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lambtotheslaughterr · 2 years

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Awake

A Rafe Cameron Mini Series

PART TWO

[THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THEMES OF NON-CON/DUB-CON, MENTAL-EMOTIONAL-PHYSICAL ABUSE, ETC. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. 18+. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT]

WC: 4K

Dividers provided by @firefly-graphics

PART ONE

SERIES MASTERLIST

[THIS SERIES WILL CONTAIN INACCURATE MEDICAL CONDITIONS. I HAVE CERTAINLY MADE THIS DISEASE UP & DO NOT CLAIM ANY OF IT TO BE ACCURATE. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. 18+. MINORS DNFI]

a reminder that Rafe uses the alias Adrian in this story

It was hard to believe that a month had passed since you moved into your first apartment. City living proved to be everything you imagined to be. Though you lived in a more residential area of downtown, it didn’t hide the noise of the city on the weekends. When you would be up during your normal midnight hours, you’d hang by your corner window in the living room, listening intently to horns honking, the rumbling of an el train, a clamor of voices as people walked up & down the streets. It became your ritual.

Your mom joined you on your second weekend in the apartment, aghast at the sight of your mattress in the living room. She convinced you to move it into the bedroom after she ordered you a bedframe. It was a vintage one with brass piping as the headboard. It was a classic look & fit well with the aesthetic of your apartment, a pleasant clash of the times.

That weekend you & your mom spent most of the time holed up in your apartment, putting the living room together. During the day while you slept, she would go shopping with a list of items you had in mind for you apartment. Another downside of your disease is that it kept you from being able shop like a normal person, but you figured it’d give your mom something to do. When she would return, followed behind by movers she hired on the spot, you two would unpack furniture & assemble them together. Then when nine p.m. would roll around, your mom would go sleep in your bedroom while you messed around the living room to any which way you liked.

The night your mom left, she booked a later flight so you could see her off at the airport. It was for her sake. But you didn’t argue. You knew it was tough for her, god you couldn’t imagine. Your only daughter having been in an accident that stole her livelihood then watching as she embarked on a solo adventure hundreds of miles away. You understood it, you just couldn’t feel it.

“Call me if you need anything. Even if it’s three in the morning.” She said to you, her hand cupping your cheek gently. Her eyes were glossy as she held back her tears. You were thankful they never fell.

“I will, mom. Promise.” You returned, allowing yourself to enjoy the warmth of her palm.

Then she was off. The taxi ride back to your apartment was only a 40 minute drive. It was late at night & you rested your head against the seat, taking in all the sights of the city. When the driver dropped you off, you paid & tipped then began making way for the front of your building.

You were about to enter the code to gain entrance when the sounds of a piano filled the air. Your heart soared. Leading up to your mothers visit, you had told her about the faceless piano playing maestro that kept you company during your waking hours. Every night since the night you moved in, the music never failed to come. But much to your sadness, the whole time your mother was in town the piano sounds never came. It was something you were looking forward to sharing with your mother, her being a classical musician herself. But the maestro was quiet all weekend.

Yet there you stood at the entrance to your building after seeing your mom off at the airport & the music had begun. You stood there, hardly moving, hardly breathing as you let the notes sway your head gently from side to side. It eased you, made you feel safe. You opened your eyes & stared at the building across the street. Still, you couldn’t decipher exactly which unit it could possibly be coming from.

Your hope to make friends with the mystery player died early on when you realized that they probably didn’t ever leave their apartment at night, & that was the only time you could. So, you surmised that listening to their playing would have to be enough. And indeed it was.

It was a slow night at work. You sat at the island in your kitchen, your laptop open in front of you & the headset you wore made your ears bend in discomfort. Your apartment was dark, save only for a crystal lamp next to the sink. After living in the apartment for a month, you slowly came to prefer your apartment being lit mainly by the lights from outside.

You watched as your screen waited to be connected to the next caller, your left hand mindlessly stirring the spoon in your mug of tea to the left. It was almost five in the morning, you’d have to be going to bed soon while the rest of the world got their days started. It was mid-October so it didn’t start getting light out for another hour or so.

After ten more minutes of silence, you decided you would clock out for your shift but just before you could hit the end button on your laptop, your headset rang, indicating a call connection.

“Thank you for reaching out. My name is _____. May I ask your name?” You began, your voice soft & welcoming.

“Do I have to use my real name?” An even softer voice asks on the other end, her voice shaking.

“‘Course not. What can I call you?”

For the next twenty minutes, you spoke with a young woman whose best friends boyfriend assaulted her. It was a story you heard often—assault—but it never got easier to listen to. She cried a lot & you extended your help in any way, offering up resources & phone numbers to affordable counselors. She was receptive to them but you could hear in her voice she just needed to tell someone what happened to her, she had been hiding it for over a year.

“They’re getting married next summer.” She told you, “She asked me to be her maid of honor.”

Your brows furrowed in a frown, understanding the turmoil this faceless stranger would face as she stood next to her best friend, watching her get married to the man who hurt her.

“Has anything like this happened to you?” While it wasn’t unusual to share your own experiences in this job, in fact it was sometimes encouraged depending on the perceived stability of the caller, you always struggled in offering your own experiences. You couldn’t remember them. So, you always turned to the only one you knew well enough about.

“I’ve not been through what you have, no.” You replied, “I was in an accident two years ago & now I live with long-term amnesia.”

You heard her sniffle on the other end, the tone in her voice piquing interest as the focus was slowly turned onto yourself, “Like, you don’t remember anything before?”

“Right.” You inhaled sharply.

“What happened?” She asked, the shaking in her voice was still there but you knew if you spoke about your trauma & how you’re still overcoming it, it may help her too.

“I used to live on an island & I really liked to swim.” You began, “One day, I went out during a storm, thinking I was stronger than five foot tall waves. And I wasn’t. At some point, I got caught in a riptide & thrown around. Was found on the shore a couple hours after then woke up in the hospital not knowing who I was.”

“But how did you lose your memories? I always thought you had to hit your head or something like in the movies.”

“It’s not known for sure but the wounds on my head & body suggested I was repeatedly thrown against a cliff face until I got swept to shore.” You shared, recalling when you were in the hospital bandaged up & the doctors couldn’t accurately pinpoint exactly how you hurt your head. But there was no other alternative.

“Oh my god…” Your caller gasped, “That’s horrible.”

“Fortunately, I don’t remember it.” You assured her, “And I’m doing okay now.”

“That’s good…” She replied, her voice growing faint, tired. You sat in silence for a moment longer, then she spoke again, “Will I be okay?”

In this job, you couldn’t make promises but you could encourage, “I think if you want to be okay you will be. Now, I’ve given you a few phone numbers for counselors & resources. Those are there only if you decide you want to use them, okay? Otherwise, you can always call back here & we will always listen.”

“Can I request you?” That was a question you got every now & then, & it always ached when you had to answer it.

“Unfortunately no. We’re given calls based at random.” You heard her sigh dejectedly, so you reassured you, “I swear to you, though. We are all here for you. Any time, any day, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice cracked, “Thank you for listening to me, _____. And I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

A small smile graced your lips at her condolence, “Thank you for opening up to me & sharing you story. You will overcome this.”

The following night, around nine, you decided to return to the food carts for your dinner plans. You had been cooking a lot in the last month, wanting to not waste the size of the kitchen, but you deserved a night off. After wrapping a scarf around your neck & slipping into a pair of black boots, you exited your building.

You were crossing the street towards the building where the piano maestro lived. As you walked in front of it, your neck craned back so you could stare up at the face of it. Had you been looking ahead like a normal person you could’ve avoided the collision you found yourself in but no such luck.

With an oomph, you abruptly walked into what felt like a wall. Suddenly, your jacket was soaked down the front of it, whatever that spilled was now all over your clothes & shoes.

“Oh my god!” You gasped, the coldness of the chilled liquid forcing your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“Oh shit, shit!” A male voice sounded, “Fuck, I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Shaking the excess drink off your hands, you allowed your eyes to fall to the person before you as they kneeled to the ground, a wad of napkins in their hands as they wiped at your boots. From where you stood, you could tell he was around your age. His hair was a light brown & styled like he just got out of bed. Though he was bent over, you could tell he was tall & on the leaner side.

“No, it’s okay. Really.” You reached out, unsure if you should touch his shoulder or not. Instead, you stepped back so he would stop wiping at your shoes, “Really. It’s okay. I wasn’t paying any attention either.”

The man finally raised his face, his eyes meeting your own. You felt your heart flutter in your chest. You hadn’t expected him to be so good-looking. His eyes were a grey blue that were filled with curiosity, as well as guilt. You smiled at him, “It’s an old jacket anyway. Shoes, too.”

He rose to his full height, which was well over you, so you’re forced to draw up the length of his body until you land on his face. His brows furrowed, “Are you sure? I mean, I can run up to my apartment really quick, give you a free jacket for the mess. It’s not a problem.”

You laughed the offer away, “Please, it’s not necessary. I’ll live.”

Finally the regret left his eyes & he traded you a smile of his own. One that had your cheeks flushing. Dropping your gaze, you stared at your feet momentarily before you made out a wrapper that fell out of his bag.

“Yummy Mummy.” You voiced. It’s the name of the food cart you were just on your way to.

“Yeah.” He said, his eyes looking at the remains of his uneaten food, “Late dinner.”

When you moved to the city, you knew your chances of making friends or any semblance of a connection would be slim. Yet there you were, standing outside your building with the perfect stranger who also happened to be eating from your favorite food cart. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Actually, I was heading there now.” You told him, “Let me buy you dinner? Since I made you drop yours.”

“No no. That’s okay, I got leftovers upstairs.”

You crinkled your nose in disgust, “Bleh, so do I. But I also told myself that I deserved a night of someone else doing the cooking for once so please. I insist. Otherwise I’ll feel guilty for the rest of the night that I sent a man home with an empty stomach.”

He laughed, his mouth opening to show off a set of straight white teeth. The smile didn’t fall from his face as he looked you over innocently before he shrugged once, “Alright. You have a convincing argument. But really, I just can’t be the reason someone as cute as you goes home feeling bad over a blind idiot like me.”

The use of the word ‘cute’ made your stomach flip & you drop your gaze again, “Great. Well, shall we?”

“After you.” He returned, gesturing with his arm in the direction of the food carts. “I’m Adrian, by the way.”

You tell him your name, thinking to yourself that his name fits him very well—handsome, charming.

“So, Yummy Mummy, huh? What’s your usual?”

“I’m boring. I get their beef burger & fries.” You said, “But it never fails.”

Adrian nodded in agreement, “That it never does.”

“What about you? What’s your go-to?”

“I’m a shrimp sandwich guy myself.” He tucked his hands into his jean pockets, his eyes remaining on you as the two of you walked side by side.

“Shrimp? This far inland?” You tried to hide your distaste, jesting “I wouldn’t trust it.”

Adrian bit his lip in ashamed agreement, “I know, I know. But it makes me think of home. So when I miss it, I go get my shrimp sandwich.”

“Oh?” You arched an eyebrow, “Not a city rat then?”

“Hell no.” He retorted, a half-hearted smile gracing his lips, “Seaside, born & raised.”

“Me too!” You’re surprised by your enthusiasm, especially since you loathed the island now, seeing it as a cage. But the excitement in meeting someone unexpectedly, especially at this time of night who happened to be a very good-looking man & is also from the coast made you feel rejuvenated.

Your elation made him grin widely, “No shit? Where from?”

You rolled your eyes, waving your hand in dismissal, “Just some little island off the coast of North Carolina. Nothing to write home about.”

He frowned slightly at the statement but quickly washed it away with a shrug, “That’s too bad. I would’ve never left my home town if I didn’t have to.”

There’s a hint of sorrow in his voice. You wanted to ask more, having grown accustomed to hearing peoples stories thanks to your job. But before you could, Adrian’s eyes looked ahead & widened with eagerness, “Here we are.”

Following his line of sight, you realized you’ve made it to the food carts. Yummy Mummy’s purple & green cart just off to the left of the small square.

Adrian & you get behind another couple just as they finish ordering. He stepped up & ordered for the both of you. It’s not what you expected but you had to admit that you didn’t mind. You reached into your jacket to pull out your cash when Adrian produced a card, handing it to the cart attendant.

“Hey!” You exclaimed, subconsciously slapping him in the arm, “I was supposed to pay for your dinner.”

Adrian smiled down at you, accepting his card back, “Well, now I’ve paid for my dinner & yours too. What are you gonna do about it?”

His eyes narrowed playfully in a challenge, a look that you couldn’t help but concede under, “Fine. But next time you let me get the goods, got it?”

“I like the sound of ‘next time’.” The flirtatious tone of his comment forced a soft, awkward laugh from you.

This was something you & your therapist had spent a great deal talking about: dating. Men, sex, relationships. And what all that would mean in your rebirth. What she told you was that it would ultimately be your decision on what, & who, they knew. If you were open about your accident early on, you’d have to anticipate for them to grow curious about who you were before. If you waited some time to truly get to know them before you told them, you would likely be more comfortable sharing what you knew with them but always risked growing resentment at who you were before. Then of course there was the third choice: never tell them. But with that, then they would never really know you, & you would never be able to bring them home, unless you had your friends & family lie & that was already out of the question.

All of the conversations you had had with your therapist raced through your mind as Adrian led you two to a nearby table.

“Hey, are you okay?” His question breaks you free from your mind. You shook your head, offering an apologetic smile, “Yeah, sorry. Just tired, is all.”

“Long day?” He asked, which forced you to chuckle slightly at the irony in his question. Your day was only just getting started.

“Hardly.” You replied, “No, I, uh, just finished getting settled into my apartment so I’m feeling the effects of moving now.”

“So you just moved here then, too?” Adrian’s brows furrowed in disbelief but his smile smoothed it, “Damn, we have a lot in common.”

“You too?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, but shrugged, “Well, I’ve been here since the beginning of September apartment hunting, but I moved into my place not too long ago.”

“Is it creepy if I ask where you moved into?” You teased, not expecting him to answer. He leaned across the table, lowering his voice despite no one being close enough to hear him at a normal level, “It is but I like em a little creepy.”

You snickered, shaking your head to hide your reddened cheeks, “Oh, whatever.”

Adrian laughed gently at your blushed state. He opened his mouth to say something else when your order number was called out. You went to stand up but he briefly touched your arm, telling you stay. You chewed your lip in thought as he walked away, closing your eyes in an attempt to slow down the beating of your heart. You had just met the man & now you were acting like a school aged girl who was experiencing her first crush.

In a way though, you realized that that is exactly what was happening. For the past two years, much of your social interactions have been with your family, friends, therapist & staff at your medical appointments. You couldn’t recall a time where you spent any significant amount of time with someone whom you didn’t know so well. Adrian would, technically, be your first real friend in your rebirth. Your eyes strayed to him as he took two paper plates from the cart attendant. Just looking at him made your heart race. Adrian would be your first crush too, it appeared.

When he returned to the table, he placed down a plate before you & one before him. You thanked him, reaching for your burger but paused when you realized it wasn’t your beef burger. Looking at Adrian’s plate, expecting to see him about to eat your food in a case of an accidental swap, you saw that his food was the same as yours: a shrimp sandwich.

“Uh, Adrian.” You said, “I didn’t order this.”

“I know.” He nodded innocently, “I did. I figured the only way I’d allow you to pass judgement on my prized shrimp sandwich would be for you to have it yourself. Besides, maybe you miss home a little bit, too.”

You knew the action was innocent & filled with sentiment, but it still made you uncomfortable. Adrian bit into his sandwich, oblivious to your hesitation as you stared at the shrimp hanging out the sides of the pita bread. Part of you wanted to reprimand him, tell him that you didn’t miss your home & you viewed your home as cage & that’s why you left. You wanted to tell him that you appreciated the gesture but it upset you that he didn’t ask you beforehand. You wanted to say all of this but never uttered a word.

Adrian’s eyes fell to your food, finally taking notice that you weren’t touching it, “Is everything okay?”

No, you wanted to say, this isn’t okay. But you reminded yourself that he didn’t know any better because he didn’t know you. Not yet anyway. It’s been a long time since you’ve made a new friend & you didn’t know how easy it potentially was to lose them. So you forced a smile on your face, nodding. Bringing the shrimp sandwich to your mouth, you took a bite, loathing the taste that flooded your mouth.

“So, thanks for dinner.” You said. The two of you were just about to round the corner to where your building lied in wait.

“My pleasure.” Adrian smiled down at you, his eyes glistening in the darkness of the dimly lit streets. Again, your chest felt hallowed out by the beating of your heart.

“But remember, I get the bill next time.” As well as what I actually wanted, you wanted to add but didn’t. Adrian rolled his eyes but nodded, “Okay, okay. I’ll be sure to leave my wallet at home.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at him to which he laughed. You joined him but slowly stopped as your building came into sight.

“Well, I guess this is goodnight.” You sighed, saddened that it had to end, “You didn’t have to walk me home, though.”

Adrian’s brows furrowed in confusion at your statement. He stopped in his walk to look at you, “I thought you were walking me home.”

You chuckled awkwardly, mirroring the expression on his face, “No, I was walking home & you were walking with me.” You pointed behind you towards your building.

“No way.” Adrian’s lips parted in mild shock but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“What?” You asked, utterly confused by his reaction.

“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, neighbor.” He returned, crossing his arms proudly.

“Don’t tell me…” You hinted, which would honestly be too much in common for your tastes in a single night, but when he shook his head once, you felt slightly relieved.

Adrian pointed up. You follow the motion, your eyes meeting the face of the building across from your own as you the two of you stood under it. The piano maestro’s building.

“You live here?” You asked, your voice coming out almost hushed as you stared at the building in awe.

“Sure do. Top floor.” His eyes were still on you when you dropped your own to meet his.

There was no way he could be the faceless piano player. The building had to have at least 50 units. What would the chances be that you’d meet the stranger who kept you company at night? You opened your mouth, about to ask him if he was indeed the maestro but Adrian beat you to it, a warm smile gracing his features.

“Would you like to come up?”

Part Two of the Awake series. I cranked this shit so fast (I usually edit as I write but tonight that was fortunately not the case).

Gave some background on reader's accident as well as finally intorduced Rafe/Adrian!

Please talk to me! Let me know what you think by liking, commenting, reblogging, or dropping an ask. Send me the love, it feeds my writing.

Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this second part! I look forward to continuing it.

Just a heads up that I do work full-time & go to school full-time so I am busy but just know that I am always writing so I can update on here when I can. I will not forget about you. Promise. Just please be patient>.<

Thank you for reading!

Beau<3

PART THREE

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#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #dark!rafe cameron #rafe cameron #outer banks fanfiction #dark!fic

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inkykeiji · 3 years

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you be the match, i will be your fuse

fluffy anon said: dabi coming home after an absolutely horrid day at work and just needing to be absolutely BABIED by reader (i’m talking cuddling in bed, taking a bath with him and washing his hair then getting out just rubbing his back as he sleeps with his head on your chest)

genre: angst + fluff, laced with just a hint of smut (like two sentences)

notes: aaaah happy birthday dabi!!! this has absolutely nothing to do with your birthday but eeee ily | title cred: sure thing by miguel

warnings: 18+, implied/mentioned death of a child, one instance of implied past physical abuse, self-destructive behaviour + coping mechanisms, co-dependent toxic relationship

words: 3.5k

It’s thundering the day it happens, ferocious growls that rumble through your apartment—a tiny, quaint space you share with Dabi, full of faulty appliances and cracked linoleum—rolling, fluffy grey clouds blanketing the entire sky, swollen with restrained rain droplets as a storm brews within them. Little fingers idly toy with the yellowed pages of your worn pulp fiction novel, flipping through them and bending corners as your eyes search the angry sky, chewing on your cheek.

Dabi should’ve been home by now. It’s not like him to be late without calling, without letting his babygirl know what’s going on—he knows the way you worry, the way you overthink yourself into a frenzy, the way you’re so clingy and needy, teases you about it incessantly and tells you he thinks it’s cute—and a deep sense of dread takes root in the pit of your stomach, dark and bitter and unfurling, quickly spreading throughout the cavity of your chest.

His phone must be off—no, it’s never off, he doesn’t do that anymore, not since you stumbled into his life—his phone must be dead, your repeated calls growing increasingly frequent and urgent every time you’re greeted with the drone of his automatic voicemail.

Something’s wrong, horribly so.

It’s evident the moment he arrives home, scratched brass doorknob slamming against the wall, deepening the crater its left from past incidents of a similar manner.

It infects the air around him, hanging heavy and thick, its dense presence nearly suffocating. His shoulders slump under the pressure, the weight of whatever he’s carrying practically crushing, as he drags his crimson splattered boots through the front door, soles scraping against the cheap hardwood, bringing the putrid scent of charred flesh with him—his or someone else’s, you don’t know.

You swear you can almost see it, this—this thing, this aura, enveloping him in its haughty embrace as his chest heaves under a deep, controlled breath, pausing in the foyer as the door shuts behind him.

Bare feet pad against the floor, your legs moving without your explicit permission, drawn towards him in an almost instinctual manner, the desire to care for, to comfort, burning as it bubbles up in your chest, mixing with that intense sense of trepidation and invading your veins.

He permits you to wrap your arms around his torso as you nuzzle against him, body going rigid for a moment, still and stiff as marble, before he exhales again, melting into your embrace.

Several questions race through your mind at such a speed that they crash and clash together, becoming nothing more than incoherent jumbled lettering, tiny fingers curling in the fabric of his clothing as you try to pull him closer, nonsensical babbling spilling from your lips. A vacant ghost of a chuckle leaves his lips, nothing more than a simple huff of breath, and he squeezes you closer.

“Bad day?” the words are mumbled against his dirty t-shirt, what was once a pristine white now tarnished with ash and blood. You don’t get a response—you don’t expect one.

He doesn’t talk much, not on days like this.

He doesn’t need to.

Bad days—really bad, terrible, awful days such as this one—are surprisingly rare with Dabi. Sure, he’s had the typical ‘bad’ day before, where someone pisses him off, or he gets into a fight with his superior, but those bad days usually require railing you into your creaky, springy king-sized mattress until you’ve forgotten everything but his name and he’s fucked all of the anger and hatred out of his body.

They are not like this one. No, on days such as this, on days where he’s killed someone he deems to be innocent, someone who—like him—is a victim of heroism, he’s quiet, distant, unpredictable, bordering on unhinged, and you’ve learned to tread with extreme discretion.

But you don’t push, either, resolving to communicate through gentle touches, soft fingertips that run along his tense, broad shoulders and press into the hard coiled muscles, tender fingers that thread through inky tufts of hair, sapphire eyes closing as he hums and leans into the motion like a cat.

It’s only for a second, though, just a moment of weakness before he’s breaking out of your embrace, pushing past you and clearing his throat, glass door to the balcony sliding shut a moment later.

You don’t follow. You know better than that now, a phantom sting in your cheek serving as a reminder, the resounding sharp sound of glass shattering as it’s hurled at the floor slicing through your mind with such viciousness it makes you wince.

Instead, you sit. And you wait. Like you’re supposed to, like a good little girl, a book clutched between your quivering hands, unblinking eyes staring at the words on the page, nothing but incomprehensible symbols—lines and lines of black ink in meaningless shapes—as scorching sapphire loops through your mind.

Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl. Give him space. Let him come to you.

It’s standard procedure, really.

