#highlighting and chiding them for their flaws | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

never-took-a-lesson · 1 year

Text

Forte’s Awful Parents Highlight Reel

1738

It was all grey and dark: the overcast sky outside with the pouring rain, and the inside of the estate with its sparse lights and antiquated furniture. The house of the Forte’s had at one point, many generations ago, been blessed with a grand pipe organ, but the once magnificent instrument had since fallen into disrepair; old, badly-tuned and dusty. It too was grey and dark like everything else in young Maximillian Forte’s world.

The child left the old organ behind him and quietly went treading down the halls. He didn’t usually seek out his parents. In fact, he usually avoided the sitting room where they often were. But he was certain he had something to say that would make them happy. Nonetheless, young Forte hovered in the doorway, staring at the two chairs silhouetted starkly against the glow of the fireplace.

“Do you intend to stand there like a slack jawed commoner all day or are you going to speak, boy?” droned his father, Maximillian V.

Forte’s father was as thin as he, but everything about him was more angular and haggard. Forte ducked his head as he approached the two chairs. His father’s eyes were like chips of ice. His mother didn’t acknowledge him at all. The child looked at his hands as he wrung them.

“Um, yes sir. Um, of course father.”

“And you must do something about that constant ‘um’ tick. You sound like a fool with your incessant mumbling. Be confident and assertive,” Maximillian V pried.

Forte lifted his chest and chin to gaze down at the man before him.

“I have come to give news,” he stated.

“Uppity child. Do not look down your nose at me. You’ll never find a house to take you if you prance around like you own everything.”

The child immediately shrank.

“Um, yes father.”

“Dense boy,” his father chided, placing a bony hand against his skull to massage his temple, “What is so important you have to interrupt an adult’s conversation?”

“Well I— I’ve completed my first piece, o-on our family organ, father.”

Maximillian V pursed his lips with a tiny smile, nodding once in a condescending way.

“So you have, boy. You are a true Forte,” he growled.

Forte began to let his face relax as his father slowly turned his glassy eyes to his mother. Her face, once a soft beautiful face, now creased with wrinkles of hardship, was still in the flickering fire light.

“Did you hear that Selina? The child has created his first song,” creaked Maximillian V.

Forte felt his lips pull into a smile from pride. Her toxic green eyes flickered his way but as soon as it came it was gone.

“Tell the thing to stop smiling at me so pathetically,” she droned.

Forte slouched.

“Do you want to hear it?” Forte tried.

“No,” his mother said, “Stop talking.”

Her eyes looked into nothing. Young Forte stood before the fire and yet he felt cold. Empty. He just wanted someone to care.

“Now boy,” his father spoke, a fox-like smile stretched across his narrow jaw, his fangs gleaming, “Did you play deeply with your emotions like I told you? Did you feel anything special as you played?”

“Um. I think so?” he tilted his head and said, “There was this warm tingling in my fingers. In my head I saw… green?”

He looked to his parents. They were staring into him. He wanted to back away but felt paralyzed at the same time. They would tell him he was speaking nonsense. Maximillian V arose and so too did Selina. Forte felt his father’s hand on his back as he was ushered from the room.

“Play your song, child.”

Forte was in shock and before he knew it, he was sitting before the old organ. He prepared himself to be told all the flaws in his piece, then he began playing his little ode about the rain. As he became engrossed in his music, he let himself feel deeply. Again there came the sensation. Warm and tingly. As he eased his eyes open, he thought the grey world was briefly green.

Reluctantly, he turned to see his parent’s reactions. Instead of being met with scowls, he saw his father’s narrow smirk. His mother— she was actually looking at him with interest.

“Maximillian. The boy is magical,” Selina rasped to her husband.

“Yes,” hissed Maximillian V, “I saw his eyes.”

Forte felt afraid. Magic? Witches and warlocks were wicked. They were burned at the stake.

“My boy, at last magic has been restored to our blood,” his father purred.

“You will grow up,” Selina breathed.

“And you, my warlock son, will sire a new and glorious return to power for our line!”

