them to tone it down several times, and even so they got looks from their comrades after the Decepticons retreated. Look at the twins, turning even more unhinged than what they usually were! But at least the real fighting calmed them down for a week or two afterwards.

Neither time did it last, though, and then they were back to being holy terrors. Sideswipe held back on the violence, but his temper ran short and his words harsh. He still only managed to make Bluestreak cry one time. Of course he apologized after, was forgiven, and in further practice watched his vocalizer more at least around the gunner.

Sideswipe still became considerably less pleasant company than what he usually was, and aside of the command, no one knew for certain what was causing the change. There was confusion, theories, guesses, and most of them did revolve around Megatron after his more public interest in the beginning.

But they didn’t have the answers for the twins’ changed duties or their worsened behavior when the command respected their privacy and didn’t go tattling—and the twins themselves certainly weren’t about to share that much of their past life.

It was still annoying as all pit to be so affected by the warlord. They didn’t know if he was still trying to reach them. Did they imagine the lingering looks during the battles? Could be, after how hyperaware they became of him. Maybe it was nothing. And when they were away from the Ark… Was Megatron looking for opportunities to approach them, but simply didn’t get them, hence his absence?

Or had he stopped?

They couldn’t believe that. Megatron had made his desire clear, and he wasn’t the type to just stop when facing some resistance on the way to his goal.

And they were right in not believing.

It was a joyride. They were sticking relatively close to the Ark, and definitely close to a city, while still searching for some privacy to drive as fast as their spark was calling for. Just… Take what they could in their severely altered and limited life. Enjoy as much as they were able to and maybe have even a few moments of internal peace afterwards before all the tension came back and set them on edge.

Yet, it was clearly too far from other living beings, because after two curves they took–

He was standing in the shadow cast by the rise of rock on the side of the road—no signature this time either, or they would have noticed him before it was too late.

By the time Megatron stepped onto the road to block their way… It was already far too late. Too late to even slow the fuck down, in fact. They had just the time to curse, then initiate their transformations–

Only to barrel right into Megatron, the both of them. In a show of his size and strength, though, the tyrant had merely taken a steady stance and took the weight, velocity, and impact of both of them with no notable effort.

Sunstreaker stayed upright, staggering away as soon as he had enough wits about him to do so, but Sideswipe wound up sprawled on his back on the ground, groaning weakly from the ache of suddenly decelerated parts. Something had hit this, another had hit that… It was a good thing they were built sturdy; Megatron wasn’t much better than a solid steel wall. Even without any severe damage it still ended with some dented plating.

Their steel wall crouched in front of his scuffed brother—who quickly propped himself up on his arms—and Sunstreaker immediately checked his comms. They were–

…They weren’t blocked.

There was also no sight of Soundwave or anyone else.

Was it just Megatron? Alone? Could they have called the Ark right now and let them know they’d run into the unmaker again?

Instead of doing anything useful, though… Sunstreaker stood out of the way, dumbfounded as he watched Megatron reach for Sideswipe—Sideswipe was staring at the warlord with wide, wide optics, frozen in place–

And Megatron cupped the side of his helm.

They could have– They should–

They needed to call the Ark.

They didn’t.

“You have made it rather difficult to get a hold of you,” Megatron commented, glancing up at Sunstreaker briefly before his attention fell back to Sideswipe. A thumb brushed across his brother’s lips, and when surprise parted them, the thumb dipped in.

What the fuck rang between them, shock too deep for Sideswipe to even remember to do a damn thing as Megatron’s digit gently explored the inside of his mouth: stroking along his glossa, scraping against his denta–

“Didn’t want to see you,” Sunstreaker said after too much of a delay, hating the utter lack of aggression in his voice. Instead he was just breathless; almost a whisper.

But this wasn’t really going as they would have expected. He wasn’t sure what they were actually expecting, but this? This wasn’t it.

“Oh?” Megatron questioned. He didn’t sound offended.

The thumb retreated from Sideswipe’s mouth, but only for the tyrant’s claws to trace the curves of his helmet thoughtfully—with a frown. It was as if he was comparing the present to the past, noting all of the differences in their frame designs… And disliking what he saw.

Sideswipe shivered as the touch just continued. “What do you want?” the red twin asked in a murmur, staring up into the red optics bearing down on him with weight that pinned him in place.

“You,” came the answer, spoken softly.