And eventually, he does, comes back inside with an empty bottle of whiskey clutched in a hand, along with a crumpled package of cigarettes. You don’t know how long it’s been, muscles sore and joints aching from sitting in the same position for so long, eyes dry from staring at the same page, barely moving, barely breathing. His hand is bleeding, knuckles bruised and gleaming with sticky scarlet that’s still fresh and flowing, but it could be worse. It has been worse.

The harsh clink of the bottle against the kitchen counter makes you flinch, and he sighs, heavy and full of derision, eyes flicking up to glare at your side profile.

“I can hear you thinking,”

“You’re filthy, baby,” the words tumble past your lips, uncontrollable, involuntary, almost reflexive in your response, eyes snapping to his face and voice whiny, voice pleading. “Take a bath with me,”

And you can see it—can see it in the dark cobalt of his irises, what he needs, the very thing he’s fighting himself on, the very thing he’s fighting so hard against. Always so stubborn, so reluctant, so cautious.

Because, fuck, he used to be able to resist it, this pathetic ache for comfort—something that’s only managed to grow in your presence, that’s shifted and morphed from a dull smoldering to a raging fire, an insatiable longing for your fingers in his hair and your breath on his skin and your voice against his ear—a skill he’d been constructing, developing, perfecting, since he was thirteen years old. A skill you succeeded in shattering in the matter of a few measly months.

Because you—you’re different. And he hates it sometimes, he swears to the good Lord he does, but hating it doesn’t make it any less true. You break him down, you make him weak, you make him want, and the longer he spends around you, the more he finds that he doesn’t fucking care. And that’s irritating, that’s exciting, that’s terrifying, that’s new.

Fury blisters his chest, his lungs, his throat as he holds your stare, jaw clenching twice. But you don’t falter, not like the rest of them, not like anyone else—everyone else. You never falter, always so eager to see the good in him, a snort leaving his nose at the thought. The good in him. Is there any good left in him? Was there ever any good in him in the first place? Are you the good in him, now? Does he care?

And he’s not sure he’ll ever understand it, but he’s beginning to realize that, maybe, he doesn’t have to.

Maybe, it doesn’t matter. Maybe, it’s okay, if you love him, if he loves you.

Maybe.

It’s too much, and he can feel frustration stinging his eyes, long delicate eyelashes fluttering as he quickly blinks it away. Spears, sharp and cold, splinter your chest at the sight, but you know if you begin crying too, you’ll lose him. You know that if you begin showing what he considers weakness, he’ll pull away, even though this is what he so clearly needs most.

So you steel yourself, swallowing hard against the pain collecting in your throat, will the tears away and force your body to stay calm, approaching him slowly as if he’s some sort of feral animal prone to lashing out.

Apprehension is clear in his azure eyes, head tilting a little as they narrow, regarding you with skepticism, with suspicion.

It’s bold, and dangerous, and—as far as Dabi’s concerned—fucking stupid, but you don’t care, determined to prove to him that you aren’t going anywhere regardless of how many tantrums he throws, no matter how many times he hurts you in his anguish. It’s almost desperate, really, this sheer need to prove to him that you aren’t scared of him, that irrespective of how soft he seems to think you are, you are strong, even if it’s in ways he could never understand, that you can be strong for him, when he needs it, that he can borrow some of your strength, if he needs to.

And that—that’s why he loves you. It hits him hard, as this realization always does, kicks him in the chest and knocks the breath out of him every time, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it.

A tiny hand hangs in the air between the two of you, Dabi regarding the offer with a wary hesitance. Wiggling fingers attempt to entice him, earning a tiny smirk—a massive victory—as sapphire flits up to gaze at you through thick lashes, an eyebrow raised.

You match his expression, quirking an eyebrow of your own and nodding at your hand, speaking a moment later.

“Let me in, baby,” the words are barely above a whisper, but they’re so raw, filled with so much unadulterated love it hurts, pure and real and everything he’s never had before. “Let me help,”

And, God, it’s fucking overwhelming, how badly he wishes to give in to this unfamiliar compassion, how desperately he desires your affection, despite the malicious voice echoing off the walls of his skull, berating him for being so pathetic, so weak, so vulnerable.

But the urge to accept, to seek out consolation in you, wins, just as it always does, that nasty voice reverberating in his mind silenced the very instant his skin touches yours.

You let him make the last move, allow him to make that final decision entirely on his own accord, to grasp your hand in his, warm and rough, and pull you towards him, crushing you against his chest as he buries his face in your hair, eyes squeezed shut against that annoying burn of tears, chest stuttered with a hitched breath, air that gets caught in his throat as he chokes on the words he wants to say.

But he doesn’t need to say them. You already know.

“Come,” you murmur to him, fingers threading through the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. “Let’s take a bath,”

✰ ✰ ✰

The bathwater stings your skin, just a hint too hot to be comfortable, but you say nothing as you settle onto his lap in the cramped little tub, encompassed by frothy bubbles, dainty scent of orange citrus tickling your nose.

Heated fingertips press into your hips as he finds comfort the only way he knows how to, in your precious little whimpers and broken moans of his name as he bounces you on his cock, so vigorously you’re positive you can feel him in your tummy, the pads of his fingers searing his prints into your skin.

It’s heady, it’s intoxicating, it’s addicting, heightened emotions both pleasant and unpleasant swirling together with the symphony of your cries and his grunts as the water you’re submerged in begins to bubble and boil, to crack and pop, sudsy liquid sloshing over the side of the tiny tub as he forces you to ride him, faster and faster and faster until you’re whining and convulsing around him, and he’s filling you with thick cum, cock throbbing aggressively as he spurts load after load into you.

After, as he leans back against the cold tile, residual droplets sizzling into steam as his heated skin touches them. Gentle fingers card between his hair, water cascading through onyx strands as it pours over his head from a worn plastic cup—a faded Darth Vader staring back at you as you rhythmically repeat your actions until the tresses stick to his forehead and cheeks, drenched and shining in the low light of the washroom.

Heavy lids obscure the most brilliant sapphire from you as shampoo is massaged into his scalp, slow and unhurried and thorough, every stroke, every comb through inky clumps easing the turmoil in his mind bit by bit, calming the storm that’s been raging inside of him for hours now. Deep hums rumble in his chest as your fingers continue their ministrations, your eyes trained on your motions. And you can feel it, the tension dissipating from his body with each circle of foam rubbed into his soft hair, shoulders finally beginning to relax as he subconsciously nuzzles into your touch, following it, longing for it, aching for more.

He shifts then, after you’ve rinsed the soap from his hair, manhandling you into a position between his thighs, bare chest pressed tightly against your back. You work hard to keep your body from tensing, forcing your breathing to stay even, to stay calm as you brace yourself for what’s coming next.

“He was eleven,” he says after several long moments of silence, voice low and trembling, hoarse and heavy with remorse. “This time.”

This time. That’s the third innocent civilian—innocent by his standards, at least—this month.

That’s the first time it’s ever been a child.

You don’t turn around to look at him, not yet—he isn’t finished—simply opting to lace your fingers through his and bring your joined hands to your lips, kissing each wounded knuckle, crude staples catching in the dim warm light of the tiny bathroom.

You want to tell him it wasn’t his fault, even though it was. You want to tell him anything that’ll make him feel better, that’ll absolve the guilt so evidently gnawing away at his insides, even though you know there’s nothing you can say.

“What are—I don’t even—” his voice breaks and you feel his chest stutter against your back, feel him exhale harshly, breath cool on your damp shoulder, feel him swallow thickly as he tries again. Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, as much as he would never admit it, you know he needs release this from the confines of his mind—you know you’re the only person who can offer him such an outlet. “Why the fuck were there kids there in the first place? Huh? They shouldn’t—They shouldn’t have been there,”

Orphans are everywhere in this city, you murmur, lips moving against his rough skin. He knows. Orphans of heroes. He knows.

“I’m gonna kill Shigaraki, I swear to Christ. Sending us to a—a fucking place infested with fucking ch-children,” his fingers curl around yours, hand beginning to shake as it clutches you like a lifeline, like that guilt will devour him from the inside out, like he’ll disintegrate into nothingness, if he doesn’t. “I bet you he fucking knew—nah, I-I’m positive he did. Asshole only cares about himself, though. Doesn’t matter that—that the cause we’re supposed to be fighting for affects these stupid kids,”

You’re right, love.

The words leave your lips in a gentle breath, leaning your head back against his collarbone and staring up at him. Cobalt eyes stay trained on the cracked tile wall, jaw methodically clenching as his molars grind together, an attempt to quell the trembling of his chin, exhaling hard harsh breaths through flared nostrils.

“Whatever,” he huffs, voice still wavering and not nearly as self-assured as he wishes. “Th-That brat shouldn’t have been there in the first place,”

He shouldn’t have, you agree, finally squirming in his grasp, turning to face him, to straddle his hips again in the tight space of the tub. And he welcomes your affections readily this time, arms encircling your waist as he holds you tightly to him, blunt nails digging purple-tinged crescents into your flesh as he shoves his face against your neck, finally allowing those emotions he’s been fighting to leak from his eyes and absorb into your skin.

Little palms rub soothing circles into his back as he shudders against you, allowing him to empty his soul onto you as soft lips press chaste kisses to his damp hair, waiting until there’s nothing left, until his eyes are drained, azure glassy and bloodshot, nose twitching and red.

And after he’s done, when he finally pulls back, scrubbing aggressively at his nose as tiny sniffles hitch in his chest, gentle fingers begin to lather soap into his skin, washing away the dirt and grime and blood from the day. Fingertips carefully trace along the metal sutures decorating his body with immeasurable adoration, you whispering all of the things he so desperately needs to hear that he’d never dare to ask for, complimented by the tender touches that cleanse his soul with their unconditional love.

He’s bigger than you are, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to wrap him in a fluffy white towel, using another in an attempt to dry his hair as your hands move in shaggy motions, heart soaring in your chest when you pull a soft laugh from his lips, wet and wobbly and croaky, but a laugh nonetheless.

A mutual silence, gentle and comforting and stuffed full of an immense love, a special kind of love, a love words do not exist to explain, swathes your bodies as he allows you to dress him, pulling a ratty old band tee over his head and a pair of plaid PJ pants up his legs.

“You always look so cute in my clothes,” he rasps from his spot perched on the edge of the bed, glowing crystal eyes watching as you pull one of his t-shirts over your naked body.

A genuine bubble of laughter erupts from your throat as you climb into bed with him, immediately allowing him to latch onto you, to pull you towards him, to hold you close like his own personal plushie.

“Sleep,” you murmur as the two of you settle into a comfortable position, limbs tangled together, his head resting on your chest, fingers threading through his hair and then tracing down his neck, his back. “And then I’ll make you ramen,”

“The spicy kind?”

“Of course,”

I love you.

“Extra spicy?”

Laughing again, you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, grip around your torso tightening. “Extra spicy. Now, rest,”

More than anything else.

“With the little fish cakes?”

“Your favourite little fish cakes,”

More than words could ever tell you.

“And the pork belly?”

“And the pork belly,” you feel his chest rise with an inhale, hastily adding, “And those little cream puffs you love so much, from that dingy convenience store downstairs, for dessert. Now sleep, baby,”

He laughs, even though his vision is blurring, even though it comes out more strangled than anything else, because he doesn’t want to cry again, because his chest stings and aches and swells and warms, full of inexplicable emotions, feels like it’s going to fucking burst as it chokes and reinvigorates him all at once, and—God, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

Because even though he’s terrified beyond belief, he’s willing to try—just for you, only for you—as he continually realizes with each passing day that he isn’t sure what the fuck he’d do without you, now. Because you’re too entangled up in his life, too deeply embedded in his very soul, for him to ever remove you, now. Because as petrifying and unfamiliar as it is, he doesn’t want to, now.

Because even though he’s broken, irrevocably so, and you can’t fix him, won’t fix him, you’ll still stay, to hold those pieces so gently, so tenderly in your hands, you’ll still protect those fragments and keep them from shattering further, you’ll still give them the affection and devotion they need, the affection and devotion they deserve. Because you love every part of him, even the bad ones, even the shards with jagged edges that cut into the soft flesh of your palms every time you caress them.

Because you accept him wholeheartedly, flaws and all, and that’s—he’s never experienced anything like that before, this unlimited, unreserved, unquestioning love. And although he doesn’t know how to say this, isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to find the right words to communicate it, he’s beginning to learn that unfamiliar doesn’t always mean bad; that sometimes, it’s okay—it’s good—to be vulnerable. He’s beginning to learn that with you, in the warmth of your shitty little apartment, with the stove that only has two functioning burners and the fridge that’s perpetually too cold, he can be, without judgement, without fear, without trepidation.

Because you are his only salvation, and he wouldn’t trade this for the goddamn world.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi #todoroki touya #dabi fluff #dabi angst #aaaah this HURT #anyway big big big thank yous to mister for helping me come up with what we think dabi's favourite food would be #HAPPY BIRTHDAY DABIIIIIII

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irrelevantwriter · 3 years

Text

White Flag

Pairing: Rio (Good Girls) x Female Reader/You

Rating: Explicit, NSFW

Warnings: Language, public sex, unprotected vaginal sex, mention of bodily fluids, slightly vulnerable Rio, declaration of feelings (sorta?)

Word Count: 4.3K

Summary: Part 5. Two months without seeing or speaking to Rio has left a significant mark and feelings finally decide to show themselves. Kinda.

A/N: I hope everyone had a good holiday or at least a chill Friday. I come bearing gifts with the next part of our favorite toxic saga. More smut for my lovely readers. But first, some plot. We jump right into it and just like our favorite non-couple, we gloss over a lot of bullshit and get right to the filth. But as a Virgo I love communication so I have to make these two stubborn assholes talk about their issues a little. At least in a vague way. Also, Rio has his read receipts on bc he is a petty king. There’s one more part after this and it's all naughty fun from here. I hope you guys like it. Feedback is that good shit. 💗

A/N dos: I’m thinking about making the next part strictly from Rio’s POV. I feel like it’ll give us a peek into what he’s thinking and a new take on the series thus far. I’m excited to explore that so let me know what you guys think!

*Read Part 1 here

*Read Part 2 here

*Read Part 3 here

*Read Part 4 here

*Read Part 6 here

*Give and Take series masterlist

*Masterlist in bio.

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

“So you’re just gonna eye fuck the hot stranger at the bar all night?”

Your friend’s teasing cut through the haze, jolting you back to the dimly lit bar. The music boomed around you while people drank and danced, enjoying the Saturday night out in the same way you and your girlfriends were.

“I was not.” You insisted, though the coy smile you wore said otherwise.

The group of women scoffed and rolled their eyes, seeing right through your faux innocence.

“Besides,” You started, taking a sip of your drink as the song changed into a bass heavy melody. “He’s not even my type.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Kara interjected with a raised brow, shaking her head.

You opened your mouth in surprise, but bit back your response when the other women chimed in.

“She’s right.” Evelyn agreed, throwing her dark hair over one shoulder.

“We knew you in high school and college, remember?” Nikki threw in, pursing her lips knowingly in your direction.

“Okay, so?” You said with a poor attempt at nonchalance.

“You were all over guys like that when we were kids. Paul ended up being the black sheep of the bunch.” Kara reminded you with a laugh, Evelyn and Nikki joining in with their own drunken giggles.

“Yeah, we were convinced you’d marry a felon with tattoos and not a real estate broker who wore khakis.” Nikki quipped, causing another round of laughter and snorts.

“Okay, okay...I get it. So I had a type. I think I’ve grown out of it.” You cut in, sounding as if you were trying to convince them as much as yourself.

“Not if the hottie at the bar has anything to say about it.” Evelyn joked with a wink.

You shook your head as you took another sip of your drink, unwilling to let them see you flustered. Or that they were in fact correct. You definitely still had a thing for bad boys...bad men to be more specific.

The evening had been going smoothly so far. It was a rare girl’s night out. An event that happened only once every five years when kids were shuttled off to babysitters or their fathers, and the women were able to enjoy an adult meal with adult beverages. Schedules between four busy women didn’t often align so when they did, you all jumped at the chance to indulge in the nightlife you’d left behind in your younger years.

You’d been the one to suggest the bar. It was a swanky, sophisticated space with an air of youth. The perfect mix for your outing. You’d been here only one other time.

With Rio.

Thinking of the man made heat pool low in your stomach, despite your lingering frustrations. It’d been two months since that shit show of a night at your house. You hadn’t seen or spoken to him since. After that debacle, you blocked his number. As childish as it may have been, you were angry. Still were. And rightfully so. He’d been a complete dick. He’d chosen the most inopportune moment to make adjustments to your arrangement. He’d been careless in his deliverance, harsh even. The entire exchange had you questioning everything. And instead of analyzing the situation and communicating like adults, you’d decided to stop all interactions with him. You’d wanted to send a message. Just as he had with you.

After the argument, you’d been an anxious mess in the days leading up to the next drop. But it was all for nothing because Rio wasn’t there. And neither was the new contact he’d told you about. Instead, Mick was waiting for you and offering up no other information. And it’d been that way for two long months.

In the days since, your mind wandered to Rio often. Your body lingered on his phantom presence constantly. You replayed the conversation you’d had a million times over and each time it made deep fury spill over and mix with the lust still raging like white water rapids through your veins. You missed his touch. Missed his desire for you. Missed the way he made you feel, so supremely sexual and wanton. All things you’d been lacking in your marriage. And now they were suddenly hitting you square in the face and begging you to pay attention. Begging you to not lose the source of your sudden awakening.

You missed the toxicity of your interactions. You were two twisted souls fighting for control over a situation that belonged to neither of you. And in truth, the basis of your relationship with Rio was denial and attraction. It would continue to thrive on that as long as you both refused the obvious.

So maybe, just maybe you’d come to the bar in hopes of seeing him in order to test that theory. It was a slim chance he’d even be here, but you were just buzzed enough that you were willing to roll the dice and find out. Plus, your desire for him felt like an extension of your body at this point. You had to satiate it. Had to feed the raw passion that grew stronger each day without him. It demanded it. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. But your own hand didn’t ignite your body the same way his did, asshole or not.

“I’ll be back.” You called over the music, gesturing to the darkened hallway that predictably led to the bathrooms. Your friends nodded and went back to flirting with the handsome blue-eyed waiter.

You shot a meaningful glance in the direction of the bar. To the “hot stranger”. Whether or not he’d take the hint was on him.

You made it to the single-use bathroom easily. It wasn’t late enough for it to be crowded with the surge of a Saturday night crowd, but the place was still busy. You set your purse down on the sleek surface of the sink counter, admiring the emerald green tiles that paved the walls. The fixtures were brass and gleamed in the light of the vanity bulbs. It was a beautiful space. Carefully crafted for a magazine like Architectural Digest.

Your eyes swept over your reflection in the large mirror that sat over the sink. You made sure not a lash was out of place as you surveyed your appearance. You adjusted the low neckline of your yellow dress, the hue radiating more gold than you’d initially noticed. The silk material felt cool against your heated skin, the slit in the skirt offering some relief. The long sleeves of the garment added a sleekness to the otherwise risqué ensemble. You’d never worn the dress. But tonight seemed as good a time as any to debut it.

The sound of the bathroom door creaking open made you pause, eyes watching in the mirror for who entered. You wondered if it’d be him. Wondered if he ended up following you like you’d hoped.

Your stomach knotted when Rio stepped in, closing the door and locking it with a resounding click. He was stoic. Shrouded in black and looking every bit as menacing as he truly was. A sight for your sore eyes.

You turned to face him, your chest both tightening and expanding at seeing him in the flesh. He made your heart stutter and your spine tingle, yet irritation slowly seeped into your pores, reminding you of the last interaction you’d had with him. It was a clash of sensations and feelings. It was utter chaos. And it's what you’d been missing.

Silence hung in the air as his gaze roamed your figure, appraising you hungrily. You shivered, careful to hide the gesture from his intense stare. You schooled your features and angled your chin up in confidence that you weren’t entirely sure you felt. But you weren’t going to budge. You were going to make him come to you.

He was leaning up against the door, a barely there smirk adorning his lips. His scent began to eclipse the smell of vanilla soap that permeated the air. Your eyes wanted to roll back at the familiarity of it. It was soothing. A comfort to your deprived senses.

“You miss me, mama?”

That deep rasp made your panties soak immediately. It was a question he’d asked you many times in the past, but you’d never felt it as much as you did now. Because yeah, you did fucking miss him.

You stayed silent.

He chucked at your refusal to answer. “Still mad at me?”

Again you said nothing.

He licked his lips, eyeing yours as he did. “I tried calling.”

“I blocked your number.” You finally responded, voice icy and detached.

“Damn, that’s cold.” He said with an amused shake of his head and a laugh, the sound making your nipples harden in traitorous lust.

“Why? Did you need something?” You questioned coolly, crossing your arms over your chest to hide your mounting arousal. Your thighs rubbed together, beginning to slid against each other as your arousal made itself known.

He stepped forward, heading in your direction with intent. You straightened your back, unwilling to let him get the upper hand on you. You knew what was going to happen. Knew where this was headed. So why not use it to your advantage? Why not toy with him for a change? He deserved it.

You used the added height of your heels and eased yourself onto the countertop, parting your thighs slightly so that your dress fell between them. You leaned back on your hands, the chill of the marble countertop beneath you reminding you so much of that day in your kitchen.

Rio’s steps halted momentarily as he watched you, eyes zeroed in on the juncture between your thighs that was hidden behind the silk. Your pussy practically begged for his attention. Dared him to see your need through the fabric that shielded you.

You were still upset with him. Still displeased with the way he’d chosen to handle the situation and you. But more than anything you wanted him to succumb to you. You wanted to feel that thrill of having him at your mercy. So powerful, yet so fragile in the midst of his bliss. You wanted...no, needed him to wave his white flag first.

“Tell me then,” You began, slowly easing the hem of your dress up as you spoke. “Business or personal?” You questioned, wanting to know if he’d be truthful about why he’d tried to contact you.

He resumed his path towards you with a dangerous lick of his lips, but his gaze never faltered as it took in every new stretch of skin that was revealed. He tried to reach out and touch you, but you raised a heeled foot to his abdomen and stopped him, keeping him at a distance.

“Answer me.” You breathily demanded.

His face registered your words while his eyes took in the stretch of leg that kept him away. You eased the limb back down and waited for him to comply.

He decided to play along.

“Business.”

He continued walking when you didn’t stop him, standing between your legs and trailing his fingertips along the inside of them. His movements shifted your dress up even higher onto your thighs. The sensation would’ve tickled if you weren’t already deliriously turned on.

“Liar.” You accused, already feeling his warmth radiate onto you as he edged closer. His breath mingled with yours, mint and whiskey assaulting your nose.

“So are you.” He retorted, eyes planted firmly on your parted lips. He moved in until you were sure he could do nothing else but touch his mouth to yours. And yet you still weren’t going to meet him.

“So we’re both liars?” You asked, arching a brow up at him.

“Yeah.” He nodded and swallowed, the tattoo splashed across his throat pulling your focus. You fell captive to his spell as you got lost in memories of licking and sucking the inked flesh, remembering the way he tasted on your tongue. The recollection caused your legs to widen and your back to arch into him, pushing your chest against his. God, you wanted him. You wanted him so badly that your pussy clenched around nothing, as if feeling him already deep inside you. It was a silent call to a lover. One he would never hear. But he’d feel it soon enough.

Your clit throbbed against your lace panties, aching to be assaulted by his talented fingers. With him so close you could feel just how badly you needed him inside you. It felt wrong for him not to be. Felt wrong to not have him share a pulse with you when he was this near. You were going to remedy that.

“Well then,” You whispered, leaning forward to hover over his lips. “I don’t want you to fuck me in this bathroom.”

His hands glided up your thighs while his nose skimmed along your cheek. His breath was hot against your ear as he maneuvered himself so that barely a sliver of air was left between you.

“So I won’t.” He lied in return, the words coating you like his cum had done numerous times before.

In an instant your lips were being pulled to his. His hands were suddenly everywhere and all at once, seeking out your flesh in desperation. It pleased you to know just how badly he needed you. How badly he craved you.

He slid you closer to him, letting your lace-covered lower half come into contact with his crotch. Ragged breaths and low hums filtered through the air as your bodies grinded against each other, seeking firm hands. You could feel him pressed against the zipper of his dark pants. He was hard. The notion made you moan into his mouth, scraping your nails over his scalp.

It was just like riding a bike. Except there was an added layer of intensity this time that hadn’t been there before. His touch burned hotter than usual. Your grew cunt wetter with every pass of his tongue along yours. They weren’t new sensations, but they felt different. Indescribable. Perhaps it was the public sex. Perhaps it was the underlying tension. Either way, it was remarkably explosive.

You pulled away from his insistent lips to take in air. He continued on, mouth moving over your neck and across your exposed cleavage. He nipped at the flesh, his lips sensuously soothing the area as he explored. You pushed into him in invitation, widening your legs so that he could press harder into you.

You waited for him to take the next step. Waited for him to escalate the moment into more than just heavy-petting and sloppy kisses. His hands, as if reading your mind, traveled up the skirt of your dress and found the edge of your panties. There was no hesitation or teasing in his movements as he roughly pulled them off, the elastic popping against your skin and making you cry out.

Rio licked at your neck in apology, his own hands now moving to his belt. You shifted closer to the ledge of the counter and followed the trail of heat that led to his pulsing cock. His flesh bumped against you, the feel of him hot and heavy along your soaked slit making you whimper.

Your nails dug into the fabric of his shirt as he pushed forward and sheathed himself inside of you in one hard thrust. You gasped and tightened your legs around him, your right hand in search of something solid. It landed on the mirror behind you, your palm sticking to its cool surface as you braced yourself for the inevitable.

His facial hair scratched at your skin as he buried himself into your neck. He held your hips steady as he retreated and then plunged back into your welcoming walls, stretching you with a burn that made you hiss. Your pussy massaged his length with fervor, seducing him further inside and begging him to claim you once again.

You reached for anything you could to stabilize yourself as he fucked you into the reflective glass at your back. Moans and groans intertwined as your bodies rocked against each other. The soap dispenser fell into the sink with a loud clatter as you accidentally made contact with it. The stack of towels folded neatly near the faucet became disheveled as your ass knocked them out of place with the momentum from Rio’s cock. The entire vanity shook with each intensely thorough thrust of his hips into your womb. It was animalistic. The very epitome of what bathroom sex in a bar should be.

No words were said. None were needed. Your actions led the conversation.

You squeezed your inner muscles around him, daring him to surrender before you. He twitched, his hips stuttering at the feel of you so tight and wet around him. He growled into your ear, a sure sign that he loved the gesture a little too much.

So you did it again.

“Stop that shit.” He grunted, hips picking up their pace.

“Cum.” You whispered in response, the demand disguised as a request.

“Fuck…” He groaned when you held him to you and clenched around him once more. You trapped him, giving him no choice but to experience your deliberate enticement. His fingers dug into your thighs almost painfully so, forcing you to wince.

He was close.

You reached between your bodies and massaged your clit, feeling your pussy react immediately. Sporadic tremors vibrated your walls and his cock, making both of you moan. Rio’s palm slammed into the mirror at your back as he rutted his hips harder into yours. He was rough and unforgiving, the aggression heightened by your disobedience. It had never quite been like this. There had always been a touch of softness, a soothing placation or word of encouragement. Not tonight. Not as he fucked you so hard you were sure the mirror was going to crack and rain down luminescent crystals of glass over you both.

You showed no mercy as you forced him to submit to you and your body. The precipice was there. It was within reach. You could feel that tightly wound coil ready to unravel. It felt like too much and not enough at the same time. Your mind was a prisoner to your pleasure. You thought of nothing but the sweet release that you knew was waiting for you. And it was. It was waiting for you with open arms as Rio finally came, triggering your own climax as he filled you so deliciously full of himself. His entire body tensed within you as he held you firm and painted your shuttering walls.

The familiar sensation only added to your high as your limbs tensed and loosened with each wave of euphoria that washed over you. You squeezed your eyes shut and catapulted through space as your body struggled to ground itself once again. Rio had gone rigid, letting you ride out your orgasm in peace as you suffocated his cock. His cum was already leaking from your walls before you’d even finished, a trail of him decorating your swollen pussy.

Your eyes fluttered open to see him staring back at you, his lips pulled into a lazy smirk. You mirrored his expression, releasing a breathless chuckle. Your body still hummed in excitement, but this time it was punctuated by the deep satisfaction that radiated from between your thighs.

“You good?” You teased, hands resting on his chest and feeling the rapid beats of his heart beginning to slow.

He laughed, the sound low and tinged with fatigue. “Yeah.”

He licked his lips and took in your disheveled state, gaze catching a glimpse of the lace bra you wore underneath.

“Let me drive you home.” He said suddenly, his arrogance alive and well.

It was on the tip of your tongue to deny him, but you chose not to.

“Sure.”

**********

The car ride was silent.

After your impromptu coupling in the bathroom, you’d made up an excuse about not feeling well to your friends and explained you’d already called an Uber. They were hesitant to let you leave alone, but somehow you’d persuaded them to stay and not follow you. You were sure the alcohol they’d consumed had something to do with it.

With hugs and promises of texts that everyone made it home safe at the end of the night, you departed from the bar with Rio in his Mercedes. He’d been driving for about ten minutes, the air not as tense as it’d once been. He seemed content to let the quiet linger, but you weren’t.

“What happened to the new guy?” You asked, glimpsing his face to gauge his reaction. It was dark in the vehicle, but you could still make out his silhouette amongst the various street lights.

He furrowed his brow and pouted his lips, confusion reading easily across his features.

“What new guy?”

“My new contact. The one I was supposed to have.”

“Didn’t work out. Mick has it handled.” He replied simply, gaze still trained on the road in front of him.

“Okay.” You said with a nod, the dryness in your tone letting him know you didn’t quite believe him.

He wordlessly turned onto your street and came to a stop alongside your driveway, putting the SUV in park. He angled his body to face you, trapping you in his stare.

“It was never about you.”

The question must’ve shown on your face because he continued.

“The switch. It wasn’t about you.”

“Wasn’t very convincing.” You deadpanned, scoffing as you played with the zipper of your clutch.

He didn’t react right away. Instead, he watched you. Watched you in that way that let you know his thoughts were as impure as the counterfeit money he produced.

“You look good in that dress.” He complimented, chin jutting out and gesturing to the fabric that adorned your body.

His praise made warmth bloom in your chest. The kind of warmth that was usually accompanied by butterflies in your stomach.

“Thanks.” You replied evenly, not letting him see just what his words did to you. Though you had a feeling he did, despite not bearing witness to it outright.

“Better without it.” He added with a slide of his wicked tongue across his bottom lip, his teeth following. The action was purposeful. Erotic. Blatant. It was all Rio.

You didn’t respond to his flirting. You only sighed, mirroring his position as you resigned yourself to have an honest conversation with the man.

“So,” You started, forcing your fingers to still. “What is it that you want?”

He eyed you for a long moment. Long enough that you started to feel self-conscious.

“You.”

You nodded, disappointed but not shocked by his reply. The word wasn’t new. Though it was lacking the hollow cockiness that usually accompanied it.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he spoke up before you could.

“In whatever way you’ll let me have you.” He admitted.

The statement caught you off guard. He wasn’t trying to be cute or charming. He wasn’t being placating or condescending. He was being serious, the hardened intensity in his dark orbs softening to a tender resignation that you were sure matched yours.

“What about you? What do you want?” He repeated back to you, eyes narrowing as he waited.

You took a moment to observe him. Your eyes followed the arch of his brows and the sharp jut of his cheekbones. You studied the pout of his lower lip and his Adam's apple as it bobbed with his throat muscles. He was so many things to you. None of which you could put into words. You didn’t think a word had even been invented yet. It didn’t matter. You were both making your own rules. And it seemed, for once, that the both of you were on the same page and playing by the same rules.

“I want you to have me.” You confessed, meeting his gaze.

And there it was. He was resigned to having you in limited capacity. You were resigned to finally letting him have you. Two conclusions coming together at the same moment. You weren’t quite sure what that meant for you both, but it was a start.

“Goodnight.” You whispered into the darkened cab, a small smile pulling at your lips.

You didn’t wait for him to react. You turned and opened the door, exiting the vehicle. He didn’t try to stop you. You rounded the front of the car, hearing the driver’s side window slide down.

“So I’ll see you next week?” Rio asked out the open window, chin resting in his hand.

“At the drop?”

He nodded.

You shook your head and laughed, though there was no real humor behind it.

“You wanna tell me again it wasn’t about me?” You challenged, a wide grin decorating your face.

He could deny it. He would probably try. But you knew the truth. And that was enough.

For now.

“Night.” He called, an amused upturn of his lips showing in the light of the full moon.

He turned to the street, starting the car as you walked up your driveway. His eyes followed you the whole way, ensuring you made it in safely.

You heard him drive away once you shut and locked the front door, your lungs releasing a long breath. You pulled out your cell phone and went to your blocked caller list. You selected Rio’s number and unblocked the listing, adrenaline releasing into your bloodstream as you did.

Almost immediately your screen lit up with a text.

Same time and place tomorrow?

You bit your lip, feelings akin to teenage infatuation bubbling to the surface. You hastily typed a response.

See you there.

The message was read immediately.

Rio Tags:

@tomhardydallasstarsgirl

#rio #good girls rio #rio good girls #rio x you #rio x reader #rio imagine #rio fanfiction #rio fanfic #nbc good girls #good girls nbc

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witching-hour · 3 years

Text

S(andwiche)s and Giggles [Juice Ortiz x Reader]

REQUESTED BY @aimkatsz Hey! I just found your blog and I love your writing! Can I make a request for Juice in which the reader and him are great friends and the reader has a crush on him but he is oblivious to it. The reader decides to tell him in a very cute way. Can it have a fluffy ending please! Thank you!

(A/N): i’m so sorry this took so long to post. hope you enjoy, hun! this being my first juice request, i hope i did him justice and wrote him well! feedback and commentary is always welcome babes

SUMMARY: the classic trope of best friends liking each other but one party being oblivious hits the relationship of juice and the reader

TW: none

“COME IN,” you heard, muffled, from behind the door. At the sound of his voice, the corner of her lips curved upwards into a small smile. Your fisted hand lowered from the wood paneling with a reaper carved in the center to the dark brass knob, twisting it to open the door to your favorite Son’s dorm room.

He was seated at his desk with his laptop open, just like Jax told you he would be. The computer-savvy patch was given a task for the club and you knew that he would not be leaving his room for hours, and instead glued to the screen. Your best friend had the habit of getting sucked into his own little world when he was by himself for long periods of time. But that world he would get drawn into was not something that was seen as a good thing.

When you first met Juice when he moved to the small town of Charming from the big city of New York and became a prospect sponsored by Jax, he always wore that goofy little boyish smile on his face. He still does, but behind that smile you learned was a dark void in the back of his mind built from childhood trauma of depression and anxiety. The closer you got to the Puerto Rican, the more you learned about him and his family (or lack thereof), and it broke your heart. The only real family he ever had was the one he made in Charming – with the Sons of Anarchy, with Gemma, and with you.

He wasn’t good alone.

So, you never let him be alone.

You reminded him every day of it. You would always be there.

When the guys told you what Juice was up to, you made some sandwiches out of what was left in the fridge in the Clubhouse kitchen before you wrapped them in some paper towels and headed upstairs to the dorms.

He swiveled around in his chair to see who came in, his face lighting up at the sight of you kicking the door shut behind you as you waved a sandwich in each hand. “Hey, (Y/N)!”

“Heard you were cooped up in here,” You crossed the room, perching yourself on the edge of his desk, handing him one of the sandwiches wrapped up in paper towels, “Figured you hadn’t eaten today yet. And, no, Bobby’s pot muffins don’t count.”

“They were blueberry.”

You rolled your eyes, “OK, Juan.”

He smiled innocently at you as he chewed on the sandwich, making you snort in amusement, which made you both burst out into laughter.

A few beats of silence ticked by as you both shared humored smiles and ate together in peace. As you finished chewing, you cleared your throat catching the boy’s attention, completely enamored by your presence, “So,” you got out while still chewing away at the bread, “am I allowed to know what top secret thing Clay’s got you doing?”

He gestured to the screen, scooting his chair to the side so you could peak over.

“It’s a binary search algorithm…” As soon as he started using computer science terms you checked out and decided to finish your snack while you just watched him ramble. The way his eyes sparkled when they met the glare from the screen. Or the way his jaw ticked when his mouth would close. Or the way the golden rings complimented his skin tone as he would point at something with those long fingers of his. Or the way his shirt would rise up ever so slightly when he hunched over, giving you a teasing look at the grey boxers peeking from above where his jeans rested on his hips. Or the way his muscles would move under his tight white t-shirt.

Every part of him made you fall into a daze.

He called your name one, two, three times before you finally snapped out of whatever trance you were in.

“Hmm?” You blinked a few times as you tried to remember the last thing he said.

He quirked an eyebrow at you, amused that you toned out his ‘geek talk’ as you liked to call it, yet completely oblivious to the longing looks you were sending his way. “You didn’t get any of that, did you?”

“No habla inglés?”

“You’re hilarious, (Y/N).”

“And you’re adorable, Juicey.”

“I’m pretty sure you are the adorable one here,” He shook his head with a wide grin on his face, one of his hands reaching out to poke you in the side, making you squirm.

“Juan Carlos,” You warned as he jabbed your other side, making you jolt, “don’t you dare.”

In a split second, the Son had you pinned against the desk as his fingers attacked your most sensitive spots, tickling your sides, stomach, and right under your neck. It started with you giggling and trying to push him off, and he would back off to give you a minute to catch your breath before he would dive back in to torture you. Then when he started not letting up, you got away to the other side of the room still laughing as he chased you. You were sure everyone downstairs knew it was you two screwing around, but they would probably take that term literally since they always teased the friendship between their youngest member and Gemma’s latest prodigy.

(Half-Sac was pouring a round of shots for Gemma and the club as money and hollers were passed around, obviously them not realizing what was actually going on up there).

Juice’s hand almost clasped around your wrist, but you slipped through his grip and tried to hop over the bed. Both your laughs filled the room as you tripped with one leg still across the mattress and the other flat on the floor. While you were tripped up, Juice caught you by the waist and slammed you on the bed with both his arms encasing you.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” You wheezed out, trying to hit him and block his hands. He nipped at your neck to get you to lose your focus on blocking his attack on your tummy. You gasped out in shock before you were consumed with laughter just straight up cackles at this point once more.

“Surrender!”

“Hell no – Juice!”

“Beg for mercy.”

“No!”

“Da-,“ you broke out in between each laugh, “-mn. It. Juan-“

“Okay! Okay! St-o-p! You’re gonna make me piss myself.”

He chuckled once more before finally moving his hands away from you, allowing you to smack his chest as he let out a “oomf” noise. You adjusted yourself on the bed by laying your stomach as Juice moved onto his back.

“You alright?” His smile morphed into a look of concern. Juice, always the sweetheart. It was one of the main reasons why you fell for him. Besides how much of a softie he was, he was also such a goofball, and fiercly protective when he felt the people he cared about was threatened. (You’ve only ever been a situation like that once because of your relations to the club; nothing too serious, but Juice became more protective of you after that).

He was someone you could play video games wiith. He was someone who’d give you his sweatshirt when you were cold, or when he didn’t have one and just bring you into a bear hug instead for natural body heat. And, man, did he give the best hugs.

You chuckled, “Yeah, I’m good.” You pressed your face into the blanket under you, mumbling, “You’re lucky I like you.”

He gave you an odd look. “What was that?” The patch’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion, sitting up while still keeping his eyes on you. Did he hear you right?

You sent him a confused look right back. What? Then it registered what you said. Out loud. Oh fuck me. And internal panic set in.

Plan B. Plan B. Plan B. Plan B.

Play stupid.

“What was what?”

“You said you like me?” His response sounded more like a question, either ensure thats what he heard or did hear you but was confused by what you meant.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“See!” You exclaimed with your hands thrown in the air.

“What? No! I-”

“Yeah!” You called out loudly, knowing playing stupid wasn’t helping your situation. “Coming Chibs!”

“Chibs didn’t call for you,” the boy shook his head, grabbing you by your waist before you got off the bed, keeping you pinned down by his lower half practically covering yours.

Despite him pining you to his bed, you still attemted to escape this situation as fight-or-flight mode kicked in. “You sure? Because I’m pretty sure-”

“Cut the bullshit.”

Well, damn. Ok, daddy. When did he get like this and where could you sign up for more of it?

The dead serious expression slowly turned into a “please-tell-me-the-truth” look with his puppy dog eyes that turned your heart to mush. “You like me?”

You chewed on the inside of your lip as you debated your answer. You already slipped up, might as well come clean since their is no way you’re getting out of this one. And if even by chance you would be able to escape the dorm, you would be faced with Detective Gemma and her hounds in leather. You finally answered with a meek, “yeah.”

Juice busts out in the biggest grin you’ve ever seen on his face, which makes you about as confused as he is half the time with the club and their teasing. He moves one of the hands he has flat on the bed to hold up his weight down to stoke the line of your jaw. You try to analyze his face for any hint to what he’s thinking but you’re drawing blanks due to that stupid, blinding smile he’s wearing.

“Can I kiss you?”

If you were eating or drinking anything, you would have surely choked. You were surprised you didn’t choke on air alone over his question. Your eyes widening must have given away your shock because his face fell and he backed off of you.

“I’m sorry. I thought-”

And before either of you could grasp what was happening, your hands shot out to clutch onto the lapels of his kutte and yank him forward, your lips clashing together. The kiss was shorter and not as deep as you wanted but it satisfied you that you were able to get the short and sweet one. You loosened your grip on his kutte, allowing him to pull back slightly. When his gaze met yours, you offered an innocent, bashful, curled-in lip smile.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to do that,” you admitted, breaking the silence that had consumed the room.

“Not as much as me,” he quipped, running a hand over his faux mohawk.

“Mmm,” you shook your head, “I don’t think so, Juicey.”

“Want me to show you?”

“Yes please.”

SOA TAG LIST: @cutekittylexie @talicat713 @woahitslucyylu @xx--day-dreamer--xx @sweetpeaflower01 @rebelwrites

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passivenovember · 3 years

Text

Cinnamon.

Dawn's got a boyfriend.

A stupid, dorky, lanky boyfriend who decorates his nails and pairs platform jelly crocs with unbelievably tight jeans.

Dawn paints things on the pockets.

The ass pockets, much to Billy's sniveling, sneering disapproval. Little pictures of toaster ovens and broken light bulbs, industrial and punk and.

Perfect.

Weird.

Just like her.

Billy doesn't understand what she see's in the guy.

His family moves in the summer before sophomore year and everything changes. Billy's got a fourth blanket in the hamper next to Dawns for movie night, all of a sudden, and he's being dragged to double dates with the kid's freaky artistic parents. Steve's inviting them to dinner because I like them, Bills.

Then the boy's sleeping over in their living room.

Every weekend.

Probably kissing Billy's fifteen year old daughter at three in the morning and eating Billy's favorite pop tarts, just.

All of a sudden.

Out of nowhere, like. An alien invasion gone horribly, terribly wrong.

Billy feels like he should've seen it coming.

It's Friday night. The first in years that's just them, just.

Steve and Billy and Dawn.

Cooking after a shit week. Cracking jokes and dancing around the kitchen to Joy Division. The first Friday in months without the boy and his golden-retriever ass blocking access to the record player. Doing nothing. Eating cherry tomatoes and laughing too loudly at everything Billy says.

It's just them.

The three musketeers.

Billy's over the moon excited to spend it with his husband. Burning their vegan lasagna and sneaking kisses on the couch while Dawn tells them to knock it off. Watching horror films, bickering over what flavor of ice cream to have delivered, and.

Hugging Steve and Dawn to his chest when the nightmares come.

Billy knows, alright, he.

Feels it.

There aren't too many of these left.

He'll take what he can get.

So it's Friday night and Dawn isn't in her movie night onesie, she's.

Tromping around the house in the docs Billy got her for Christmas last year. Still wearing her knock-off Susie Sioux war paint and homemade skirt, the one that's covered in functional patches. Billy smiles, flooded with warmth, when he sees the newest addition tacked right above the tear in her knee.

A butterfly. The one they painted together.

"Nice," He says, chopping up cucumbers for the salad. "'S a little girly, though. Fuck Nazi's should come next if balance is to be restored."

"I think we should save that one. Stick it somewhere special, on something that'll last." Dawn meanders slowly around the kitchen. Running her fingertips along the cutting board, kissing Steve on the cheek and kicking Billy on the shin. Her usual form of hello.

Billy rifles through what he knows of her wardrobe. "You only have special shit. Staple pieces."

"True, but something, like." Dawn sneaks a slice of cucumber, crunching loudly next to Billy's ear. "Super special. A jacket, perhaps."

Steve coos like a bird, suddenly checked into the conversation. "A leather one?"

Dawn shakes her head. "Nah, something lighter."

Steve grins, clapping his oven mitts together. "Staples, leather, can't blame a guy for trying."

"Something more versatile." Dawn tries. "Light blue. Loved and lost by generations of Hargrove's before me."

Billy empties his cucumber slices into a bowl, not liking where this is headed.

Dawn wraps her arm around his shoulders.

"Of the denim variety?"

Billy shrugs her arm away, moving to put the casserole in the oven because. Steve does pottery for a living but he's still scared of the oven.

Dawn follows closely behind. "Just picture it. A gorgeous, vintage denim jacket covered in studs."

Billy sighs. "Metal Heads don't need all that shit to feel cool."

But Dawn just keeps talking. "And a patch of the most excellent quality tacked right above something artistic, like. A lipstick smear--

"You're not getting my jacket." Billy concludes, doing his best to put some bass in it.

Assert some of that dominance he was known for in high school, but.

It doesn't work.

Dawn waggles her eyebrows because once you let a little girl paint your toenails she stops being afraid of you. "It could be a love letter." She says. "A little 'kiss my ass,' to every skinhead in Hawkins."

Steve makes a noise from his place on the counter, checking in once more. "Since when are there skinheads in Hawkins?"

"Since always." Billy says to his husband. And then, to his daughter; "The jacket is written into our will."

She snorts. "Are you serious?"

Before Billy can say anything, snarky or otherwise, the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Dawn says, voice going high and airy in the way it only does when--

"Does Peter like casserole?"

Billy wishes Steve had a single rude bone in his body.

Dawn's cheeks go bright red. "Who said Peter's here?"

And then she's gone. Opening the front door and greeting him.

Peter.

Like he's the second coming or some shit.

"Oh, maybe because he's always here." Billy grumbles. "Eating my poptarts and forgetting to put more toilet paper in the bathroom--"

"Bills." Steve says.

"What? Just stating facts."

"Thought you wanted her to make friends her own age?" Steve says easily, planting a delicate, sweet kiss on the curve of Billy's neck.