They’d heard that before.

Sideswipe caught his lower lip between his denta and tried to forget, not think. Not think about that.

Not think of the past. Where was their resolve?

“Can’t have it,” the red twin managed with just the smallest hint of a growl in his voice.

“And why not?”

“You’re the enemy.”

“But I wasn’t always.”

“You were.” The bad they could remember.

Resolve.

Megatron changed the topic smoothly. “Why did you disappear?”

Silence. Sideswipe glared; Sunstreaker frowned, as much as Megatron wasn’t looking at him.

When they gave nothing in the way of an answer, the tyrant made a guess. “Was it because of your owner?”

Ugh… “Yes.”

“Not by choice?”

Was this the right spot to admit to anything? They hazarded an answer anyway. “…No?”

“There you have it,” Megatron rumbled, and they got the feeling they had already shared too much—given Megatron ammunition to use against them, if he wouldn’t have been able to guess correctly anyway. “You didn’t leave by choice. If you had gotten to choose, I wonder… Would you have left at all?”

Sideswipe bared his denta, only for the corner of Megatron’s mouth to pull into a smile. It was a genuinely amused little thing, as if he found their resistance charming. Not worth taking seriously, because what could they truly have done against him, even together?

The red twin went back to mere glowering, and they didn’t answer.

Megatron gave them a moment before he phrased the question differently. “Did you have any reason to leave?”

“Oh, you slagger,” Sunstreaker growled. Megatron didn’t avert his gaze from Sideswipe, but he didn’t need to. The golden twin continued, “Are you willingly forgetting all the shit you put me through, again? I had every reason to leave and my only fragging regret is that I didn’t so earlier.”

“You lie,” their old lover stated simply.

And that was all. He said nothing else. When it was confirmed that he would just let the silence reign and pet Sideswipe’s face with his thumb, Sideswipe was the one to speak their confused, “What?”

“Had you reason to leave, you would have simply left. Am I wrong?” He didn’t give them a chance to answer before he continued, “But you had no reason, and you didn’t leave before someone forced you.”

“It’s not that simple!” Sunstreaker tried to argue, gesturing angrily at nothing in particular–

But Megatron didn’t let him finish his argument. “Is it not? Didn’t you make it clear you would find a way to go, were you given a reason?”

Sideswipe opened his mouth to speak; Megatron cut him off before he could make a peep, “But I never gave you a reason. You stayed until someone else said you couldn’t anymore. Can you blame me for thinking you would have remained by my side otherwise?”

Sunstreaker ground his denta together but held onto his argument. “You kept me from leaving even if I had wanted to,” he accused as quickly as he could, before Megatron said anything more.

“If you had wanted to? Which is it? Did you want to, or did you not?” the tyrant asked, still holding Sideswipe captive as effectively as if his brother was paralyzed. His thumb brushed across his cheek, his nasal ridge, to his lips… It was hard to not focus on that too much. “Answer honestly. What do you have to lose by speaking the truth?”

Everything. Sunstreaker balled his servos into fists, turning his gaze to the side before the urge to beat the fragging bastard’s helm in got the better of him. Where would that have gotten him? Fragged into the ground again, if he knew anything about their lover.

But he wanted honesty? Slagging… What was the honest answer, anyway?

They could remember. Even that very last evening, they could remember. “No,” Sideswipe said, wanting so badly to turn his helm away from Megatron’s all-seeing scrutiny and too gentle touch, yet having not the freedom of motion to do so– “I didn’t want to leave.”

Their fields blushed with the old emotion—the thrill only Megatron could cause, heady and suffocating–

He’d never gotten enough of it. Everything had only added to the… Danger. The threat of what Megatron could have done to him, and yet… What he never did. No matter how he pushed, there were things Megatron never did, things he never said.

But what he did to so many others. Sunstreaker had been special. The exception. He had owned a piece of Megatron no one else did, that others scarcely even saw.

What was the tradeoff?

All the things they’d had… The things Megatron had done for them, never asking anything in return but their loyalty.

Megatron’s mouth pulled into a smile as true as any of his were, but this time Sideswipe was the one to speak before giving him a chance, “But that doesn’t mean I want to come back.”

“It does not?” Megatron questioned. “Do you hold loyalty to a faction you were forced into?”