Down the hall things are quiet.

Too quiet.

"Peter isn't a friend, he's a goddamn turd." Billy scrubs roughly at the counter top, trying to work out a seven year old Kool-Aid stain. "Flirty little turd trying to flirt with our kid, That's what--"

"Dawn and Peter don't flirt."

And Billy wishes Steve had a single thought in his pretty little head.

Billy throws the towel down on the countertop, hands on hips. "Are you fuckin' serious?"

But before Steve can say anything Turd Boy is rounding the corner in a denim vest and a flowery skirt, a giggling Dawn stumbling over the floor behind him. Since Billy saw him last, Peter's nose grew a ring of metal and his hair has turned pink.

Bright pink.

Pastel pink, clashing and melding with a shirt Billy remembers from Dawn's fifth grade yearbook.

Kid looks cool.

Really gnarly, like Sid Vicious and David Bowie rolled into one, and Billy instantly hates it when Dawn says that they're going to a fucking football game.

Billy puts on his dad hat.

The responsible one that makes him feel like a dweeb, and asks all the right questions. Who will be there, when are they coming home, does she need money or a pair of brass knuckles to intimidate the skinheads--

Steve asks if he should get a head start on the pillow fort, and.

Peter laughs.

Dawn holds out her hand, like, "That might be cool."

Billy tenses when Steve's arms find his waist. "The knuckles or the fort?"

She thinks about it. Then; "Both."

So Billy digs around for his wallet. And hands over his pocket-knuckles. And tries not to vomit when Dawn makes big, disgusting goo-goo eyes at the boyfriend that could, all things considered, be a lot fucking worse.

Steve tells them to call if they need anything and Peter promises to look have Dawn home by ten thirty. Swears to look out for her and use the knuckles if he's gotta, so.

Billy believes the kid.

Hates him because he has to, believes him because Steve does.

And then they're gone.

Billy stares after them long after the front door has slammed shut, trying not to feel disappointed that they'll be empty nesters until their kids stumble home from a night of normalcy.

Steve hasn't said a word.

"Guess it's just us, tonight," Billy whispers to the front door. Steve kisses the back of his neck. "I found some rolling papers in Dawn's room if you wanna--"

"Should we be letting her date?"

Which.

"Since when have we let Dawn do anything?"

#harringrove #harringrove april #day four #butterflies #I like how every prompt is just me mentioning the topic once #like #blink and you'll miss it honey #lmao #i love dawn

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mythicamagic · 4 years

Note

if you're still doing prompts, might i please ask for: “I can’t stay here with you— I just, when I’m around you, I can’t think. You make me dizzy… you make me weak.”

AN: This one is a modern AU with demons

---

The prospect of meeting her best friends' parents proved nerve-racking when it really shouldn't have been. She and Inuyasha had met in university, briefly dating for a few weeks before deciding to break up. Staying in halls together, they'd bonded over crappy lecturers, strangely getting on despite their frequent arguments and clashing personalities. Like oil and water.

Stepping through the threshold of the house, Kagome tried not to flinch at the loudness of her heels clicking on the marble floors. He hadn't exactly sold his family to her very well, grumbling about them frequently and complaining about his father. Now he'd practically dragged her there to spend a few weeks at their summer home.

"I'm gonna go sniff em' out. Wait here," Inuyasha left her side, not seeing her wilt and chew her lip. The mansion swallowed her up, looking very Western in decor. She kind of preferred more traditional Japanese inspired mansions since the wide-open spaces and modern influences felt a little more impersonal.

Hearing something, Kagome frowned, glancing at the door on her left. Approaching, she cracked it open a sliver to peer inside, before walking in.

Long white hair caught her attention, ensnaring it. Broad shoulders shifted, the demon turning to pin her with a frosty gaze. Two magenta stripes painted his cheeks, a powder blue crescent moon adorning his forehead.

Freezing, her heart fluttered. Slowly, those golden eyes changed, shifting into something more considering. They then dragged down her form- causing Kagome to bristle.

'My Dad looks young for his age. He'll also probably hit on you.' Inuyasha had said.

This is probably him. Kagome bowed. "H-hi, I'm Kagome Higurashi. You must be Inuyasha's father," she said. "It's nice to meet you."

"His father?" Amusement coloured a deep baritone, soon plummeting into a sneer. "If I were the sire of that whelp I'd live in disgrace."

Jolting, Kagome straightened quickly- only to hear Inuyasha growl from behind her.

"What the hell are you doing here, bastard?"

Bastard? The only one who Inuyasha referred to like that was...

Kagome swallowed, mildly mortified as she stared at his half brother, the light coming in from the windows behind his regal form bathed the cruel demon in an ethereal glow. Slowly, an imperceptible smirk tugged his lips up.

And that was how she met Sesshoumaru.

---

As it turned out, Inuyasha had a somewhat more complicated family tree than she'd first assumed. His actual father had a weathered look about his brass coloured eyes. Former General Touga motioned to his left and introduced a dark-haired, beautiful human woman as his wife. He'd then motioned to his right and introduced a white-haired, devastatingly gorgeous demoness as his wife as well.

Kagome had stared. Inukimi’s tinkling laughter rang out from behind her fan. “Poor little human, did Inuyasha not explain to you that he had two Mommys?"

"You're not my Mom," Inuyasha grumbled.

"Aw, love you too~"

The entire thing had made her feel like a fish out of water, but she'd smiled and stepped forward to greet them. All the while as she chatted to Izayoi, Kagome felt a pair of eyes burning into her back.

---

They'd held a party a few weeks later, Kagome tugging at her dress. The clothes were a little too fancy for her tastes but she rolled with it. It was nice of them to even treat her, she couldn’t complain.

Somehow though, she’d begun to feel claustrophobic. Wanting to escape from the bright, burning lights in the hall, the crowds- the perfect faces of the demons as they'd chatted business around her had made Kagome bump face-first into Sesshoumaru's chest.

After steadying her with a raised brow, he’d escorted her out into fresh air, finding a secluded balcony and nursing drinks.

"Why do you dislike Inuyasha?" She muttered quietly after catching her breath.

Things had been weird. Really weird. Running into the demon had become a habit over the weeks. In the mornings they were both early birds, meeting in the kitchen. In the evenings they'd both sought the comfort of the library. Baking food for the family and asking his opinion on the taste, sitting next to him at dinner, thighs almost touching. Making her way from the shower to her room dressed only in a towel, her skin practically feverish when he'd stared after her bare shoulders...all of it was getting to be too much.

"He has obtained many things over the years that I feel he was undeserving of."

Kagome frowned. "Like what?"

Sesshoumaru sipped his drink. "Father cut me off when I reached a certain age in order to build my business from the ground up. Inuyasha has not. Father bequeathed him an heirloom the eldest should rightly have, Father-"

"Those are all things Inuyasha isn't responsible for. They were all your father's decisions, not his. You can't hate him for that, it's not fair."

"Fair," Sesshoumaru chuckled, fangs flashing as golden eyes narrowed. "You know nothing about it. Do not speak to me about fair."

Disappointed, Kagome pushed off the railing, intent on rejoining the party- when a hand encircled her wrist.

"He has also obtained you."

Her lungs constricted, heat inflaming her cheeks. "Let go."

"Miko-"

"Please," she said quietly, not looking at him. “I can’t stay here with you— I just, when I’m around you, I can’t think. You make me dizzy… you make me weak.” Sesshoumaru tugged, causing her body to turn- her feet planting firmly to stop just shy of touching his chest. The heat rolling off him felt like a physical caress. They were nose to nose. She hadn't realized, had moved without thinking, had been so focused on his gaze that she hadn't registered him moving closer.

"Such loyalty...to one so heedless of it," hot breath fanned over her lips.

Kagome grit her teeth. "Inuyasha and I might not be dating, but I'll always have his corner."

"What did you just say?"

"Huh? I said Inuyasha and I aren't dating but-"

Long fingered hands came up then- tangling in dark hair and holding her face as firm lips slanted over hers. Kagome gasped into his mouth, squeezing her eyes shut. Despite herself, rosy lips moved of their own accord.

Sesshoumaru kissed her with fervour, rolling youki out along her skin and electrifying her nerve endings. Kagome dragged painted nails over his chest, tailing reiki in their wake. He shuddered all over and she felt it, swallowed his quiet groan.

Ripping herself away then, Kagome seethed. Touching her smudged lipstick, she glared. "I hate you."

He laughed cruelly. Leaning away from her - and then leaning in again unexpectedly, his thigh pressed her legs apart, and she felt everything inside her freeze, and shift, and want. "No, you do not," Sesshoumaru uttered softly. He then released her, walking towards the party like she'd been intending to. "If you decide to favour a superior corner, miko-" he glanced at her over one shoulder. "This one would be glad of it and accept you readily."

Watching him leave, Kagome growled and glared daggers at his back.

Turning to the railing, she downed her drink, letting out a huff. Noticing something on the table nearby, she reached down and picked up a crisp white business card. A red and white honeycomb design patterned the edge.

That jerk.

Her fingers tightened around the pristine card, crumpling the edges. When it came to actually tossing it back onto the table however, she hesitated. Swallowing, Kagome frowned and slowly, carefully tucked the card into the safety of her purse.

Maybe one day, if he learned to be less of a jerk, she'd call him. But not a day sooner.

"I shouldn't hold my breath," Kagome grumbled, touching her burning lips and sighing.

Damn it.

#sesskag #effinsusie #Sesshoumaru x Kagome #asks #prompts

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raynellalaria · 3 years

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IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH

(( New expac, new story! Never mind the fact that I’ve effectively abandoned past stories due to disinterest, lack of time, etc...gonna try to write more for Shadowlands...I hope >_>;; ))

And yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil, for you are at my side...

They rode through howling, ice-driven winds, cloaked in black furs to shield themselves from the harshness of Northrend. Hooves trampled over scarred earth, three black warhorses galloping through rot and ruin, brittle bone cracking beneath their hooves. They rode deep into the very seat of death, undeterred by the towering spires of Saronite built walls, the long abandoned necropoli looming in the distance, and the shattered machines of war strewn about, along with the bodies that once manned them, many of which still drew upon life through unlife as they shambled aimlessly, shackled by the dark powers that sat high above the scarred glacier, upon the citadel itself. What little light cast down upon Icecrown had to contend with the oppressive dark clouds that had long lingered even after the fall of Arthas, for light had long abandoned this place.

“We’re close,” said one of the figures in a firm, feminine tone. “We’ve but a mile or so to go.”

“How can you tell, Lady Raynell?” chimed another woman, gazing ahead with her bright blue eyes, head cloaked well beneath the warmth of her furs against the oppressive winds.

“It has been over a decade, I believe...but I still recognize the markings, the tattered banners.”

“You’ve a keen eye, adept, even if I question the keenness of your motive...” spoke the third, a deep, weathered masculine voice that cut through the howling gale. “Steady yourself, Ravaina. If she says we are close, then we must trust her instinct.”

“Yes, father.” The other woman tucked low on her warhorse, riding to keep pace with the other two. They fell quiet once more, only the thunder of hooves and the howl of frostbitten gales carrying around them until they rounded a clearing, circling their warhorses around a desolate patch of snow before each came to a halt. They each dismounted, heavy plated boots crunching beneath the earth as Raynell drew back her cloak. She brushed a hand through her freshly cut blonde hair, the once obscuring bangs of her original cut now shaved along the sides, leaving the top cut and styled. She gazed about, her once golden eyes now revealing the wear of wars past as the once enchanted false right eye had now faded, leaving a pale grey sphere that only had traces of the magic it once held. Kneeling before the snowy patch, she brushed aside the dirtied snow and dug her hands into the dark soil, her hand emerging with a pair of golden signet rings. She gazed upon them, her throat tightening and her brows furrowed, drawing a deep sigh.

“This is it. This is where I left them all those years ago.”

As the other two figures made their way to Raynell, the tallest among them drew back his hood, sporting golden eyes of his own that shone bright in contrast to his dark skin. He had not a hair upon his head, clean shaven across every inch of his scalp, yet sported a thin, dark beard across his chin and a moustache to match just above his lips. His ears were shorter than those of the other two, and scarred along the tops, and as he approached Raynell, his eyes fell upon the rings as well, his own expression darkening in sorrow.

“Fiyeran, Aliana...my friends. I am so sorry, Raynell.”

“They were lost to me, Ozmin, long before the final blows here in Icecrown,” she murmured, clasping her hands around the rings before placing them into a pouch on her belt, “but even the curse of the San’layn could not cloud their last look upon their daughter, nor the love they harbored before dying.”

“So this is why you chose this place, then?”

Raynell rose silently to her feet, leaving his inquiry unanswered as she looked back to the last of the three figures, a woman a few inches taller than Raynell, gathering a large sack from the back of her warhorse and setting it upon the earth below. “Is everything accounted for, Ravaina?”

“Yes, Lady Raynell,” she called out, opening the sack and beginning to rummage through the contents. The first to be removed was a rolled up carpet made of fine red and gold silks. Ravaina quietly cursed under her breath about the dirt ruining the silks, but dwelled no further on it as she continued to gather other items; from the sack, she produced a box of enchanted candles, a couple vials of bright golden liquid, a brass brazier accompanied by a tightly packed and bound pile of firewood, and a long sword, sheathed and wrapped in burlap cloth. Both Raynell and Ozmin approach the assorted items as Ravaina drew back her own cloak, long flowing black hair spilling across her shoulders, and part of it even tied high above her head in the ever popular ‘thalassian chonmage’ style. Unlike the other two, her eyes shone a light crystal blue, and as she took the sword in hand, she knelt and offered it to her father, Ozmin, raising it up and bowing her head.

“Shorel’belore-Zaram, Blade of the Sunspeaker...of your once student, Diliandra Sunspeaker.”

Ozmin looked upon the wrapped blade, hit with another pang of sorrow as he took it upon his clawed, gilded gauntlets, unfurling the burlap wrap to reveal a simple scabbard and an unremarkable hilt. As he drew the blade, however, the steel seemed to hum brightly through the howling gale, gleaming silver cutting through the darkness around it. His eyes examined the golden glowing script engraved in the blade, etched in the days of the Highborne.

“Diliandra was among the first class of knights brought up through the Order. To think she held such power in her lineage...”

His gaze paused on a break in the script, his eyebrows perked in surprise. “The blade is scarred. How did this come to be?”

Raynell looked to Ozmin, rubbing the back of her head. “It was...shattered in battle during the campaign against N’zoth. Both it and her sister blade, Shela’Luneth, clashed in Uldum, splitting both blades in twain.”

“Clashed? Shattered!?” He frowned, sheathing the blade. “How could you let an artifact of such import be shattered!?”

She cleared her throat. “I underestimated both blade and opponent, I suppose, but that is neither here nor there. Thistlebreeze was able to repair both blades after the campaign’s conclusion. Honestly, a story for another time...”

Ozmin sighed and shook his head. “You’ve much to explain after this, adept...but aye. For now, the ritual must be prepared. Ravaina, lend me a hand...”

The other woman nodded, joining her father as she took up the rolled silken carpet, laying it across the scarred earth. Ozmin set the candles around the carpet in a wide circle, then set the brass brazier in front of it, carefully untying the bound rope that kept the firewood packed together. Through the thick wood at the base, he stuck the unsheathed Shorel’Belore, then lit the wood around it with a flicker of holy flame. The wood flared alight, though remained unscarred by the magic. Warmth permeated the unforgiving cold around them, and in the relative darkness, light prevailed, the candles aglow as the resonating magics lit them in succession. Raynell watched the ritual with a sense of awe. Normally, the ritual of communing would be held back home, among the relative peace of Quel’thalas. In the dire lands of Northrend, it looked all the more impressive.

“Step forward, Adept Raynell, and kneel, for when you rise at the end of this ritual, you rise a knight once more.”

A knight once more. The words stung a little for the Sin’dorei. She was a knight, once, but the burden of Teldrassil’s fall, the swaths of death left in the Banshee Queen’s wake, and the misdirection of the Horde’s war effort, pushed her to make the difficult decision to step down, to abandon the Order, in order to find herself and her purpose. The journey, as it turned out, had a roundabout conclusion among the shattered landscape of Icecrown, now on the cusp of returning to the Blood Knights as an act of contrition.

She stepped forth, kneeling atop the silken carpet as she cast aside her fur cloak, clad in simple Thalassian half-plate. Ozmin towered over her opposite the roaring brazier, casting aside his cloak to reveal resplendent plated regalia, his armor resembling a grand robe, and his shoulderguards bearing glowing medallions that floated above the mantle, each one emblazoned with the symbol of the rising phoenix. He looked to Ravaina, clad in black armor as she cast aside her own cloak, the vials of golden liquid held in each hand, and nodded.

“Bring forth the blessed waters of the Sunwell. It is here, in the shadow of death, that we shall stand in the Light of the Eternal Sun, in defiance of death itself.”

Ravaina nodded, stepping forth to hand one vial to each person. As she did so, she turned her head to her surroundings, feeling a chill run through her spine. A small host of shambling skeletons and ghouls passed their roaring flame several feet away. Some even looked upon the display with cold, blue eyes, before their dead-eyed gazes were drawn back to the looming spire of the citadel in the far distance. She reached back for her lance, grasping it tentatively as if ready to strike before her father spoke once more.

“Pay no heed to them. They remain shackled to the crown’s will, and shall do us no harm.”

Ravaina gulped, but relented, releasing her lance and standing by. Ozmin then cast his gaze upon Raynell, opening the vial. Raynell, in turn, opened her vial and nodded.

“These blessed waters were drawn by your own hand, Raynell. Did you go about the proper measures to filter and infuse them for your Trial of Light’s Vision?”

“I have,” she answered.

“Good,” he curtly responded. “Let us drink.”

Both Ozmin and Raynell drank from their vials as Ravaina stood by, lance drawn this time, but planted in the ground astride of her as she held the shaft, her other arm positioned in parade rest behind her. She glanced sidelong at the shambling audience of undead. Not a moment before, the deep canyon running through Icecrown was quiet. Now it stirred, and its denizens shuffling with gazes cast toward Icecrown. It unsettled her, the grip on her lance tightening as the ritual continued unabated, both participants setting aside emptied vials. Ozmin’s eyes glowed brilliantly as he reached for a large tome latched to his belt, unclasping the gilded, leatherbound cover and quietly turning the enchanted pages.

“Excellent. I feel our spirits in ascent. Now is the time, Raynell. Reach through the flame and take hold of the blade, so that we may explore the past, conquer its challenges, and carve forth a path to the future.”

Raynell nodded, her own eyes glowing brilliantly. Even the faded false eye shimmered alight, completing the woman’s gaze. She rose up on one knee as she reached through the golden flames rising from the brazier. Though it burned hot, she felt no searing pain, her flesh unmarred by the billowing holy fires. Her fingers lingered for a moment on the hilt of Shorel’Belore, gazing upon the sword with a sense of awestruck sorrow. This was her mentor’s blade before her passing, and though it was passed down to her, she never felt fully worthy of its power...nor of its burden, which weighed heavily both on her and on Diliandra before her. She took a deep breath, gathering her resolve, and she grasped the blade in one hand...then the other, locking herself in a sort of prayer kneel before the fires of the brazier, her eyes drifting closed as the light faded into darkness around her vision.

Satisfied, Ozmin drew a hand forth over Raynell’s head, closing his eyes as holy power teemed from his brilliant regalia, shining forth upon his adept as the two began their trial...

“Focus, Raynell, on my voice, as your spirit is drawn through the trial ahead of you. Focus on maintaining your will throughout, never letting it waver or break from the path ahead. Focus, Raynell...focus...”

Focus.

Focus!

----------------------------

“Focus, Raynell!”

Raynell gasped with a start, her vision clearing to the Farstrider’s Square in Silvermoon City. She stood in the center of the square, a training blade and shield in hand, the high ivory towers of her home casting shadows in the mid-afternoon sun over the red cobblestone. Before her, a host of her fellow knights stood, training weapons at the ready to strike out at her. The voice that called her to focus was that of a stern woman’s, and as she looked toward the voice, she saw the imposing stature of her former mentor, clad in resplendent gold, black, and red armor, and bearing the tabard of the Blood Knights.

“Stay focused, Raynell, and do not strike out too quickly, nor too late. Maintain your timing, and keep your shield level. They will come to you...”

She nodded, setting her feet under her. I remember this, from the days leading up to my knighthood...

As do I, Raynell. Diliandra was growing into her role as a true Master of the Order, and you were her pride, even if she boasted more talented students.

Raynell heard the words of Ozmin echo in her head and smirked. She twirled her blade, shifting her stance to keep her opponents in her line of sight as they circled. With a shout, one of them charged forth, and two more followed him. Raynell felt time slow around her briefly as they struck forth, and to Ozmin’s backhanded compliment, she responded.

Then let me show you how talented I truly am.

The first strike slipped across her parrying blade, using the attacker’s momentum against him as she struck high across his throat, knocking the wind out of him and onto his knees. The next strike bore against her shield, and she charged into the assailant, shoving both him and the knight behind him to the ground. Her gaze turned to a charging woman with a training blade held high. She shoved the edge of her shield flawlessly into her gut, twirling to intercept her with a quick-footed response. Another pair of women struck out for her, and with another twirl, Raynell hurled her shield like a frisbee, the projectile bouncing off of one, then striking the other, before swinging back to her grasp. The scattered knights lie around her, grunting and groaning as they gathered themselves from Raynell’s valiant defense.

“Augh...you rotten -bitch-. Did it have to be in the throat!?”

Raynell turned to see the first rise to his feet, a man with long black hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She gazed at him for a moment, briefly awestruck by the vision playing out in her head, before laughing softly.

Nalithas Vin’sarin. I knew him.

“I’m sorry Nal. I guess I was caught up in the moment.”

“Oh don’t be sour, Nal. We all got our asses handed to,” spoke another, a blonde haired fellow with well tanned skin, as he helped up his compatriot, a man with bright orange hair and paler features.

That’s Sarenval Starsaber and Ben’erah Thistlebreeze. Belle never liked Ben much, but I know it pained her to lose her brother...

Raynell’s thoughts lingered a moment on the fate of Ben before another voice called out.

“What the hells was that? Where was my support? We had a clear vantage out of her line of sight!”

Raynell twirled around to a woman with short cut raven locks and a scowl on her features. She grinned as she watched the woman complain to her compatriots behind her, the ones that she caught with her shield throw.

Avanaya Sunherald and the Dawnfeather sisters, Tiralin and Teralin. Avanaya would later cross the Dark Portal and train under the Illidari, becoming the Killherald...

“Oh come off it, Ava! How were we supposed to know Raynell was going to toss her shield?”

“Yeah. Next time, she ought to toss it at you, you -twat-.”

“That’s enough, everyone...” Diliandra strode forth to the gathered knights, a bit of a bemused smile on her face. “You all did well, today, though your approach in our last spar left a lot to be desired. Remember your drills and techniques, and make ready for tomorrow. Dismissed.”

The others nodded and made their way past Raynell, each giving her a firm pat on the shoulder and a word of congratulations, even if defeat stung for them. As Raynell watched her compatriots depart, she turned to look to her mentor. Another woman was with her, one of regal stature with silver earrings hanging on the lobes of her ears, and an inscribed scimitar at her side. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, black ponytail, and she spared a brief glance at Raynell, furrowing her brow in a sense of disdain before looking back to Diliandra, offering a few words of departure before bowing politely. Raynell scowled a bit, her form tensing as recognition dawned upon her.