“That’s past,” Sunstreaker growled. “Things have–“

“And not only that,” the warlord continued with no heed for his turn to speak, “but they knowingly took your memories. Why? Did they think it best you didn’t remember your past in fear of where your loyalty would be if you did? That it was better to have a soldier that was never given a choice, that knew of nothing else? Incapable of making an educated decision for himself?”

“Fuck you,” Sideswipe snarled, trying to yank his helm away, “You wouldn’t have given me a choice either.”

Megatron wouldn’t let him go anywhere, tightening his hold until Sideswipe was still again. “Oh, but I did,” he said, near growling now. “Hadn’t I already begun to gather my followers, formed the Decepticons? Didn’t I have more mecha join under my banner each and every day? Yet I never once told you you needed to do the same.”

That… Wasn’t untrue. They’d barely ever even discussed the rebellion despite how hard Megatronus—and later Megatron—had worked on it, had they? Megatron hadn’t brought work into their relationship.

He had to have read their uncertainty, because the growl turned into a purring rumble rising directly from the warlord’s engine—soothing, almost. “You see. But you can still choose. It’s not too late.”

“No,” Sunstreaker said immediately. “Let the past be past. Optimus, Prowl, Ratchet, ‘Hide—they never did anything to me and have nothing to do with the mistakes of others.”

“Haven’t they?” Megatron asked, lifting one of his optical ridges as if he didn’t believe him. “How do they treat you, really? With true understanding?”

They held to their silence, not that it would have necessarily mattered anyway. If Megatron wanted to speak, he spoke.

But their silence was an answer of sorts anyway, and the tyrant had more to say. ”What of the rank and file? Do they treat you as one of their own?”

“Yes,” Sideswipe spoke up at that, snarling. “I have friends, mecha that care about me–“

“If they truly cared about you, wouldn’t they learn to understand you, as I did?” He couldn’t have known if any of them did or didn’t, he was just making guesses–

Sideswipe bared his denta again. “It’s not that simple.”

“It isn’t? Do tell, what is so complex about it?”

“I work different than they do. They don’t understand something so disparate. They see two frames and think I’m two, they don’t see—and that’s normal–“

“You’re making excuses for them,” Megatron interrupted him. “I see you; what is preventing them from doing the same?”

Sideswipe’s jaw snapped shut and Sunstreaker frowned. What was preventing them? Their own biases and limited view of the world? Didn’t that apply to everyone?

Then why was Megatron different?

The warlord offered the one explanation he seemed to believe, “They don’t care about you enough to bother to understand something so special—so beautiful and unique,” he rumbled at them. Sideswipe blinked up at the gaze that had never once left him. ”Primus forbid they go through the trouble of doing so. How many have even tried? How many of them yet failed when it turned out to be too much effort?”

They’d spoken of these things, back in the Pits. They’d shared their frustrations with Megatronus, yet their acceptance of it all—they were alien on their own world and that was all most would see, it was something they just had to live with–

But also their pleasure over him being unlike most.

He wasn’t the only one. There had been others, even during the war–

But they were a rare breed and dead by now.

Megatron wasn’t, though. Megatron was living proof it could be done… Maybe not to perfection, but to an impressive point nonetheless, if one…

…Cared enough to do so.

“No,” Sideswipe said all the same, finding his growl for the next words, “you won’t have me.”

“Leave,” Sunstreaker continued with a snarl of his own, taking one step closer to Megatron and Sideswipe. Sideswipe tried to yank himself free again, but he only succeeded because Megatron let him.

Megatron let him pull away, get up, and step out of reach, rising from his own crouch at a leisurely pace. “Think on what I said,” he said, stepped two paces back and–

Transformed and took to the skies.

( Next )

#transformers #maccadam #maccadams #megatron #sunstreaker #sideswipe #fic #2021 #disaster

9 notes · View notes

watarigarasu · 4 years

Text

October 28th – Spell Book

13 Days of Spooky Writing Event

Pairing: Thorin x Reader

Word count: 2,080

Warnings: Slight violence

Author’s note: None

Deadly silence fell upon the Company of Dwarves sitting around the campfire. In that moment, even the forest around them seemed to suddenly grow mute as the unexpected confession was made, the one nobody could predict. Every pair of curious eyes was now glued to the woman sitting with her legs crossed on the ground and nervously playing with her fingers, the intense nervousness hanging heavy in the air.