Lunisara Silverblade. Traitor.

Raynell felt a sense of regret echo in her head in the form of a heavy sigh from Ozmin.

She deceived us all, Raynell, and the Order suffered for it.

Raynell dwelled quietly on Ozmin’s words, looking a bit downcast before Diliandra approached. “Something the matter, Raynell?”

“Oh! N-nothing, Master Sunspeaker.”

Diliandra smirked. “Well, your performance today was far from nothing. A bit overdone, but impressive, none the less.”

“Thank you, Master Sunspeaker,” she replied, bowing deeply. “Will that be all for me, today?”

“Not quite. You have one more challenge awaiting you, and she made certain to be here to make good on it after her patrols.”

Raynell tilted her head a moment, then heard another voice call out from behind.

“Sorry to have kept you all waiting! You best be ready, Raynell, because I am coming at you with all I’ve got.”

Raynell smiled, feeling a soft flush rise to her cheeks and a renewed sense of vigor in her form. She gripped her training blade tightly and readied her shield, bristling with excitement.

“Oh, I’m ready for -anything-.”

She twirled around with weapons at the ready, steadying her stance.

Here I come, Fi-

SCREEEEAHHH.

Raynell nearly leapt out of her skin as her vision filled with the lunging visage of a ghoul. She raised her shield in time to repel the leaping corpse, then cut it down with her now sharpened silver blade. The Farstrider’s Square was gone, replaced by rotted fields of brown grass, gnarled trees, and a brown, darkened gloom in the sky. Her nostrils scrunched, and she briefly retched at the stench of rot and undeath around her.

What’s happening!? I don’t understa-

Relax, Raynell.

The voice of Ozmin echoed in her head once more.

The Trial of Light’s Vision is ever shifting, turning through the pages of your story and revealing them from chapter to chapter. This is but another chapter in that story...

Raynell looked around once more, seeing another swarm of ghouls approaching her. She struck the ground with her blade, consecrating the desecrated earth as holy flame ripped through the gibbering mass of risen corpses, then drew her sword from the earth and charged forward to cut down what remained, taking a moment to catch her bearings.

This is not a great chapter to end up in. This is our battalion’s fateful foray into the Eastern Plaguelands, the one where...

“Raynell!”

The voice of her mentor called out from behind, riding atop her warhorse and flanked by a pair of other knights, their faces concealed by black hoods, and Diliandra’s concealed by a hood and mask, which she quickly drew back as she spoke.

“The battalion is falling back to the Ghostlands border. The captain is ahead in pursuit of the death knight and his legions. I need you to intercept her and bring her back! We’ve suffered casualties, and I fear Vin’sarin hasn’t much time...”

“What do you mean?” Raynell asked. “What’s happened?”

Diliandra fell silent, her expression dark and downcast as she took a breath before shaking her head. “Go, Raynell. Do as I’ve asked, and return swiftly, before you are overrun!”

Raynell tried to speak once more, but the thundering hooves of the warhorses turned away, charging back to the border. Raynell stood alone, silent in the midst of the plaguelands, a surging panic rising in her throat as it tightened, hands shaking and cold sweat trickling across her brow.

Focus, Raynell. Do not let your vision waver. Remember, you must go -forward-.

As Ozmin’s voice called out to her, she paused, took a knee, and drew in slow breaths. In and out, in a state of balanced trance, quieting the swarm of thoughts in her mind’s eye as she opened her eyes once more, looking forward on the path ahead. She heard a scream in the distance, perking her ears, and nodded firmly.

There.

She brought her fingers to her lips and let forth a sharp whistle. The whinnying cry of a horse sounded in the distance, and from the gnarled wood, a proud steed rode forth.

Darktreader. Ever my ally in battle. He was cursed with death’s touch during the battle for Icecrown, but found redemption at Light’s Hope during the battle with the Legion.

Raynell took quickly to the horse, lifting herself upon the saddle, then urging him forward through the Plaguelands, across wretched earth and through abandoned villages toward the cry of anguish. As she closed the distance, she could hear more voices, many of them her companions, and that of the captain that led them, calling for them to rally back.

“Hang on, I’m almost there!”

She cracked the reins hard against Darktreader, breaking into a full sprint across the deadened landscape, their destination just over the ridge.

I’m almost there, Fi-

Suddenly, her weight shifted backwards, as if someone had lassoed her from behind, and her vision darkened. She toppled and rolled against the earth below, rolling against what felt like snow. The metallic taste of blood sat bitter upon her tongue, and shooting pain suddenly seized her. As she gathered herself and opened her eyes, she saw a human woman, clad in black armor, her skin as pale as the snow around them, and a runeblade draped over her shoulder.

Gwenlien Allendare. She was a knight of Alterac raised by the Lich King, and was terrorizing Forsaken caravans passing between Tarren Mill and the Undercity. In truth, it was a ruse meant to lure me...

Raynell gathered herself and her blade, this time a greatsword, and brought her unsteady legs into as steady a stance as she could.

I...lost this battle. Perhaps another chance...

----------------------------

The silence unsettled Ravaina as she watched both her father and her new ward locked in trial. At the very least, Ozmin had awareness of his whereabouts, quietly turning a page or two of his tome on occasion as minutes passed like hours in the frigid north. She held tight to her lance, ever vigilant as her ears picked up more movement some distance from them, the sound of cracking limbs and schlorping, rotted flesh passing by.

“Father, how much longer must this go on?”

“As long as is necessary to fulfill Raynell’s visions. I am providing her with guidance, but it is her task, and hers alone, to complete.”

Ravaina scowled, looking away as she watched another group of undead shamble across the wastes. She noticed the throngs growing ever more prominent, all with their glowing eyes raised to the spires of Icecrown Citadel in the distance. She shivered as the howling gales seemed to pick up, cutting even through the insulated plate.

“Something feels off. The other knights have told us that Icecrown has long been quiet and desolate...”

“Most of them aren’t aware of the lingering presence of the Lich King. The new one, that is.”

Ozmin glanced briefly over his shoulder at the shuffling masses. One ghoul turned his slobbering gaze to the knight. He scowled as they met gazes before the ghoul continued shuffling away.

“They say Fordragon sits upon the Frozen Throne, now, keeping the Scourge tamed and at bay from ever overwhelming Azeroth again.”

His eyes returned to the tome, then lifted slightly to regard Raynell.

“Still...something -is- off.”

“Father?” Ravaina lifted her gaze to Ozmin, eyes betraying a sense of worry.

“These visions are jumping all over. They test Raynell’s focus...and mine. I should be able to control the pace, and yet I find the trial slipping through my grasp.”

He drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, before opening them once more, brilliant Light teeming from his aura as he fought the cold, oppressive dark around him, along with his fears of losing control.

“We should be fine...but stay vigilant.”

Ravaina nodded, gulping softly. She held firm to her lance and steadied her stance, remaining at parade rest...and yet around her, a scene began to unfold, and in the distance, Ravaina could swear she saw flashes of something happening atop of the citadel...

----------------------------

In the snowy drifts of the Alterac Mountains, among the long abandoned ruins of Alterac itself, a clashed played out. Raynell, clad in red and black, her blade clashing against runecarved steel. Gwenlien, the death knight, towering over her and laying down brute force as bitter frost swirled across her saronite-clad form. Swirls of fiery Light followed Raynell’s strikes, trying to fend off the sickly frost of the Death Knight’s runeblade. Fighting through searing pain, through struggled breath, Raynell gained a brief advantage and struck out with all her might, bringing her blade crashing down against the Death Knight’s armor. The human reeled back, down to a knee, open to one last strike. Raynell lifted her blade high, ready to strike down the Death Knight...only to have herself intercepted by dark magic, a clawed, black spectral hand rising from the Death Knight’s outstretched grip. She could feel the air being strangled out from her, struggling and flailing in panic as she tried to rip the hand free from her throat, even as the Death Knight trudged forward, runeblade dragging across the snow.

“You’ve given me enough trouble, elf, and now your story ends HERE.”

Concentrate, Raynell! Do not let your vision fade!

Ozmin’s voice cut through clear in her mind, and Raynell felt a surge of desperation as she found purchase in the dark magic, prepared to break free. As the runeblade thrust forward, however, a sudden flash of Light struck the Death Knight, causing her to reel away. As Raynell freed herself, she hit the snow hard, coughing in fits and coughing up blood as her dazed vision looked up to see a blurry clash unfold. Another had come to her aid, an elven woman with long, braided black hair, bearing the Blood Knight tabard and an ebonsteel zweihander.

Valaane Duskbanish. She came to save me that fateful night, having followed Gwenlien’s trail to the mountains...

She continued to watch the clash unfold, both knights, one of Blood, one of Death, locked in ferocious combat. In a decisive strike, the Blood Knight, Valaane, ran her sword through Gwenlien, drawing it out with dripping ichor splashed across the snow before planting it in the ground. The Death Knight fell to her knees, sputtering in her weakness as final death approached.

“Your wicked reign of terror ends today, cur.”

Valaane’s hands glowed with teeming holy flame, prepared to put an end to the Death Knight once and for all. The human only responded with a bitter laugh and an eerily prophetic warning.

“You...will join me...in DARKNESS!”

Suddenly, the elf found herself blindsided by a shadowy strike, the same shadowed claw that gripped at Raynell’s throat now slashing through Valaane’s. The once glowing hands suddenly lost their shine, the Light dissipating in sickly, pale violet embers, and the Death Knight charged the woman, sending both toppling over the slopes of Alterac and unto a fate previously unknown. Raynell staggered to her feet and rushed to the edge, huffing and panting as she shook her head and silently cursed herself.

Gone. Like last time.

She looked to Valaane’s blade, left to the wayside, and drew it from the snow.

Little did I know I would see her again...but immensely changed. The shadow cut more than her throat. It cut through her very being, tainting it so that she eventually became Ren’dorei...a void elf.

She slung the zweihander over her back, then gazed out over the cloud-darkened foothills and peaks below.

I thought I had lost her that night. Lost her, like I had lost...

She scarcely had time to finish her thought before the hum of a flying blade cut through the air. Raynell quickly ducked it and drew the greatsword once more, charging forth to clash with the serrated glaive of another: a Night Elf this time, clad in the armor of the Wardens...and bearing a fiery fel green gaze in the eyes of her helm.

Shiane Blackgrove.

The two backed off from their clash, heavy plate boots crunching on the snow beneath them. This time, Raynell was surrounded by the towering pines of Winterspring, the same ones which she found shelter in during her days of reclusion before the Legion invasion. Raynell stared down her new foe, quiet breaths carrying in the cold winter air in soft, misty vapors. Once more, Ozmin’s voice echoed through, though it seemed to hint at confusion.

You...will have to bring me up to speed on this one. I had departed before the Cataclysm to train my daughter afar.

Raynell smirked, raising her blade at the ready as she locked eyes with the corrupted Warden. At the Warden’s side, a pair of snarling felhounds emerged, their bone white faces starkly contrasting the long, black, wiry manes across their heads and backs, and the deep red skin that surged with fel blood. Following them, a pair of burly felguards stepped from the shadows, bearing axes in their massive grey hands, and clad in demon-forged armaments from head to hoof. At Raynell’s side, new allies came to the fore; first, a woman from an earlier vision, the very Avanaya Sunherald, returned as the Killherald, a demon huntress with long horns jutting from her forehead and skin that was scaled and deep red; and to Raynell’s other side, a tall, muscular elven woman with long red hair and a pair of axes in hand, clad in red platemail.

“Ava, Belle.”

“That name is dead to me, as is the woman who once bore it,” the demon huntress replied, “but call upon the Killherald, and she shall lead the hunt...”

“Oh wow, lookit’ you bein’ all cool and edgy...” the warrior, Belle, chimed. “Come off it and let’s just knock some damn heads.”

The demon huntress shot a glance at Belle, or at least as much a glance as one with a blindfold could offer, then grunted. “Let’s...”

Wait, that’s Avanaya? And the other woman, that’s...that Daroen’s youngest! How did that scrawny wretch get to be so...ferocious!?

Ozmin, focus. This is still a trial.

Don’t turn this around on me, adept! You are the one on trial, here!

Raynell chuckled softly to herself. Both Ava and Belle stared at her, then at each other, shrugging indifferently, as if being left out of a joke.

Fine, then. In that case, let me show you how it’s done, Ozmin.

“ASHAL THORI’ANORE!”

The trio of women charged forth, with Raynell leading the way. The Warden and her demons responded in kind, a clash imminent as they rushed forth on a collision course. As Raynell raised her blade to strike the Warden dead on, the scene suddenly faded, and Raynell found herself in a dark, empty void. She looked about in a brief panic, having to take a few steadying breaths to gain her bearings before asking for her new mentor’s guidance.

Ozmin, what’s going on? I seem to have lost the vision.

No response. The void lingered in unsettling silence around her.

Ozmin, can you hear me?

Another long pause. Nothing. Suddenly, a warm, orange glow settled in the distance. Raynell began walking toward it, trying to get a better view.

Ozmin, do you see this? Ozmin? What’s happening out th-

Raynell stopped dead in her tracks as the vision became clearer. She was no longer in snow driven landscapes, or tranquil Thalassian forests, or even among the rot of the Plaguelands. What transpired before her was far worse than anything she had experienced thus far, and just a few paces away, a hooded figure gazed across a firelit expanse of sea, and high above it, a towering tree smoldered and blazed in unquenching flame. Screams of agony echoed throughout, and in the sea, the drowned floated across the surface.

Teldrassil. No...

----------------------------

Ravaina stirred as the undead nearby began to wail. The startling cacophony even unsettled the stoic Ozmin, whose focus wavered as he looked back to his daughter.

“What’s going on!? My connection to Raynell is unstable! No, no...this can’t be happening!”

Ozmin flipped through his tome rapidly, as if searching for a solution to his predicament. All the while, Ravaina looked up toward Icecrown Citadel, noticing something stirring in the distance, signs of distant battle as it appeared pieces of the glacier were falling from it.

“Father, it’s the Citadel. Something is happening up there!”

----------------------------

Raynell quietly approached the shore, recognizing the besieged Lor’danel nearby, but still drawn to the great tree collapsing under the all consuming flame. The hooded figure stood quiet as she approached, not even turning to regard her approach. As she stepped within a foot or two of the figure, a sharp pain spiked through her skull, and the knight reeled back, holding her temple as a harsh voice whispered in her mind.

Behold, all of your sins laid bare. The culmination of your failures, your lack of loyalty. A doomed world, created by your own hand.

Raynell hissed in frustration, raising her head to glare at the figure. “Sylvanas...” she spat, before reeling again as the figure seemed to respond.

No. She is carrying out his will, as am I. What she does will save your doomed world. What I do, I do to save you from yourself...

The figure turned, revealing herself as an elven woman, raven hair tied back in a neat ponytail, silver earrings sitting at the lower lobes of her ears, and an inscribed scimitar at her side, drawn now in her hand. Raynell’s eyes widened, staggering backward.

“No...Lunisara? You...you fell at Winterspring, after you tried to ambush us with Blackgrove in tow...”

The woman raised her blade, the tip pointed at Raynell. Again, the shooting pain bombarded her head, more agonizing now.

You have been chosen. All must return to him. All must return to the Maw. You will usher them forth, as one of the champions of death, as a liberator of The Jailer.

“Ozmin! Something is wrong! Ozmin! Ozminnn!”

Raynell stumbled backward, suddenly losing her footing. She felt herself plummeting into a dark pit, flailing about as she sought to catch herself on anything around her, even though there was naught but black surrounding her.

You will be reunited with her. Don’t you want to see her again? Don’t you remember what happened? Or has she become Nameless to you once more...

THUD.

Raynell once again found herself on solid earth, groaning softly as she picked herself up from the ground. Her vision cleared, and she jolted as the familiar stench of rot assailed her senses. The dull brown sky, the gnarled trees, the tattered grasses. She was back in the Eastern Plaguelands.

I don’t understand. Why am I here, again, of all-

“There’s...nothing you can do for me, R-Raynell...”

The knight snapped around quickly at the sound of a pained whisper nearby, accompanied by familiar, mournful sobs. She stepped around a ruined tower wall. Huddled against it was a woman with short, golden locks, and in her arms, she cradled another woman, this one with silvery white hair. The woman in her arms lay wounded and pale, and a sickly looking green vein seemed to stretch up from her neck to her cheek. Tracing it back down, one could see the wound causing the most suffering, what appear to be a grisly clawing of her side, tearing through armor and flesh. The silver haired woman reached up, a shaky hand gently stroking the cheek of her sobbing compatriot.

“You’ve grown so s-strong...you’re going to...make a fine knight, Ray.”

The other woman shook her head, tears streaking across her cheeks as the sobs grew louder. Raynell watched the scene in helpless awe, her face pale and her eyes filled with the same sense of sorrow that gripped the grief-stricken blonde before her.

“I can’t...I can’t! Please, Fia, you have to hold on! Lady Sunspeaker...sh-she can...”

“No! No...she won’t make it in time...I can feel it...t-turning me!”

The silver-haired knight began to seize up, wracked in agonizing pain as she let out a hoarse, dry-throated cry, the sickly paleness of her skin beginning to turn a dull shade of green. Raynell choked back a sob, reaching out in vain to the pair as she stumbled back. The blonde cradling her only mourned all the more passionately, hugging tightly to her dying compatriot in her waning moments. She sobbed into her ruined tabard, running a hand through her silver locks as they came undone from her ponytail, unwilling to let go, even as life quickly faded from the woman’s eyes.

“F-Fia...I love you!”

“Raynell...I...”

The words remained choked in her throat, the woman suddenly pushing herself off of the mourning blonde and staggering backwards with inhuman speed. She began to rise with an unsteady gait, her voice croaking out in a wordless, thoughtless cry as she gazed back with glazed over eyes, the rot crawling up her form as the last of her conscious life slipped away, overtaken by the madness of undeath. As Raynell drew her blade once more, she steeled her gaze on the shambling corpse that was once her Captain, her friend, and her first love, fighting through tears to see her clearly.

“I’m sorry, Fia.”

Before she could strike, though, the sickly woman burst into holy flame, her body consumed by it. She collapsed in a skeletal husk, left to smolder in embers as across from her, the blonde stood wide-eyed, hand outstretched as embers of holy flame flickered from her fingers. The shrill whinny of a warhorse sounded in the distance, and charging from the north came a trio of familiar knights rushing to the young woman’s side, the forefront of which threw off her hood.

“Raynell! What happ-”

The knight reeled back at the sight of the fallen captain, her body left in smoldering bone, the tattered tabard slowly burning away in smoke and ash. The blonde looked back to her mentor, her surrogate mother, and cried out in a broken voice.

“What have I done...what have I done!?”

She fell into the other’s arms in mournful wailing. The woman knelt aside her, holding her tightly in a comforting embrace, even as the dark, rot-filled air around them offered no comfort. The other knights stood back, unsure of how to respond, if they could at all.

“Lady Sunspeaker, what-”

“Leave us.”

“Pardon?”

“LEAVE US! NOW!”

The other knights stumbled back in shock before returning to their horses, riding off into the distance as mentor and ward remained to mourn their loss together. Raynell watched on, sorrow heavy in her heart as she gazed at the smoldering corpse left by her own hand all those years ago.

“I’ve seen enough, Ozmin. Take me back.”

She watched and waited. No response.

“Ozmin, the trial is over! You’ve made your point! Take me-”

Behold, all of your sins laid bare.

Raynell reeled again, feeling the sharp pain strike her head once more. As she raised her gaze, she noticed that the two mourners, her younger self and her mentor, were staring at her.

“Is it not fitting?” said the shade of Diliandra, her expression menacing as she stared daggers through the knight. “All you have ever laid hand upon, wreathed in fire. You leave naught but destruction in your wake.”

“No,” Raynell stammered, “No! That wasn’t...my fault. She was turning...I had to!”

“You didn’t save her,” said the shade of Raynell, raising a hand to point at her future self. “You didn’t even -try-. You let her burn, like you let Teldrassil burn.”

“No! NO! Stop it...STOP IT!”

She shut her eyes, trying to force out the voices laying accusations upon her. She suddenly felt a cacophony of accusations fill her head, so many that she could not discern their origins. She gripped her head, nearly screaming as she pleaded them to cease, and as she opened her eyes, her gaze suddenly settled on a new, unsettling visage: that of the skeletal remains of her long lost Captain, her lost love, Fia’delis Brightblade, now bathed in a new flame, one of eerie blue lichfire.

“All must return...to the Maw.”

The visage suddenly became clad in dark steel. Ebon wings burst forth from her shoulders. A clawed gauntlet grasped at Raynell’s throat, choking the air from her as the Death Knight did before. As she flailed and struggled, a deafening boom sounded above, and like shards of glass, the sky began to splinter, opening toward some desolate expanse high above, and from the black, a menacing spire emerging from on high. As the figure ascended, carrying Raynell in tow, a flash suddenly blindsided the winged knight, loosing its grasp, and Raynell began to fall once more, and for a good while as the ground below gave way to an infinite, ethereal expanse, her vision quickly fading as the figure above seemed locked in battle with another...

----------------------------

BOOM.

The howling winds suddenly died out. A sound like booming thunder echoed across the stillness, followed quickly by a terrible shrieking. High above the Citadel, and across the darkened expanse of the Icecrown sky, tendrils of energy shot across the expanse like ghostly strands of lightning. Ravaina reeled back at the sudden surge, and Ozmin flinched, losing grasp of his tome as it tumbled to the ground. Raynell’s eyes shot open, but were no longer gold, but a brilliant white. A chain suddenly appeared around her throat, tendrils of shadowy purple stretching along its length, and above them, the sky splintered into glass-like shards, opening to a great chasm above as the darkened sky split to reveal a new endless chasm, surrounded by dull orange and brown coloring, with a spire much like Icecrown’s just barely cresting past the breaking point. The chain seem to stretch to the tower itself, and in the ensuing moments of panic, Ozmin called upon his greatsword to shatter the chain, reeling back as the dark energies repelled him in a powerful rebuke.

“RAVAINA! WE HAVE TO SAVE HER!”

It didn’t take long for the daughter of Ozmin to leap into action, channeling all her strength, both physical and Light-blessed, to drive the end of her lance into the chain. She, however, met the same rebuke as the edge of the lance struck the chain without so much as denting it, sending her reeling back once more.

“FATHER! SHE’S BEING TAKEN!”

As the two looked on in horror, Raynell’s body began to rise with the chain, slowly bringing her up from the silken rug she once knelt upon. Both knights hurled bolts of Light, along with a myriad of elven obscenities, in a vain attempt to break the shadowy chain. In their clamor, they failed to notice the shambling undead suddenly begin to turn against them, and as they began to swarm, both father and daughter had to now contend with the swarming undead, leaving Raynell to her fate.

In that moment, the blade of Sunspeaker began to float above the brazier, the clarion call of Shorel’Belore humming brightly as the blade drew from the flame below it. In one miraculous stroke, the blade cut through the chain, the shadowy energies engulfed in shining flame before dissipating into dust, and Raynell fell back toward earth, collapsed against the silken carpet...

----------------------------

Fear not, for in the shadow of death, I shall always be at your side...

Raynell awoke with a start, hearing the shriek of undead pierce the suddenly still air of Icecrown. Raynell scrambled to her feet, grabbing Shorel’Belore beside her and rushing forth to Ravaina and Ozmin, driving her blade deep into the desecrated earth and unleashing a surge of consecrated Light. The undead around it shuddered and burst into holy flame before collapsing, and with a heavy sigh, Raynell collected herself before quickly turning to Ozmin.

“Something’s wrong! The trial’s been compromised. What’s been-”

Ozmin raised a hand to quiet the panicked knight, then pointed to Icecrown and the shattered sky above. Raynell’s eyes went wide, seeing the familiar broken shards of sky, the gaping maw above, and the shadowy spire at the center of it. She nearly stumbled, taken aback by the sight high above the Frozen Throne.

“Icecrown...what does this mean, Ozmin?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, his faced locked in a firm scowl, “all I do know is that the fate of our world hangs once more in the balance, and the knights will once more have to march into the heart of death itself.”

Their gazes lingered upon Icecrown Citadel. Ravaina joined them, as awestruck as they were at the sight before them, and further unsettled by the wail of the undead in the distance around them, thrown into a sudden fit of chaos. Raynell heaved out a sigh, bowing her head, then looked back to Ozmin.

“This is probably neither the time or place, but...have I passed the Trial?”

Ozmin smirked, glancing sidelong at Raynell.

“As I said, Azeroth is going to need the knights once more. Considering the circumstances...I’d say you’ve more than qualified.”

She motioned quickly to Ravaina. “Ready the horses. We leave everything but the blade. The Argent Grounds are not far. They will be preparing as we speak...”

Ravaina nodded, collecting her cloak and quickly throwing it over her shoulders. Raynell and Ozmin followed suit, and as the three rode off, Raynell looked back at the abandoned ritual, then toward the trail ahead, riding through the valley in the shadow of death that lingered high above...

#World of Warcraft #Shadowlands #writing #Raynell #Wyrmrest Accord #Ravaina #Ozmin #Blood Knights #Blood Elves #Sin'dorei #crazy ish happening #wanted to write badly about it #also trying to consolidate raynell's story since its so scattered hahahaha oh god

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jjmichie · 5 years

Text

The Day I Touched Eddie Vedder’s Ankle

March 25, 1992

It was cold, as March in Minnesota tends to be.

But this March was colder than usual. Brian was gone. And I had a horrible case of mono that I had succumbed to immediately after he dumped me, which led me to drop the majority of classes I was taking that semester. My financial aid situation was now a mess but I was too sick to go to work and my money supply was dwindling. I had pushed my friends away. I didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone or go anywhere or do anything.

It had been this way for over a month. I spent long days in bed, with barely the energy to eat or even sit up. My muscles and my head and my whole body hurt whenever I tried to move or even think. I couldn’t distinguish whether it was from the sickness or loneliness or aching for Brian but it didn’t matter. I just knew everything hurt and everything felt dark, cold, empty, dead . . . hopeless.

But sitting on the nightstand next to my bed were two tickets to an all ages show at First Avenue. Pearl Jam. It was coming up soon. I really didn’t want to go. I was supposed to be going with Brian. We were supposed to go together. We were supposed to BE together. But the tickets continued to sit there, mocking me, reminding me of what my world had been just a short month ago, but now of what was gone, what was lost, and reminding me of how badly I had fucked it all up.

But I also hated to let the tickets go to waste. I had paid for them. So, as a reluctant Plan B, I convinced my sister to join me. She was older, but always seemed younger. The kind of sister you end up scooping up off the floor of a closet at the end of the night when you bring her to a party, or who takes off on a motorcycle with a random guy she doesn’t know. or disappears for so long in a shopping mall that you end up freaking out and contacting mall security . . . but anyway.

Night of the event. I made myself pull out my standard rock concert clothes, which consisted of knee high black suede boots and a long black velvet jacket thing, which was tapered at the waist then flared out into a skirt in the most lovely feminine way. It was adorned with brass buttons down the front, and two in the back. I loved that jacket. It usually cheered me up every time I put it on. But this time it didn’t. This time I was just going through the motions.

When we got inside the already-packed venue, I could immediately feel Brian. I swear I could smell him. I knew he was there. There was no way he would miss this. But he was upstairs, in the balcony where 21-year-olds were allowed, not corralled on the main floor, in the kiddie pen, where I was humiliatingly sequestered. I let my head turn towards the balcony, let my gaze drift up there, as if I might see him. As if he might see me and actually come down.

Scrunching ourselves as best we could onto the main floor, my sister and I tried to push our way towards the stage, but didn’t get very far. In fact, not very close at all. In my weakened state I just didn’t have the energy. We ended up in the back of the room, near the sound board, more Mike-side than Stone-side, although at the time I didn’t know the difference between the sides. I didn’t know their names yet.

“Oh weird,” I commented to my sister, as I looked around us. “Every single guy here is wearing a flannel shirt.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Of course they are,” she said in her big-sister voice. “That’s what they wear now.”

I hadn’t realized the extent to which Pacific Northwest attire had already permeated the burgeoning grunge crowd in the midwest. For some reason I thought me and the Record Store Boys were the only ones who knew about this. But it was literally Every. Single. Guy. in the room was wearing plaid flannel. When had this happened? I felt kind of stupid, as I realized I was looking WAY out of place in my velvet finery.

And it was interesting to note the ratio of males to females. Easily over 80 percent male. And most of the females appeared to be tag-along girlfriends. Me and my sister were definitely the minority. Which is weird when you think about it. Given how handsome everyone in the band was, why weren’t there more girls?

But then they started to play.

We stood still, as did everyone around us on the floor, completely captivated by the unbelievable power that was suddenly filling the room and pelting us like someone had fired off a flurry of rockets. We watched the surreal energy on the stage, bouncing, whipping their hair, growling out song after song. All I could think was . . . WHUT!!!??!!!

Mostly my eyes were glued to the lead singer. It was hard not to stare at him. He just completely broke the mold of what your typical rock star guy was at the time. But I also remember the rest of the band, that Jeff was wearing a cool hat and looked so solid and muscular, although I didn’t know at the time that his name was Jeff. (The advantage of being Mike-side is that you get Jeff too!) And I remember the guitarist on the other side smiling. Smiling. And the way the guitarist on my side was belting out solos! My god!

I recognized most of the songs, because Brian had given me a homemade cassette tape (I couldn’t afford a CD player), which had Ten on one side and Nevermind on the other and I played it endlessly. At first I had gravitated towards Nirvana, and only listened to the other side because it was too much of a pain in the ass to hit rewind and wait wait wait for it to get back to the beginning. Might as well let the other side play. But then something happened. Something changed. And the more I listened the more I liked it. The more Brian played it, whenever we were together, alone in his room, the more it became my favorite. Our favorite.

But then Pearl Jam began playing the opening chords of Black.

Shit.

No.

Don’t do this to me.

I was instantly back in his bedroom, the CD player going. Brian and I had come to agree at some point that Black was the best song on the album. It was our song. The song we made love to. We didn’t realize everyone else felt that way too. But from the cheer rising from the sea of flannel, it was obvious that this was a favorite of everyone at First Avenue. Brian. Brian. I screamed for him with my mind, begging for him to hear me in his mind, and then I couldn’t see the band or the flannel or anything any more because my eyes were blurred and tears were gushing down my face blinding me and I missed him so much and I knew he was right above me hearing this too, hearing this right now. All the love gone bad . . . Was he thinking about me too? Why wasn’t he coming down the stairs? I couldn’t go up, but he could come down if he wanted to. He must have known I was there. Why was he letting me cry alone? Why did he leave me? Why did I let him? Didn’t any of it even matter to him? . . . in somebody else’s sky . . .

And my stupid sister didn’t even notice, and neither did all the flannel-clad minions who were trying inappropriately to mosh to this song, unable to contain their passion, unconcerned and not deterred by the slow melodicness that clashed ridiculously with their movements.

End. Please let this end.

It did. When Black finally ended I stood there, hearing the next song and the next, but still feeling sort of numb, not bothering to wipe away the mascara that now dirtied my cheeks.

But a short time later my attention abruptly shifted from my own sorrow back to the lead singer, who, to everyone’s surprise, was leaving the stage. Making his way toward the railing of the stairs, he began climbing. He was climbing up the railing, up towards the balcony. And all the flannel-clads turned their backwards-baseball-capped heads upward in unison to follow his progress.

Meanwhile the First Avenue security guys looked at each other and then began inching closer, inching their way over to the railing, looking serious, looking concerned. What was this guy doing?

He was now up on the balcony, but he was OUTSIDE the railing, on the tiny piece of floor that extended beyond it, barely enough room for his boot. He must have been, I don’t know, 30 or 40 feet above us all. His arm was wrapped around the railing to hold himself in place, and he turned around and looked down at us.

This is my most vivid memory of the show. The look on Eddie’s face. The unbelievably intense look of concentration he gave the crowd while he looked down from that perch. He looked only mildly scared. But you could tell he was assessing us, visualizing what he was about to do, and judging exactly where to jump and seeking out those he could trust, literally making eye contact with some key dudes, the bigger, taller dudes, with their hands raised, communicating silently with only his eyes, making sure it felt right.

Once assured of that, once assured he could trust them, he turned back around, facing the balcony and the railing . . .

. . . and he let go . . .

I know logically that Eddie’s body must have followed the laws of physics and fallen at the normal speed that humans fall when they fall, but it didn’t seem that way. He seemed to float. The fall seemed to take forever. He drifted down, arms outstretched, eyes closed (although I couldn’t see his eyes, somehow I knew they were closed), so elegantly, so delicately, like a snowflake.

. . . and landed softly and securely on the hands of the big dudes he had just vetted. From there a swarm of hands seemed to rise up out of nowhere and wave like seaweed in an ocean and before I knew it the graceful ragdoll was floating towards us. My sister and I both stretched as far as humanly possible to reach out and touch touch touch! I felt my hand on his skin, right above the line where his white sock met his bare flesh. Wet Hot. Solid muscle. Coursing with life. Wow . . . But I could only touch him for a few seconds before he floated on, was passed on, passed back towards the stage.

My sister and I both gasped at our hands, staring at them, and holding them out in front of us, giggling with glee, feeling so ridiculously groupie, and realizing we were acting as dumb as the Beatles fans we used to make fun of on TV. But the guys around us seemed to be having the same reaction too. They were thrilled to have participated. Many of them were high-fiving each other with the hand that just seconds earlier had been connected to their new hero.

I didn’t realize it until later, but at some point during the crowd-surfing ceremony, all of my thoughts of the guy upstairs were forgotten. I no longer felt lonely. I no longer felt sick. I no longer worried about my missed classes or my dwindling bank account. I no longer cared that my outfit was out of place. There was no where in the world I would rather be than right there. Right then. On the main floor. Participating. Hearing this mind blowing shit kicking fucking awesome too good to be real music. And reliving the feel of the delightfully sweaty ankle that I had just helped to push along.

The ankle was now safely back where it belonged, up on stage with the smiling guitarist and the cool hat and the power power power that the whole band was thundering out, filling the small venue with ungodly energy and life.

And as I listened to it . . . I let go too.

I let go of the memories, of the loss, the despair, the darkness, the hopelessness, and let the flannel forest envelop me. The group moved as one, and I was part of it, leaning on them, letting them lean on me, swaying with them, riding wave after wave of bliss and feeling every word and note and chord and drum pedal kick. I let go and trusted them to support me and lift me . . . just like Eddie had done on the balcony.

When it was over and we finally had to leave, we carried the energy and the high with us. Totally happy. Totally alive.

Things turned around after that.

The snow melted. The sky was less dark. I resumed classes and doubled up during spring semester in order to graduate on time. I was so inspired by McCready that I ramped up my own electric guitar playing abilities and joined a band. We actually played at First Avenue ourselves about six months later. Granted it was just “new band night,” and granted, we were pretty shitty, but still. I stood exactly where Mike had been standing. Before long I fell in love with the singer/songwriter in my band and we are still living happily ever after, together after all these years.

So . . . thank you Pearl Jam. Really. Thank you. That night gave me the jolt I needed to pull myself out of a horrible place and find the strength to take control of my life and build a happy future for myself. And my life has turned out pretty fucking good. Thank you. You made a huge difference.

#pearl jam #first avenue #eddie vedder #jeff ament #stone gossard #mike mccready #dave abbruzzese

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morethanaprincess-a · 5 years

Text

@kazouda picked #7 for the Soulmates AU meme!

“People are born only seeing in black and white until they find their soulmate. Then they can see in color.”

(Nothing NSFW here, just under a cut due to length. I had a really fun time plotting this out!)

"Nevermind-san, would you mind telling Souda-san it's time for lunch? He is on cleaning duty today so it is important he's here on time," Yukizome asked politely to Sonia, who had just down to her own meal with her friends.

She wasn't one to refuse a request from a teacher. Sonia sighed, said a quick apology to Peko and Fuyuhiko, and left. Quite frankly, she felt rather extraneous around them, but that wasn't uncommon. They finally saw the world in color after admitting their feelings to one another. So did most of Class 77-B and Hope's Peak Academy at this point, leaving Sonia as one of the last few in their grade to see the world in shades of gray. Though it hadn't been for lack of trying.

The King and Queen of Novoselic hadn't begun to panic when their daughter saw every eligible member of the kingdom's aristocracy in black and white. They even had kept their concerns at bay when, after a week-long celebration of parties and balls, their only daughter and heir to the throne saw every future earl, duke, and second-in-line prince across Europe in the same limited color palette as she saw her favorite films, anime, and comic books. But when they'd paraded their daughter like Prince Charming in Cinderella, encouraging every eligible bachelor in Novoselic to meet the Princess and still her sight remained limited, they began to worry for both the future of the country and their daughter's mental stability.

Sonia walked briskly down the hallway, keeping her gaze on the door and avoiding the windows. Deep down she was happy for her peers, including those like Sayaka Maizono and Leon Kuwata who were sprawled underneath a tree in the front courtyard with a guitar and a stack of sheet music. But for now, she had to control her frustration, her anger, at not only feeling like an inadequate leader but an inadequate person. Sonia gritted her teeth, pushing open the heavy door to the stairwell as she made her way to the ground floor.

She took the stairs three at a time, her quickened pace forcing her to focus on the task at hand and instead of her own thoughts. Her place at Hope's Peak Academy was already a precarious one: The headmaster, though impressed with her linguistic, mathematical, and negotiation skills, had raised initial objects due to her transfer. Her previous boarding school, In Utero, had decided to expel Novoselic's future queen after a viscount had publicly humiliated Sonia in front of her entire class.

"Those colors don't go together!" Frederick, viscount Hanworth, sneered at Sonia's painting. The viscount had been fortunate: at nine, he had met his soulmate early on and had been a proud authority on the beauty of color. Due to resources and connections, most of the students of In Utero had followed suit by age 14: everyone except their future Queen.

"They're fine!" Sonia proclaimed, dipping her brush into a shade of gray to add to her painting of Novoselic's castle. She hadn't wanted to be excluded from a class just because she could not see colors, but it wasn't without its problems.

"Don't be an idiot! What castle has hot pink walls and neon yellow and blue turrets?" Frederick rolled his eyes, grabbing the canvas off of Sonia's easel and holding it high in the air, prompting the laughter of a class of middle schoolers.

It had been like this for years, the sons and daughters of Novoselic's esteemed peerage and newly rich alike picking on the one who outranked them all. A future monarch who couldn't even see the rich green hills, slate blue mountains, and pink Edelweiss flowers that dazzled inhabitants and tourists alike was a joke.

"Shut up! SHUT UP!" Sonia screamed, tears running down her face as she ripped the canvas from his hands before punching him squarely in the jaw. Her extensive training on modern warfare, including basic martial arts, had resulted in a broken nose and the loss of two teeth for the viscount. Despite Sonia's title, both the school and her family felt it would be best for her to transfer: out of In Utero, out of Novoselic, and out of Europe, in the vain hope there was a hidden baron or conglomerate heir who would allow her to open her eyes for the very first time.

"Why does Yukizome insist I find him all the time. He does have other friends," Sonia questioned aloud, pushing open the door on the ground floor and stepping out into the late spring sunshine. Kazuichi's preferred workspace was kept far away from the main school building, primarily for everyone's safety. The garage was prone to explosions from various projects, some strong enough to shake the school's foundations.

When she'd arrived at Hope's Peak, her reputation had preceded her. After a cold, embarrassing introduction to Japan's wealthiest heir, Byakuya Togami, her family thought it was best for her to remain at his academic institution in the hope of meeting more exceptional potential soulmates. Whispers from her fellow students as well as the news coverage of Europe's most eligible princess being whisked away nearly every weekend for a social obligation had turned her presence at Hope's Peak into continuous gossip. It had been only Kazuichi Souda who had shown any interest in her outside of her condition. Instead he'd focused on her crown after they met, which had irritated her more than her inability to appreciate a rainbow after thunderstorm. But he had shown her kindness when no one else did, introducing her to his closest friends, Nagito Komaeda and Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu. The trio had then welcomed the company of Peko Pekoyama, Chiaki Nanami, and a reserve course student, Hajime Hinata, to form a merry band of Ultimate Misfits. It became only natural for them to take Sonia under their protection, and instead of dutifully studying outside of class hours, the group embraced frivolity at the arcade, karaoke, cafes, and more. The Ultimates relied on Hinata to introduce them to the life of normal students and in turn, they welcomed him into their friendship just as he was. And Sonia had been grateful: their loyalty was perhaps the only thing that kept the whispers and jeers from eating away her heart.

"Souda!" Sonia shouted, approaching the garage. Whatever he was building, it was too large to be contained in the enclosure so Sonia squinted up, attempting to find him on top of a mountain of junk and spare parts. "Yukizome-sensei is going to assign detention, again, if you don't come back to the classroom for lunch! You understand that if you receive one more, you won't be able to attend the summer festival!?"

The Ultimate Misfits had already begun their summer plans: trips to the beach, the amusement park, anything to celebrate their final summer as high school students. The local summer festival was also not to be missed, full of food booths, carnival games, and most importantly, a fireworks show. Fireworks weren't foreign to Sonia, but they were supposedly best experienced in color. Peko and Fuyuhiko certainly wouldn't have trouble seeing the kaleidoscopic display in the night sky, and while they were less forthcoming about it, Naigto, Chiaki, and Hajime did not seem concerned about their enjoyment of the festival's main event.

It had been Kazuichi who'd listened to her qualms. In an attempt to mollify her, he'd insisted that it wouldn't be a problem for 'Miss Sonia,' and that they'd all miss her company, he'd miss her company, if she stayed behind in the dorms to watch Bela Lugosi as Dracula for the millionth time. It wasn't the colors of the fireworks that had made the summer festival important, he'd explained, but the time spent together.

"Souda, are you listening!?" Sonia's yell grew louder in an attempt to talk over the loud engine that had picked up speed and volume. She was no expert, that was his forte, but even she knew something didn't sound right. "Yukizome-sensei will keep you after school into the summer vacation and you'll miss everything!"

It all happened in an instant. The engine on top of the pile continued to roar until it exploded into a cloud of smoke and oil, splattering the junkpile and Sonia herself. She fell to her knees coughing, grease covering her hair, her face, and all over her uniform. Due to his work, she was now a complete mess.

"S-Souda!" Sonia gasped, rubbing her eyes furiously in an attempt to see clearly, "You need to be more careful! Look at what you've...done..."

The shades of gray she'd previously attributed to the daytime sky now seemed to shine a bright hue she'd never seen. She squinted, the brilliant sky blue shade overwhelming her vision as she took in the world around her: a junkpile in various earthy tones and brass metallic components, the silver-metal paneled garage, and a soda bottle with a bright red label. And at the summit of the scrap mountain, she saw two of the colors she'd been teased about so long ago: hot pink and blue, as Kazuichi emerged from the mess. And while she could've attributed her tears to the oil that ran into her eyes, Sonia knew that this time, she cried tears of joy at the bold, radiant colors that didn't clash at all. Instead, they'd burrowed deep into her heart, waiting for her to finally embrace them.

#rp meme reply #kazouda #I think I wrote a novel #sounia #I love this ship so much #soulmates au meme

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amydancepants-peralta · 5 years

Text

we won’t run (ch 3)

and I’m bleeding right before the lord

(ao3)

From her position above her prey, Rosa snarls - baring her teeth in a perfect white line before bearing down with her fist, rendering the man below unconscious with one swift punch. Smiling in triumph as his body falls limp, she raises herself up, reaching for her favourite weapon and swinging high. The sharp blade catches onto its target, slicing easily through the rope that anchored a tapestry to the palace wall and she watches as the drapery falls, covering several of the fighters in a heavy blanket of dust and fabric.

The peaceful melody of string music quickly disappears, musicians running for cover as the sound of clashing metal begins filling the great hall. Dresses spin as women push through the crowd - the once calm evening of restraint now diverting into a swirl of chaos as war begins to rage. The people of Brooklyne were here to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, and they weren’t going to back down without a fight.

One hour earlier ...

“Sir Charles.”

A long held habit kicks in and Charles drops his head towards the stone floor, bending at the waist before returning his sights back to the man in front of him. “King Holt.”

“I apologise for my over the top reaction. It’s safe to say that I am surprised to see you here. Stunned even. Absolutely flummoxed.”

Charles nods politely, fighting back a smile. The total lack of visual reaction (save for a brief smile) from his king was exactly how he remembered things being. He raises his dagger, pointing it towards the chain holding Holt down, and raises his eyebrows in silent offering. Seeing the curt nod in response, he quickly drops to his knees.

“I need you to tell me everything. Start from the beginning, and leave no detail unturned.”

His head pulls back slightly at the unexpected request. Shrugging, he begins. “Well, I was born out in a field that my great-aunt Susan had been growing herbs in -” Holt raises his hand, breaking the conversation.

“No. Not since your beginning. Pembroke. Tell me everything that has happened since my departure.”

He can feel his skin heating up as the embarrassment rushes through him, and Charles nods again, hands busy with working on unlocking the padlock that kept his ruler captive. Swiftly, he ran through the story as he knew it - the duplicity of Pembroke’s rule; the story about Holt’s death that he had so easily crafted; the reports of his greed coming in from various provinces …. Resting for a moment, he tells Holt of Jake’s disagreement with Pembroke, and how it had resulted in his best friend walking away from the only thing in his life he had worked hard for. After that, Charles explained, all he had known was the inside of his own cell.

Holt is quiet for a moment as Charles goes back to work on the chain, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “I’m not surprised that Peralta did that,” he said quietly. “There were many times that his cavalier attitude towards situations left me in a great state of frustration. But there is a sense of honour to Jacob, a belief in a life where all is fair and equal, that led me to believe that despite his weaknesses he would turn into a truly admirable member of the Royal Guard. If Pembroke had made him follow a law that he didn’t believe in, I can absolutely see him walking away from it all.”

Charles nods eagerly, letting out a sigh of relief as the padlock on Holt’s chain releases, hitting the stone floor with a heavy thunk. “Jakey is the best, he really is.”

Rubbing the skin that had finally been freed from rusty metal, Holt turns to Charles with a serious nod. “Good work, Sir Charles. Now, tell me about this passageway you came through.”

“Honestly, Sir, I’m not sure where it’s going to lead us. Just before I’d gotten to you, I had reached a juncture. And there was a small torch lit about halfway along the walkway that brought me to your cell. I began searching the stones, just like I had before, and then … there you were.”

He nods slowly, pursing his lips as his eyes roam over the cell that had been his home for far too long. “I believe, Sir Charles, that the benefits of exploring these mysterious caverns outweigh the costs of staying stagnant. I say we continue on. Do you concur?”

“I do, your majesty.”

“I am not your King anymore, Sir Charles.”