It was not the first time when the Company was interested in the newest member, one of the race of Men, so young comparing to their long lifespans yet no less motivated to help them with their mission. The task to reclaim the homeland of Erebor was of a great importance, after all, and you were taking it seriously from the very first day your roads met. The leader, Thorin Oakenshield, was apparently the only one suspicious about your so-called good will and clear intentions, never allowing himself to sleep peacefully whenever you were keeping a guard at night. During the days of the journey, he kept watching you discreetly, looking for any signs of betrayal—something which could finally give him a valuable answer for the same questions flowing through his head over and over again.

Why? Why were you trying so hard to help them? Why were you risking your life, when they promised you nothing but danger and creatures of the night creeping behind every corner? Why did you leave your home to join a band of infamous Dwarves? And how, for Mahal’s sake, were you supposed to be any way useful in that case?

For the first few weeks, you were fun to be around, you knew stories they were not familiar with and your sense of humour seemed to fit the one of Thorin’s nephews. You showed interest in Dwalin’s ways of fighting and your eyes grew huge whenever Balin was sharing one of his wisdoms. Still, when it came to any dangerous encounters, you were no more useful than the hobbit, or maybe even lesser. You grew tired way too soon, your long legs not used to wandering for so long, you could barely hold a sword and your aim was poor when it came to using a bow and arrow. The only thing Thorin considered as odd after spending a month with you among the rest of the Company was that he had never caught a glimpse of what were you so fiercely hiding in your bag, the one you carried with yourself everywhere you go.

It was a serene evening at the edge of a meadow, full of now closed flowers. The moon did not peek from behind the heavy clouds but it was not raining at least and so, Thorin considered it as a good time and place to take a rest. Tonight it was supposed to be your turn to take the watch, that is why he quickly decided to take an advantage of the loudly snoring comrades and ask you few questions face to face.

You surprised him, though, when he approached you and sat heavily by your side.

“You rarely rest, sir,” you noticed and observed the spark of puzzlement in his eyes. In the dark of the night, they seemed almost completely black, so much unlike the bright blue whenever sunlight fell upon them.

“I will rest once we reach our destination.”

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

The way you looked at him expectantly, and with a hint of sadness beneath the mask of daily exhaustion caused him to lick his lips, the taste of ale still present between the thick hair of his beard and moustache. You seemed to be honest and Thorin lived for long enough to be able to point at those who were trying to wrong him.

“Does that surprise you?” he answered your question with another.

“No. When I think about it, not in the slightest.” You shrugged. “I just thought I managed to prove my loyalty.”

“How so?”

“By staying there with you and helping when needed.”

Thorin shushed you with a single raise of his hand. It was much bigger than yours, apparently capable of fitting yours in completely—a perfect solution for the upcoming cool, autumn days. You quickly dismissed the thought.

“Do not get me wrong but the mere fact that you are still here does not prove anything. On the contrary.”

“Do you believe I’m a spy then?”

“I said no such thing.”

“That’s what you insinuated, sir.”

“I simply do not understand you…” He paused for a while, listening to the crickets in the grass. “Your motives, your goals. You said you wanted to help but how do you intend to do it without an ability to protect yourself? If not for Dwalin’s reflexes, you would be long dead.”

You remained silent and involuntarily squeezed the fabric of your bag, which was now resting against your leg. Suddenly, it seemed to grow heavy, just like your head, full of worries and wonders. Thorin’s words hurt you, that was true, but you could also understand him and his point of view.

If only the reality was so easy to explain.

“How do you want to prove yourself worthy, human?” His tone was authoritative and you could no longer bear the intensity of his gaze upon you.

Loud snoring did not fog your mind, the chaos of thoughts making it almost impossible to think straight. You did not have an answer for that question and you were still afraid to reveal the truth, however, you knew that you could not hide it forever. Not from the clever sight of Thorin.

Hesitantly, you reached to your bag and grabbed the hard cover of the book you were carrying but in the exact same moment when you took it out and the dim light of the fireplace fell upon it, there was a loud, ominous blowing in the horns echoing from behind your back.

Thorin quickly stood up, just like the rest of the Company was immediately rushing to grab their weapons, as if they were never asleep in the first place. Whatever kind of enemy you were going to face now, they surely outnumbered you. The book was still resting in your hand when everyone prepared for the battle and when you opened it on the page marked with a bird’s feather, you knew that it was the end of the secrets.