“With all due respect sir, I disagree.” Boyle’s heart quickens a little in fear as Holt stares back at him. “As far as I’m concerned, you never stopped being my King. And now that we can prove that Pembroke stole the throne, I am certain that the people of Brooklyne will agree.”

The older man nods, the faint whisper of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “One can only hope.”

It had been several months since Jake had stepped foot within the castle’s walls, and as they move through the forecourt and into the keep his eyes scour the room, taking in all the changes King Pembroke had made.

Holt’s palace had held banners of all five precincts on proud display in every hall. It had been a home for art of various creators within the villages, regardless of whether the piece had been widely lauded or quietly discussed. Representation had been important to him, and the people had loved him for it. Pembroke’s palace had mirrors at every corner, dotted by painted murals of great battles he claimed to be a part of. His crest, which looked remarkably similar to that of an earlier King’s, was emblazoned onto thick hand sewn banners, manipulating every room with its ostentatious colour scheme.

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging on the lapel of his jacket to bring it slightly closer to his chest. It should be warmer, now that the brick walls sheltered them from the nighttime chill. But it was bitterly cold. There was a distinct lack of joy in the air, similar smiles of ignorance and obligation stretching across each guest’s face as they made their way through. In the corner, a quartet of musicians strummed their lutes and citterns to an uplifting melody, forced merriment falling on deaf ears, fading forgotten into the night.

As he shuffles along Jake shifts his gaze towards Amy, having recently been pulled away from him by Gina. They were huddled together, whispering about something, and as he stood watching Amy raised her head, eyes locking immediately on his with an unreadable expression crossing her face.

The memory of yesterday’s confession was still clear in his mind. Truth be told, when the day had started out there hadn’t been any intention for him to let his heart bleed out like he had. But standing in the field with her, discussing their plans for the night, his mind had begun to consider all the things that could go wrong, and how there was the very real possibility that it could end without him ever being able to tell Amy how he really felt. And the pain of that was greater than anything else he could imagine, and so he’d put it all on the line.

To see the shake of her head at his words had hurt more than he was willing to describe, but oddly he found that he still didn’t regret saying them. She was, after all, the greatest thing to come into his life in the longest time, and if the only way to ensure that he could still be around her was to be her friend, then so be it.

The fact that his heart had become fully invested in her was something that he would just have to learn to live with.

An obnoxious voice roars over the quartet from a room to their left, demanding their presence within The Great Hall - a room within the keep that he’d only seen once before. Jake clenches his jaw as he runs through a mental checklist of the night’s plan, reaching instinctively for Amy as the role of Johnny and Dora come into play.

He glances at her briefly as she grips onto his offered arm, turning away before he finds himself getting lost in her gaze again (while he may not be able to help how he felt, he certainly wasn’t going to make Amy feel bad about it). His mouth feels dry, and he takes a heavy swallow to try and encourage the chance to speak once more.

If there was anything that was certain about tonight, it was that The Great Hall was definitely living up to it’s name. A rich red tapestry covered the floor, gold damask smothering the fibres. Tall brass urns burned a healthy fire from their holders high above the guest’s heads, and the ceiling held home to numerous chandeliers, all lit with robust candles.

A larger orchestra stands in the corner, their thin and ill-rehearsed repertoire fighting with the acoustics of the hall. Their faces turn nervously towards the King’s throne with every pluck of the strings, obviously fearful of the ramifications of displeasing their master.

To the right of them sat a banquet, covered in an array of food far more extravagant than necessary. Brass goblets, encrusted with gemstones and other delusions of grandeur were scattered around the surface, accompanied by bottles of wine both white and red. In the middle of it all sat a mural of the King himself, depicted through the contrasting colours of seasonal fruits. From the safety of his mask, Jake rolls his eyes at the display. It was ridiculous, the lengths that Pembroke’s narcissism went to.

At the front of the room, four steps higher than the crowd, stood an ornate throne emblazoned with The Vulture’s name. A cushion, covered in red velvet and embroidered with his initials, sat waiting for the royal caboose. A step below, and on either side of the throne, sat a long line of bench seats that began filling with his stolen women, each face looking sadder than the last as they enter and take their place. Hidden in the shadows underneath the bench ran a long and heavy looking chain - shackles open and waiting for their victims.

Jake feels Amy stiffen beside him as a woman in a green dress covered in peacock feathers makes her way to the edge of the seats, and he turns his head just enough to whisper - “Kylie?” She nods, chewing on her bottom lip, and he finds himself resting his spare hand against hers. Seeing her safe and sound was probably no consolation to knowing that her friend was still under Pembroke’s control, and it is all Jake can do to not throw caution to the wind, pull out a dagger and declare war right there and then. His mind represses the mental image of Charles, hidden somewhere under lock and key, and runs through the plan once again.

A quiet rumble runs through the room as more guests appear, various aristocrats reaching out gloved hands in well-practiced greetings that held no real warmth. Threads of silver and gold, red, violet and all the shades in-between fill the floor as everyone’s costumes fight for dominance amongst the sea of egos. He turns back to Amy, noting the wonder in her gaze as she takes in the palace’s opulence for the first time. Not for the first time, he grows wistful that they’d hadn’t met before the recent few month’s activities. He was certain that King Holt would have been very fond of her.

A blush grows across her cheeks as she catches him staring, and she glances around her before leaning in closely. “I knew that the inside of the palace would be amazing, I mean … it’s a palace. I guess I was just expecting …”

“Less arrogance, more elegance?”

She nods, mouth twisting into a wry grin. The gold filigree that surrounded her mask glinted against the candlelight, but still held no competition against the sparkle in her eye. “This place has changed a lot since Holt,” he explained, shrugging one shoulder up in defeat.

“You know, I never thought I would say this, but there is such a thing as too much.” Gina whispered as her and Rosa sidled up next to them.

Amy nodded in agreement, throwing a well-rehearsed smile at another couple as the four of them walked through the crowd. Her dress flowed out gracefully behind her as they progressed, and she moved with an elegance that some who had been born to privilege would never be able to match. Even under the circumstances, Jake was endlessly proud to have her on his arm.

The loud screech of a score of horns at the front of the Great Hall pulls Jake from his thoughts, and quickly the crowd swivel toward the sound, knowing that such uproar undoubtedly signalled the impending arrival of The King.

Pembroke’s smirk reeks of arrogance as he shuffles along the velvet carpet that led to his throne, head remaining high as he ignores those that kneel before him. He winks at a few of the women that were now chained to their positions, passive to their smiles turning into sneers as he passes. The room remains quiet as he ascends, and he turns to face the crowd from the top, scouring the room disinterestedly before dropping into his ‘rightful’ place.

He raises one hand high, gesturing for the music to begin. Like scenes from a well-rehearsed play, each of the guests turn and reach for their partners, falling into line on the dance floor as the drawn-out notes of the vielle begin to ring out. Reaching out to Gina without hesitation, Rosa pulls her into the fray, the two of them quickly becoming indistinguishable (save for the plumage surrounding Gina’s mask) amongst the crowd.

An awkward silence stretches over the remaining two, the lingering memory of “I’m falling in love with you, day by day … and I don’t want to stop” ringing in both of their ears. Jake can feel her gaze from the corner of her mask, and instinct kicks in.

“Okay look, there’s something that I need to ask you.” Jake begins, turning to Amy with a serious look falling over his face.

She gazes back at him, mouth falling open slightly as she visibly struggles to find the right words. Before she can try, he raises his hand, pointing towards a tall woman dressed in white, standing out from the crowd by her oversized headpiece. “I gotta know,” he continued – “Is that supposed to be a swan? Because honestly, all I see is a stork.”

Amy’s shoulders drop as the tension leaves her body, drawing her hand to her mouth to conceal the giggles that threaten to escape. It really did look like a stork, munching on the feathered ‘grass’ that surrounded the woman’s voluminous creation. Money truly didn’t buy taste.

He can feel himself relax in turn as her laughter escapes, despite her best efforts at suppression. These kind of moments, where they turned silence into laughter, were his favourite. And only served to remind him of what they were fighting for – a greater future for Brooklyne, yes; but also, a future where they can stay together, even as friends.

There’s a brief pause, and then the melody of the music changes, a slower tempo falling over the room. Clearing his throat nervously, Jake offers a hand to Amy. “Shall we?”

Her hands shake a little, he notices, and he gives her fingers a gentle squeeze as they join his. He pulls her closer as they move towards the centre of the dance floor, giving her an encouraging smile as his free hand rests gently against her waist. Tentatively, they begin moving to the beat, both doing their best to ignore the awkward space that was building between them.

Jake glances towards the front of the room and notices The Vulture sitting on his throne, one knee bent up with his foot against an armrest. In his right hand he holds a chalice, and he stares at the vessel, already distracted by his reflection as the crowd move below him. Turning back to Amy with a tiny shake of his head in the ruler’s direction, she looks over and huffs at his lack of interest. “All of this work, and everything that had been stolen for this night, and he doesn’t even care enough to pretend that he’s enjoying it.”

He nods in agreement, squeezing her hand quickly again as they turn across the floor. “There’s nothing in this hall that could ever surpass his interest in his own reflection. That is Pembroke, right down to his soul.”

She laughs softly at that, blushing slightly when he smiles back at her, and for a moment they dance together in silence.

Finally, she speaks. “Jake, there’s something that I have to tell you.”

He winces as the pointed tip of her shoe hits the edge of his toes for the fourth time. “Is it that you’re a terrible dancer? I mean, no offence Ames, but this is not your strongest skill.”

Her face turns a bright red and she shakes her head, gold chain shifting slightly against her chest as she lets out a huff. “We didn’t do a lot of dancing in Fumera, and it’s all really confusing.”

Slowing down the pace, Jake throws her an apologetic smile and tightens his grip on her waist, locking his frame so their outstretched hands act as a support. “Here. Follow my lead.” He takes slower, more deliberate steps, increasing the pace in small increments as confidence begins to creep onto her face. Together, they move carefully around the floor, smiling at the other guests as they let the music was over them. He could definitely get used to this.

Just as friends, Peralta.

Too long for Tumblr .... find the rest on AO3!

#mine #myfic #chapter three #we won't run #b99 summer 2019 fic exchange #monster of a chapter #but I hope you all enjoy it #b99 fanfic #peraltiago fanfiction #peraltiago au #feel free to share the love

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memoirsofratasum · 4 years

Text

Protector Tarnn: Bound by Blood

The death of one elder dragon and the rise of another is a sure sign of a change in Tyria. That feeling of hope has returned, but this time with a reassurance that Aurene has our backs if we’re ever pushed against the wall again. While celebrations are happening all over Tyria, from the smallest krewe labs to the largest moot halls, it’s Imperator Bangar Ruinbringer’s All-Legion Rally that is the place to be. Not only is this the first rally held in recent memory, the invite has been extended to non-charr as well.

The Priory for their part couldn’t resist a presence at such an historical event, though I wonder how much work the magister’s honestly expected to get done verses an excuse to party and unwind. The Blood Legion allowed us to set up camp at The Overlook, right next to where Kralkatorrik once slept. But the only elder dragon’s touch you can see is Aurene’s. The former purple brand has been transformed into a gleaming opal, scattering light over the water. I can’t imagine a more beautiful place in Tyria, and that’s considering the already natural beauty of Grothmar Valley.

I wonder what this place is like when there isn’t a giant party with half of Tyria in attendance. There is something going on around every corner: marksman challenges, a demolition derby, pit fighting challenges, and even a concert by Metal Legion just across from our camp. All the legions are here, even Flame to manys apprehension, though they seem genuine on returning to the fold. With everything going on, you’d be forgiven for believing the general mood was festive.

But if you pay attention you can feel the tension in the air. Ash and Iron soldiers are stiff and wary and seem unwilling to wander around without a few bandmates in company. Other races, especially humans, are getting pushed around by Blood, even I’ve gotten a very growls and side-eyes. But most disturbingly is the undercurrent of charr supremacy being pushed by Bangar. I lived in Rata Sum before, I know that rhetoric when I hear it. And I’m not just reading too much into it, a few of my Iron buddies expressed how uncomfortable it made them.

I had fully intended to just keep my head down and head home as soon as the festivities were over. It wasn’t worth it to antagonize one of the more aggressive Tyrian militaries, especially when you’re their guest. But I think most were expecting something to come to a head sooner rather than later, a few asuran merchants even tried hiring me as a caravan guard to get through the mountain pass while the getting was good. But not only was I not at liberty to take outside jobs, reports were coming in that the snow was falling a lot harder than usual for this time of year. A few merchants had arrived with nothing, their products lost over the edge of an icy trail. The Valley was still warm and it was possible that the storm would pass by the time we had to leave, but Sanna was muttering over her instruments and components. She didn’t want to say what it was about the weather that was bothering her until she had more data, but something had her spooked nonetheless.

The tension did eventually come to a head, but not in the violence expected. Instead of clashes among the tents, Bangar and a slew of warbands just...left. They packed up in the middle of the day for the mountain pass, effectively abandoning Grothmar and the Blood Citadel. That is not something that just goes unnoticed. The commander and Rytlock had been at their heels but the winter storm pushed them back. Bangar’s second is trying to keep people calm and the Blood Legion running, but warbands of Flame, Iron, and Ash were gone as well and the other Imperators are demanding answers and their people back.

The Pact got wrapped up in this somehow. It’s true that Almorra had gone into the mountains to a remote Vigil keep, maybe they thought she could intercept them. Or maybe they saw the non-charr soldiers in the Valley as expendable. Or something else is going on, I really don’t know much. What I do know is that the top brass wants to follow the wayward warbands, it’s only that damn storm holding them back. The Pact was taking volunteers to scout the trail in Shiverpeaks Pass, finding a way through the mountains after initials reports of avalances and elementals appearing on the road.

When stationed at the Priory HQ, one of my duties was patrolling the mountain for lost travellers and keeping the pass clear. With that relevant experience I volunteered and was assigned to one of the later excursions. I showed up for my shift to find it snowing outside the Shiver Gate. The weather was not letting up but despite that the previous squads had scouted some distance in but an avalanche had blocked the trail the commander had previously taken. I met up with the rest of my squad and found that most of the members were old friends of mine, either I was lucky or someone put in a good word. Either way I was glad to work with people I knew and trusted.

The temperature dropped immediately as soon as passed the gate. My squadmates’ mounts were shivering and had to stay behind with the Blood Legion captains that were manning the entrance. I hadn’t summoned my jackal and I was worried about what deep cold could do to Arkose’s physical formation so I left him be. Trudging on foot, our first obstacle was an ice tunnel that was prone to rolling snowballs. They were too fast and compacted to melt in time, so the only way through was to keep your eyes open and keep to the tunnel walls.

After the tunnel was a stretch of trail that had previously been reported as being full of ice elementals, but the previous squads seemed to have cleared them out and we reached the burned out bonfire checkpoint without hindrance. This was as far as the squad before us had gotten, the rest of the pass was buried under tons of snow. We had to figure out a better way through. We searched the area and it was decided we would try to climb over the rocks near the avalanche. On the other side we saw what looked like norn architecture, an archway to be precise, and broken down bridges and scaffolding on the cliff walls. I wasn’t able to tell if the damage was from the recent storm or if it has been there for ages. Regardless, we picked our way over the frozen wood and stone until we reached a flat open landing that matched the description by the commander. We climbed down and were going to scout the area when the ground started rumbling.

We were then face to face with a half embedded ice construct. He couldn’t move from the center of the landing, but his arms and his magic had more than enough reach. I was really glad to be in a squad with people I’ve fought alongside before, we stuck together and kept moving. It was a long battle but not the worst I’ve been in. Eventually the construct fell and we were in the clear again. Once we caught our breaths we were able to complete our mission. The landing was actually the edge of a ravine, we could see the otherwise and a possible pathway further into the Shiverpeaks. But between there and here was a broken down bridge. The gap would have been passable by mounts if it wasn’t so cold. A mesmer maybe could get a portal across the gap, but that was a skill our squad was missing so we couldn’t test it. But we did what we came out here to do and managed to get further than the other squads. The trail that was once blocked by the construct was now open so we were able to make it back to the rocks we had climbed before, past the bonfire, and back to the Shiver Gate and the warmth of the Valley. It was almost strange to feel the sun again. I spent the rest of the night writing up my end of the report. If they can figure out how to cross that ravine I’m sure the next squad could make it in even further.

With the Blood Imperator gone awol and half the warbands disappeared, it was even more uncomfortable sticking around the Valley. Instead of tension it was uncertainty, especially from the Flame Legion as their Blood patron might have betrayed everyone’s trust. Sanna and I requested a return to the Priory HQ as soon as possible. It felt like we’d just be in the way. But we’ll keep our ears open as news comes in. I’m interested in seeing where that pass in the mountain leads.

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #asura #Tarnn #was planning on him talking about career woes but nope #he apparently didn't want to air that out

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jugsserpents · 6 years

Text

Bite Back|| Sweet Pea x Reader

PART TWO

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader

Word count: 2,226

Warnings: uhhh violent

hi guys! i’m back from the dead with something super new, idk if i’d really call this angst it’s more like just anger but oh well. I hope you like it! Let me know if you do!

Your hand swirled circles with a rag around the dirty counter, they open sign in the window that usually glowed neon flickered off. You let out a sigh as you pushed the crumbs to the floor that you still had to sweep. Mentally cursing yourself for picking up this shift for Emily, you wanted nothing more than to be with your friends right now.

“Girl go on and get out of here” Pop Tate shoo’d you from your place behind the counter.

“I still have to sweep Pop” you laughed, he was such a character you didn’t understand how there could be a single person in Riverdale that didn’t like him.

“I said go on and get!” he smiled at you “I got it, go have fun it’s a Friday”

You rolled your eyes “I’ll try my best” grabbing your jacket and shrugging it on as you headed out the door.

The cold August night hit your skin, causing goosebumps to appear on your exposed skin. Cursing yourself mentally for not driving, you had a long way to walk. Over the tracks and into the the less welcoming restaurant bar on the other side of town. Now that school was out for summer you were finally allowed to pick up another shift on Friday for closings. That meant Pop Tate’s till ten and then The Wyrm until three for last call. Not that it was much of a job anyway, your friends spending the night either at the bar or by the pool table.

“Awh look who finally decided to show up!” you stuck your tongue out in response to Fangs as you climbed the bar.

“I had to cover for Emily” You rolled your eyes “apparently the girl has the flu”

Toni raised an eyebrow at you “that’s funny”

You raised your brows in return “and why’s that?” Fangs and Toni both swiveled their bar stools around to face the pool table, where Emily stood in between no other than Sweet Pea’s legs.

“Oh you have got to be fucking me”

“No, but he’s definitely fucking her”

You quickly smacked Fangs with the bar rag “shut the hell up”

You bit your lip as you glared over at the two of them intertwined and laughing with each other, you tore your eyes away and brought them back to your friends in front of you. Toni sent you a sympathetic smile, “if it means anything she’s really ugly”

Fangs looked towards you and nodded in agreement with a smile on his face, “you’re a total babe (Y/N)”

You didn’t have the nerve to reply, you turned to the bar back grabbing the Jack and three shot glasses. Setting up a line, you didn’t wait for your friends to take their’s as you threw your head back and let the liquor burn down your throat. Shaking your head you turned to place the liquor back on the shelf. It had only been about three weeks since you and Sweet’s had called it quits, pictures of him still littered your locker and room, not to mention the pictures of you on your cars dashboard. You two had been together for over a year, making it hard to just throw away. That and he was your first, and that love always cuts the deepest. They all knew you weren’t handling it all that well, your knuckles bruised from fighting with walls and your emotions.

“You know guys,” they both looked at you “I’m not mad that he’s banging a skanky bitch, I’m mad I worked her shift and her little Northside scum bag self still had the guts to show up in my bar”

Fangs sent you a wild smirk, loving where this was going “Oh no is that some hostility (Y/N)?”

Toni glanced at the two of you nervously “Fangs!” She squealed smacking his arm “Don’t encourage her!”

“But Toni that’s what friends are for” you argued with a smirk, making sure your rounds were covered you made your way out from the bar.

“Oh no” Toni glanced around locking eyes on the two at the pool table, “this is bad”

“This is gonna be hilarious” Fangs replied leaning back on the bar as you made your way to them.

You didn’t plan anything too crazy until you heard her whisper something about you under her breath, you let out a chuckle as you knocked her shoulder sending her into Sweet Pea’s chest while you walked past them and towards the stage.

“What the fuck is she doing?” Toni looked at Fangs in panic “you know FP’s gonna flip on her.”

Truth be told your dad would probably be pissed at you, but he was more pissed at Sweet Pea at the moment. Hating seeing his little girl cry. You tapped your finger on the microphone gaining the attention of your brother and his girlfriend, you could audibly hear her mutter a “Jug what is she doing”

“Helloooo” you drug out the word as you spoke into the microphone, “it truly is a beautiful Friday night and I’m so honored that I get to spend every Friday running your bar shift” you paused scanning the crowd making sure all eyes were on you “I’m usually here earlier you know, open to close but, something came up tonight” You saw the death glare Sweet Pea was sending you, he knew you well enough to know the next things to come out of your mouth were going to be anything but good.

“You see it seems our northside friend here Emily, has caught the flu” You hand pointed her out in the crowd “but to me, it doesn’t look like tissues are the only things she’ll be blowing this weekend” The older men in the bar let out a chuckle as you saw Jug hurry from his seat and make his way to the stage. “One last thing before my brother comes to arrest me, just remember Emily, honey, the snake will always bite back and, you’re in a whole pit of them” You sent her a wink before stepping off the stage.

“(Y/N), what the fuck was that” Jughead hissed at you as you walked past him

“Not my brightest idea”

“Yeah to say the least” he rolled his eyes following you to the bar

“Beats me kicking her ass” you shrugged.

Your anger and the way you were quick to react to things is what drew Sweet Pea to you, he loved that you were fierce. That was until you clashed ideas, the love was great but the hate ran deeper. There was never any real issues until his texts stopped coming as quickly, until he stopped coming over for family dinner, until he stopped sneaking through the small trailer window as quietly as his six foot self could. You weren’t stupid you’d been ghosted before, not after dating someone for a year and giving them your all though. That’s what hurt the most, you really thought you were the one that was going to change him. The final argument resulted in one of his picture frames to shatter on the wall next to his head as you’d found out the other girls he had been texting. Being dumped was one thing but being completely lied to was something else.

You had almost made your way behind the bar when you heard Sweet Pea’s voice boom across the mic, “crazy ex girlfriend’s I’ll tell you what”

Jug heads jaw dropped as he saw your knuckles turn white against that whiskey glass you were holding.

“She’s just mad because the only thing she could give a good blow to was a tissue” you had to give him credit he had balls, showing up in your dad’s bar and disrespecting you on that level.

Shards of glass shattered from your hand, causing heads to turn to you.

“Oh fuck” muttered Fangs as you made your way to the stage.

“Oh is there something else you’d like to say Princess?” Sweet Pea spoke into the mic as you walked up the stage. The mention of your old pet name made you see red.

“Yeah, fuck you” the mic stand flew up the stage and into the bar room as you made your way to him.

He stuck his hands up in defense “Don’t make jokes Princess if you can’t handle what you dish out”

You wish you could’ve stopped yourself, your lips pursing as you sent your spit flying up to his face as your open palms collied with his chest, hard enough to make his six foot self stumble back.