The group of orcs which attacked you was not as countless as you were afraid of and apparently the brave Dwarves knew how to handle them, even after being abruptly awakened. The lack of daylight did not make it easier for you to avoid the arrows and blows from the axes, just like the high grasses and roots peeking from the ground did not create a very comfortable field for a fight. This time, however, you decided not to flee nor to hide your doings from the rest of the Company members who happened to be around you in the same time and so, you quickly recalled the spells from the book to shield yourself and them if necessary.

However, when you heard Ori’s desperate cry for Thorin from afar, your focus was lost and you almost lost the balance in your legs when the orc’s axe hit the magical shield you hid under. You managed to stand your ground and used all your force to push him away, enough to give you space to run to the direction where you believed Thorin must have been, most likely fighting one of the strongest opponents, as he always did.

When you ran to the edge of the forest, you noticed him clashing swords with an enormous and particularly horrifying looking orc. They were both moving fast and aiming to kill—certainly not a place for you to interrupt. Quickly, you looked into the book to find a perfect spell, something which could stop the creature before Thorin would get seriously injured, anything which could help you save him… Whatever it takes.

Thorin fell down on his back after a heavy blow was aimed at him and the groan of pain he let out was like a bucket of cold water thrown on your head. You could no longer wait and simply watch, you had to do something right now and so, you muttered the first spell which seemed to be the most suitable in this situation—the one you have never used before.

Dark smoke fell from your fingertips and glided right above the ground to the orc who lifted his weapon ready to attack, but before he managed to swing the sword, dense fog blinded him and bound his limbs until you could no longer recognize his shape from behind the thick mist. Then, you heard a bloodcurdling shriek, the one which almost made you cower in fear of what have you just done, if not the constantly repeating thought that you had to help Thorin, that you had to save him.

Eventually, it was Thorin who stood on his legs, grabbed the sword and blindly stabbed the orc, finishing his agonizing moans with a single cut. Only then, the smoke seemed to thin and withdrew, coming back to you in a blink of an eye and disappearing in our hand, the one still held above the open spell book.

Thorin looked at you with wide open eyes and unreadable expression, the corpse of an orc motionless by his feet and bloody sword in his hand.

Sitting around the campfire, members of the Company were tending their wounds and exchanging some of the most interesting moments of the battle they have just won. Naturally, the most excited were Fíli and Kíli, bragging about how many orcs did they slaughter tonight. Thorin was silent and although his gaze was directed at the fire, you were the only one who occupied his thoughts at that moment.

“What was that?” he asked suddenly and the heroic stories quieted down, the Company looking at him first before realizing that his question was directed toward you, sitting at the opposite side of the campfire.

You were speechless, not knowing where to start and the haughty tone of his voice not making it easier for you.

“What was that?” he hissed. “For how long were you able to make this tricks?”

This time you managed to take the book out of the bag, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes upon you. You showed it to Thorin in the light of the fire; the heavy cover and engraved symbols at the front.

“Since I bought this spell book,” you confessed. “At first I didn’t know what’s what. There was a wandering merchant in my town and he offered me a low price for that book. I thought it was interesting, it seemed antique and I believed it may contain some interesting stories but apparently…”

“Apparently it was a book full of black magic spells,” Thorin finished for you and you lowered your head in shame. “How could you be so reckless?” He spat. “How could you be so near-sighed and ignorant? Do you have any idea of all the calamities you could bring upon us with that foul thing?”

You felt like a scolded child now, tears picking at the corners of your eyes. Perhaps Thorin was right, you should have never bought it, just like you should have never jeopardize the Company during their journey.

“Nevertheless…” Thorin’s voice was much more calm now, causing you to look up at him and his stoic face. To your relief, there was no signs of disgust toward you, as you previously expected. “The truth is that you saved my life and therefore I owe you.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anybody, I swear,” you added. “I know it’s black magic but I thought that maybe (even though it sounds quite stupid right now) I could use it for good purposes. To help the others. Maybe black magic is only black when the heart of the user is such but under right circumstances it can be different.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Thorin nodded. “Yet you still have to learn a lot, little witch.”

“But we are willing to help!” Kíli interrupted suddenly.

“Not as a punching bags, of course, but still,” added Fíli.

You giggled at their excitement and thought that surprisingly, purchasing the spell book was not as bad decision as you worried about.

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