He sent you a smirk, “bad idea princess”

“Oh really what the fuck are you gonna do”

“Nothing but you friend Emily over there might”

You turned around to see her flashing the pair of brass knuckles you had bought Sweet Pea on her fingers. Your fists clenched, your nails digging into you skin stinging as blood was brought to the surface.

You made your way over to her, smile plastered on your face. Your friends inched closer to the stage, anxious looks riddled their faces. Anyone knew you knew that once you started you didn’t stop until you saw blood. She raised her hand to swing, you caught is swiftly.

“You know maybe if you spent less time fucking him, he’d be able to teach you how to defend yourself against the crazy ex girlfriend” She gasped audibly as you shoved her arm down causing the brass knuckles to slide off the bar.

“Don’t come into the snake pit and not expect to get bit” You sent her a wild smirk as your pushed her chest back.

She came back quickly coming back into your face, her hand moving quicker this time colliding with your cheek with an audible smack. You shifted your head back with a wicked grin as your fist moved faster than your thought process, you hit her jaw making her drop. You followed her down, wailing on her repeatedly. The noise of the rest of the bar being drowned out by the sounds of your knuckles colliding with the bones in her nose.

“Pull her off!” Jug head screamed as he ran to the stage. “She’s gonna kill her” he watched you in fear as you wailed on the girl repeatedly.

Sweet Pea moved swiftly grabbing you roughly and pulling you from the girl, trying his best to hold you as you moved about wildly, swinging your fists and kicking your legs in hopes of doing some soft of damage to him. Your friends covered Emily making sure she was still breathing and helping her find her way out of the door, she had well over stayed her welcome.

He sat you down, as he watched his new girl being removed from the bar. You caught him off guard as your fist collided with his chin, he let out a loud groan as blood splattered out of his mouth. “Fuck you Sweet Pea”

You ran off the stage, brushing past your brother and ignoring the horrified looks of everyone else and straight out of the double doors. You didn’t look up until you saw the trailed steps. You went straight to your room, slamming the door shut making the hinges wail. Your back slid down the back of the door as tears had finally made their way down your cheeks. You flexed your knuckles as you gasped trying to catch your breath. You looked up as you tried to calm yourself, your eyes finding a framed picture of you two. You stood quickly throwing the frame across the room hearing it shatter as it hit the floor. Your arms swept your dresser clean of the belongings that sat on top of it straight to the ground with a loud crash.

“Enough!” You gasped looking up to see Jug, Betty hugging onto his shirt as if she was scared of you. “My room now!” Your head dropped as you brushed past them and made your way into your brothers room, climbing into his bed and curling up as the sobs ripped through your body.

“I just want to know what the fuck you were thinking back there?” He looked at you angrily, his scowl only growing when you didn’t reply “that’s some really fucking smart shit to pull on a Northsider (Y/N)”

“I know”

“Dad’s going to chew you the fuck out” he sat on the bed, his hands tangling in his hair. “What even compelled you to do that? No fucking guy is worth all of that, especially not Sweet Pea”

“I don’t know, it’s only been three weeks and he shows up with one of my fucking coworkers, who I had to cover for!”

“I know it was a long relationship but it is seriously not that big of deal (Y/N)” he pushed you over and laid next to you. “You’ll find love”

“I had sex with him Jug” you paused and looked at his face as it turned sour “I gave it to him and he just decided to give me away” you shoved your head into a pillow as a sob ripped through your body.

“Oh (Y/N)” he looked at you with softer eyes as his hand traced circles on your back.

“I just wasn’t enough”

#sweet pea imagine #sweet pea x reader #jughead jones imagine #riverdale imagine #ending was trash

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irisyame · 5 years

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Bolo Tie Memories

Thank you very much for appreciating my previous fic! This is my second one, and the first one with a bit of smut. It’s set after the battle of Shiganshina. The new commander of the Survey Corps, Hange, has a gift for Levi. A memento. You can also find it in AO3.

They were about to depart from their makeshift headquarters house in Shiganshina, when Hange stopped him.

“Levi, a word, please?” He gave a silent nod. “Alone.” they added, and the rest of the Survey Corps gave an understanding look and took their leave. The captain wanted to say something in return, but in this specific moment of his existence it was difficult to make words come out of his mouth. More difficult that it had ever been. Hange made sure there was no one else that could hear them and went on. “Levi, I want you to know that I don’t object to your choice. I can’t deny that I wish you would have chosen the comman— Erwin, but besides being my superior officer, he was my friend. So, I can understand why you did it.” The look in their only eye was true. “I don’t think I’d have been able to make the same call you did, though. It was an act of great devotion, and for that, you have all my respect.” Levi closed his eyes and a tiny bit of his burden flew up to the heavens. He immediately opened them because he wasn’t ready to fly just yet. Although witty words wouldn’t come out of Levi’s throat either, Hange could guess that gaze. “I’m starting to sound like him, don’t I?” They laughed. Yet it was only a fraction of their usual smile. “God, I wish I can at least be half as good as he was.” They confessed, fighting a tear. Levi sighed. Then, he breathed in just the right amount of air to finally speak. “You don’t have to be like him, Hange. I already told Armin: no one can be a replacement of Erwin. But I’m sure you can be a good commander. In your own style.” As he trusted Erwin’s gamble of giving him the serum, he trusted his choice of his successor. And, as his friend and colleague, he also had faith in Hange. “Thanks for telling me this.”

“Ah, but that isn’t all.” They said, while taking something out of their pocket. “I want you to have it.” Hange revealed Erwin’s -no- the commander’s bolo tie. Levi glanced at the new commander with a mixture of confusion and surprise. “I’m not refusing my responsibilities, I just want you to have the tie.” They explained. “When we’re back to report at Mitras I’m telling the brass it was lost in battle and they’ll make a new one for me.”

Without saying anything, this time truly lost for words, the captain cautiously drew his hand near the accessory. He let his eyes get lost in the vibrant green colour, the brown threads of the cord… and for a brief second, he wasn’t there anymore.

He was kneeling over a bed, his eyes facing the wall. His hands at the sides of the white, soft pillow, sometimes clenching the sheets. Something tight was at his neck, making him arch his back upwards, as if someone was pulling it from behind. Someone whose heavy breathing was echoing through the room, his low voice mixing with his own moans. Someone whose heat coursed through his own body as their hips clashed rhythmically. Someone whose cock he could feel stretching his insides, sending waves of pleasure from his toes to his head.

“You’re perfect.” He could hear that someone whisper from behind. “So good.”

As he got lost in the sensations, he could hear himself reply. “Yes… Erwin…”

Erwin. It wasn’t like him to be rough, but certain nights an irresistible heat ignited in his commander. Levi loved it; the powerful thrusts and the collar in his neck reminding him so naturally where he belonged. However, Levi also had a sweet spot: he wished he could feel him caressing his body, in this cold, heated night, but the blond man’s only hand was invested in grasping the bolo tie in Levi’s neck, while he took him from behind.

“Erwin… I’m so close.” He warned, in a shy voice, almost ashamed of being nigh to ending this precious moment. The raven-haired was about to move his right hand toward his most sensitive part when he suddenly felt Erwin’s weight shift abruptly over him, and the firm grip of the taller man’s remaining hand in his cock. But how? The grasp in his neck hadn’t loosened. The shorter man turned his head around to find Erwin pulling the cord of the bolo tie with his teeth, sweat in his temples, his hair messy and his body covering Levi’s.

“So wild, old man.” Erwin could only growl in return. “Don’t stop.”

The captain could tell from the commander’s sloppy movements that he was close too. With no further notice, the throbbing sensation running through his body gathered around his stomach, tensing and electrifying his muscles. In a matter of some long, sparkling seconds, he was releasing all of his pleasure in a muffled cry and in Erwin’s hand. Just a few pants and thrusts after, Erwin was also moaning his lover’s name in sweet delight.

The golden-haired man collapsed over Levi and rolled to lay by his side, with half-lidded eyes. His sincere, pleasant smile; the brightness of his eyes when they were together like this. So similar to the light shining in the green and golden orb of the bolo tie. And Levi was back in the ruins of Shiganshina.

His hand was approaching the accessory, but he didn’t dare to touch it.

“Thanks,” he muttered, still a bit disoriented, “but I can’t take it. It’s— it’s the commander’s.”

“I may be the commander now,” the former squad leader said, while putting the bolo tie inside Levi’s hands, holding them tight, “but Erwin was your commander.” They finished, with a meaningful look in their eye. And Levi just nodded, accepting, grateful.

“Besides,” they continued “I wouldn’t like to start wondering whatever you pervs did while wearing that tie only.”

Levi felt the colour of red making haste towards his cheeks as Hange, luckily, turned around to leave. He gave the bolo tie one last glance. He could catch a glimpse of it bouncing over Erwin’s bare chest, as the beautiful bastard rode him. The captain quickly set it in the pocket by his heart, before risking going astray again in those magnificent blue orbs of his, and followed the commander.

#eruri #fanfic #my writing #levi ackerman #hange zoe #hanji zoe #erwin smith #bolo tie #aot #snk #first time writing smut #a step lower into eruri hell #not that i'm complaining

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rainydawgradioblog · 5 years

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Get to know Seattle’s new electronic duo, Avestra before everyone else does

The duo behind the electronic R&B group, Avestra never thought more than 80 people would show up to the release party for their first EP “Niche”. But to the surprise of vocalist, Savannah Johnston, 21, and producer, Zach Troupé, 20, a crowd of almost 150 fans packed into the U Heights auditorium singing along to tracks that were released just days before.

“Honestly, that entire night was crazy for me,” says Johnston. “Zach and I talked a lot about this the moment we had left the after party. We sat down at 2 a.m. and it was like, ‘I can’t believe that this all happened’. It all felt like such a dream.”

Ever since Avestra formed last May, Johnston and Troupé have been writing and performing singles that are sonically complex and vocally passionate. They have collaborated other EDM musicians like TNAN and have been remixed by Houston-based artist, Kindrid. But fellow emerging artists aren’t the only ones noticing Avestra. In under a year, the group has reached tens of thousands of streams on Spotify and their first single, “Come My Way” has over 50,000 streams and counting.

The two artists met over three years ago, but they didn’t start making music together until last spring when Johnston asked Troupé to help her with production for a solo show. She says that they clicked really well on and off stage and immediately asked him to become part of Avestra.

“It was through practicing for the show that we made our own songs,” says Troupé. “[‘Come My Way’] was the first song we ever made together.”

Although Avestra is new to the Seattle music scene, the pair’s diverse musical backgrounds put them in the ranks with veteran artists. Growing up in Phoenix, AZ, Johnston played instruments, took voice lessons, and wrote songs for most of her life. Today, she studies music at the University of Washington and brings her education in music theory to the production process. Troupé, on the other hand, is a self-taught musician from Marysville, WA, who took up music production in high school. Johnston says that instead of clashing, their diverging musical backgrounds don’t stop them from helping each other on both sides of the production process.

“Our producing process is very cohesive and very codependent,” says Johnston. “Zach sings melodies to me and I’ll make drum beats, which are the very opposites of what we do overall, but my point is that it’s an effort together.”

Their first EP “Niche” launched this past February and has already been heard over 60,000 times on Spotify from listeners in the Pacific Northwest and beyond. Just last week, the EP’s second track “What You Want” was featured on Spotify��s “Fresh Finds” playlist. Troupé says that the experimental four-track set merges synthetic sounds with acoustic guitar and brass instruments, and takes inspirations ranging from rapper Amine to neo-soul singer Kali Uchis.

“I think we just like to try new things, which a lot of times sounds really bad but sometimes it’s like, holy crap, this is so cool,” says Troupe. “Like, ‘Hey, why don’t we pitch this down and reverse it because why not?’ and it turns out to be really cool.”

While “Niche” is an experimental project for Avestra, it’s also extremely personal. Johnston says that she was inspired to write these tracks after experiencing heartbreak. She notes that the EP’s final track, “Window Seat” is straight up sad. In the song, she sings about still feeling the presence of a partner even after the relationship is over and reflects on intimate moments they had together.

“I remember I wrote that on a plane ride home to Arizona,” says Johnston. “When I got back, we took that idea and recorded. I literally wrote that entire song on the plane on the way home with the melodies and the lyrics and everything. I was straight up crying on the plane, it was really sad.”

But Avestra doesn’t want to leave their audience on a sad note. On the heels of their first EP, they have already started writing and recording songs for their next album, which they plan to release this summer. Instead of love songs, the full album will be a think piece discussing ideas rather than romantic experiences. In between balancing work and school with recording, it’s obvious that Avestra has a unique drive that keeps them always on a roll.

“It’s impossible for me to have free time,” says Johnston. “We’re either sleeping or working in one degree or the other. It’s very taxing sometimes but what makes it worth it is that we’re seeing results that we would have never even expected, which is so exciting. So although we have bags under our eyes, we’re like ‘hell yeah’.”

By Claire Butwinick

Photos by Alex Nagode

#electronicrnb #avestra #seattlemusic

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fmdtaeyongarchive · 3 years

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↬ we are no more than friends, i know.

date: august 2020 / october 2020.

location: kiha’s studio / ash’s apartment studio

word count: 2,048 words.

summary: idk. ash has issues other than the vogue korea september issue if you catch my drift. the ending of this is so melodramatic but so is ash, leave us alone

triggers: alcohol mentions + metaphorical suicidal imagery and gun violence imagery. also metaphorical blood imagery. yeah, ash is on his love = death shit again. i’m sorry. he’s not taking his antidepressants in the later parts of this + he’s read too much about bonnie and clyde for this song + meningitis causes “emotional disruption” so please just blame it on all of that.

notes: creative claims verification. more mentions of youngjoo. also… an appearance from npc ash’s producer crew friend kiha so i gotta say now that kyung and kiha have both made appearances in ash solos... erin is the only one of ash’s npc crew trio friends with a brain to mouth filter, which is why he gets along with her the best.

ash doesn’t have much experience with unrequited love.

for someone who’s defined so much of his music-making by the heartbreak he’s been through, he knows the heartbreak of once-requited or still-requited feelings far more than he does the heartbreak of loving someone who doesn’t feel the same way. perhaps it’s one small way in his life that he’s been lucky. rarely have his feelings that weren’t returned ever gotten very serious. he knows getting starry-eyed over someone who doesn’t know he exists or affection for someone who doesn’t see him as an option, even yearning for someone he suspects might be yearning for him in return without confirmation, but love? love is a two-way street.

which is why he’s caught off-guard when kiha asks him if he’s in love with some chick who doesn’t love him back when ash shows him the latest song he’s been working on.

“huh?” the shock on ash’s face is genuine, but kiha laughs like ash is fronting for the sake of evading their conversation.

“come on, man. no one who actually doesn’t care writes a whole bryson tiller knockoff with the lyrics ‘just friends, who cares?’ that’s rule number one of the friendzone.”

ash scoffs and turns back around in his seat, trying not to show that the other’s words had caused some hurt, which only earns another chuckle from his friend.

kiha really gets on ash’s nerves sometimes. being his go-to clubbing buddy doesn’t make him an expert on what’s going on in ash’s life, and ash doesn’t even believe in the friendzone anyway. that’s for people who believe the world revolves around whether or not they can have sex with each person they have in their lives.

he only gets more annoyed as kiha speaks yet again. “what? too much of a hot shot for the girls and guys not to jump at the chance to get with you?”

kiha is joking and ash knows, but it strikes a tender nerve that ash would very much prefer were left alone. there come times like this when their different worlds clash too strongly. kiha finds the whole idol thing to be a joke and, frankly, so does ash, but that doesn’t mean he wants to deal with his friend mocking his entire public image.

he burns red with guilt at the simple fact one person immediately comes to mind as kiha drones on about ash ‘getting in his feelings’.

it’s not like he thinks he and youngjoo have anything in common with infamous american criminals on the run, but he has to channel feelings from somewhere and despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise, ash knows very well where nearly all of the romantic feelings he lays bare in his music come from these days.

it’s not that ash hasn’t considered that what he feels for youngjoo isn’t reciprocated, but then again, there are times she says things and does things and he lets his hopes get the best of him in believing he isn’t the only one feeling what he does. and even if she feels nothing for him, that’s fine, too. it’s not like he’s fallen head over heels, unable to get up, can’t eat or sleep without her. he has a little crush, and that’s fine. he’s not the first person on earth to have a crush and he won’t be the last and, considering their history, it’s only natural that sleeping together again for such an extended period of time would reawaken once-dormant feelings. he’s let himself get comfortable, that’s all. he could stop feeling the way he does any time he wants to.

it doesn’t matter whether her feelings for him go beyond what they have or not, anyway. that’s the point of the song. nothing’s ever going to happen between them again besides what they have now, so it doesn’t matter if they’re just friends or if either of them want more. that’s where the bonnie and clyde metaphor had come in — doomed no matter what they do, playing with fire, not belonging to each other.

after all, bonnie parker had been wearing her wedding ring from another man when she’d died by clyde barrow’s side.

bonnie and clyde may very well be lovers immortalized in name together and romanticized in media, but sworn to one another is something they’d never been.

as if on cue, ash’s silence prompts kiha to speak again. “and what’s the bonnie and clyde thing about?”

“american bank robbers? the quintessential romanticized reference of doomed lovers, if you aren’t counting romeo and juliet.” ash doesn’t bother to turn around from where he’s fiddling with one of the vocal lines to check and see if recognition lights up kiha’s eyes or not. if he’s going to be a dick, ash isn’t above being a little condescending about his song inspiration. “bonnie and clyde died for their crimes instead of as casualties of a violent feud between families, though. they saw their death as inevitable, if bonnie parker’s poems are to be believed. nihilism in the form of passionate love. i’ve been reading up on them here and there. they’re pretty interesting, actually, once you shed the lore around them and look at them as real people who did some bad shit.”

“damn, you’re ready to die for some girl?”

of course that’s what he’d taken from everything else ash had said. all ash had wanted was to ask kiha if he thought the vocal delivery should be looser or not, and this is where he’d gotten. he isn’t sure why he’d expected anything better.

“that’s not what i said, kiha.” ash rolls his eyes, knowing full well that the older man can’t see him, as he puts the finishing touches on his work before saving it and beginning to pack his things up as fast as he can manage while still looking unaffected. “it’s probably best if i go. it’s getting late.”

“never knew you were so masochistic. that just emotional or does it make you freaky in bed, too?”

the look on kiha’s face tells ash he’s finally realized too late that ash isn’t in the mood for the kind of jokes he’s cracking about the song or the untold story behind it. kiha doesn’t try to stop ash from leaving, though, and he doesn’t open his mouth again until ash is in the doorway and turns around to concede a goodbye.

“hey. you don’t strike me as the hell-raising clyde type, but if some girl, this ‘bonnie’ of yours doesn’t like you back, you gotta get yourself together and move on. why would you put everything on the line for some girl you have to fake not caring about? you gonna repeat history? sounds like bonnie and clyde didn’t get their happily ever after the first time around.”

ash forgets why he’s friends with kiha sometimes. the other man is a great songwriter for someone who seems so unwilling to experience his own emotions and so willing to give advice ash hadn’t asked for.

he has the misfortune of thinking kiha is done right before he pipes up again. “i know you’re done with relationships or whatever, man, but no one who doesn’t want to be loved back writes the shit you come in here and show me, so… i don’t know. go out there and find someone who will love you back so i don’t have to sit through your weird double homicide, dying side by side love fantasies until we’re old and grey and that pretty boy face can’t work its magic from our rocking chairs anymore.”

“hey, kiha? didn’t ask.” that’s all he gets for parting words before ash leaves and forgets everything kiha had said under more shots than he can keep track of.

it doesn’t bother him that kiha cuts right through every layer of armor he’s constructed so easily without so much as lifting a finger when all ash had wanted was some objective musical criticism.

no.

ash wants a drink after a long day. that’s all.

_____________________________________________________________

that’s all.

ash finds himself mentally repeating the phrase more and more as time races on.

kiha hadn’t said the song was a stupid idea, but in the days following their conversation, ash wonders if it is. the concept had been a spur of the moment one, based on a first verse spinning off into something new when he’d fallen down a rabbit hole online one night and he’d begun to wonder: in a different life, would he be a clyde barrow or a roy thornton? the thrill ride or the one that gets left behind?

because those are the only two options for someone like him in a situation like he’s in, in the end.

the song teeters dangerously on the edge of low synths and hi-hats, distorted brass and whispers under the track, a sonic mirror image of the clashing in his head. he thinks if he asked someone with more experience to their name with writing hits, they’d tell him it’s too busy to ever be a fully mainstream record, but ash is past writing for the mainstream with this song.

he doesn’t know if he even wants anyone to hear this. will they pity him? mock him? know him more than he wants them to, like kiha had when he’d reached right into the center of ash’s chest and squeezed around the bloody pulp his heart has become?

each time he ponders any one of the one hundred questions swimming through his head for too long, he’s tempted to leave everything behind again to find his way to the nearest club with a semi-safe standard for who they let in their doors. instead, he gets catharsis by kicking up the percussion up a few levels in volume and re-recording vocals over the parts that feel too soft listening to them back. his tone is darker now, more destructive instead of the romantic interpretation he’d taken on the first demo recording, but everything falls apart after the second chorus and in a peak-climbing moment of emotion, he exits the file completely, leaving him with two-thirds of a track and the remaining self-preservation not to come back to it while it’s playing games with his mind.

his self-preservation must get dropped somewhere in the ocean during his plane trips from seoul to indonesia to malaysia to seattle back to seoul, because coming back to the track happens only a few months after he abandons it.

the first night he returns to it, he weighs it down with the sound of his heart — a call that can’t be made.

if his heart is a payphone, he doesn’t have any change left to sound out a call for help, for forgiveness.

if he were to call her, would she answer or has she already cleared his number from her phone and blocked it permanently?

the track drops out and mellows where he’d left off.

even still would you remember me? nah, nah, i’m just...

he’d only hate himself more if the goodness of her heart could be great enough to give him a second, third, tenth chance.

the head-pounding bass kicks back in and then all of the air is sucked back out of it like being flung out into the black abyss of space.

a gunshot.

it’s the closest he can come to describing what he’d done to himself in his bedroom that night. he’d grabbed the gun and put it to his own head. there’s no one else to blame.

_____________________________________________________________

only a few days later, he opens up the file bonnieandclyde again, this time in his studio with full awareness of what it is and where he’d left it. the tequila shots he’d had to celebrate his return home to a dark and empty apartment after the end of his day aren’t enough to get him past the outskirts of tipsy.

the confusion of loss he’d left off at isn’t the correct ending anymore. a week after, and he knows the song doesn’t end with the trigger being pulled, but the last thoughts he’d had as every held-back thought had trickled out of his head in a bright red stream onto his carpet, his own heart beating in his ears — the only part of him foolish enough to keep fighting to stay alive.

i want, want you to know baby, i want you to know how much i love you how much i need you

#fmdverification #suicidal ideation tw #gun violence tw #death tw #&& when you're screaming but they only hear you whisper | self para #i wrote a whole essay in the tags initially but it felt annoying so i'll just leave a smaller note saying that the suicidal ideation #& death fixation that peeks through in some of these verifications esp. related to youngjoo aren't meant to romanticize it or imply they're #direct result of youngjoo or ash's non-relationship with her #those thoughts aren't limited exclusively to these moments i #just don't like to write about those things a lot in general because they can be triggering for me but considering the songs ash is writing #for his album moments of that particular mental health struggle of ash ended up appearing in some of these verifications #he needs more help than he's getting with his mental health + those moments aren't actually romantic even if he acts like they are + etc etc #&& queued

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