It went without saying, but the child was confused. He wanted to shrink away but the organ was at his back. His father approached. Forte could just about whimper;

“Father, is my magic evil?”

His father lifted a palm, his smile stretching further across his jaw, “Evil? Of course not! My son, this is what I always wanted of you.”

This… was? Forte watched in wonder as his father looked at him with glee. Years of trying to make his parents happy and finally it had happened. Although, Forte wasn’t sure what he’d done exactly.

“But I didn’t see anything. And what can I do with my magic?” asked young Forte.

His father hissed, “All will mature in due time. You must keep playing your music and it will blossom within you.”

A skeletal hand came and patted the boy’s black-haired head like a dog.

“You may partake in whatever activities you wish for tonight, my boy.”

Young Forte was stunned to silence. He never got to make choices before. Decisions were dictated for him by his father. He was unsure how to respond.

“You will let Maximillian VI become spoiled,” Selina growled to her husband.

Forte then realized he was sure this was the first time he heard his mother address him by name.

“Never,” his father droned before turning back to the child, “A reward for our special little warlock…. One day, when you’ve grown into a beautiful songbird, you will bring prosperity to the Forte name again.”

1747

“Stop it.”

The young man felt his chest convulse with another sob. His throat ached and his mouth felt dry. Despite the commands his father made, he couldn’t stop, only grab his shoulders with white knuckles and curl into a tighter ball.

“Oh, my poor baby,” his mother said in a voice more condescending than sympathetic.

“Stop coddling him,” his father hissed, “It’s because of you the boy is so pathetic.”

Unaware of his father turning his attention back on him, the young man let his head rest against his knees, seeing only blackness as he closed his eyes.

“Enough,” his father chided, “You must be strong.”

His son didn’t respond and continued to whimper softly.

“Your emotions are the reason for your pain. My son, you must learn to repress these things, for the sake of your destiny. Take your plights and turn them into your weapons. Your magic will only grow more powerful through torment. You see… this is a good thing.”

1748

The thin young composer laid curled up in a couch in a sitting room. His body was sore and he clutched a pillow against his chest. Intermittently he would whimper slightly into the backrest of the couch.

“You made me miserable, Maximillian.”

The voice had come from someone else in the room: a woman sitting facing a window.

“You and your brothers and sisters,” she continued.

Selina’s inflection was near nonexistent, and, though her eyes faced the courtyard outside, it looked as if she was registering nothing.

“None of you should have ever been born.”

Her son on the couch retreated tighter into the fetal position. Maximillian desperately nuzzled his face against the pillow to try and soothe himself.

“I’m miserable too,” he muttered.

Letting his cheek rest against the soft object, he waited for her to tell him to stop mumbling. There was nothing. Maybe she didn’t hear. Maximillian knew she never had comforting words for him, but he still pried for his mother to react to him, no matter what that reaction was.

“D-do you know that?” the young man asked, louder.

The response was quick and aggressive, like she was swatting away a bug.

“I do know. I just don’t care. I could not care less about any of your emotions.”

Maximillian cuddled the throw pillow.

“Yes mother,” he said.

Something finally appeared in her dull olive eyes. She’d been trying so hard to forget the boy was there: forget he mattered. But that word to her was confrontational.

“What did you call me?”

Selina hated to be reminded that the young man had come from her womb. She hated to think of her children.

“Um, nothing.”

Maximillian’s pathetic response assured her there would be no further confrontation from him. Yet, words still slipped out of her before she returned to her comfortable haze:

“I stopped being capable of being a mother a long time ago. I am no one’s mother.”

Winter, 1750

“You’re not about to leave this room looking like that.”

Young Maximillian could hardly keep standing, body sore and head spinning. One hand was extended to grip the doorframe, its thin fingers covered in frail skin that was so white it may as well have been transparent. When he mustered up the motivation to take his supporting hand away and cross the room, his father, who’d been the one to make the initial comment, scoffed quietly.

“You had better not be turning into a drunkard. Your mother and I have a reputation to uphold,” his father scolded, “I will not have you wareing away your novelty; that’s the only thing keeping you with this house. We’ve invested too much in you for you to ruin it for us. Stand up straight, boy. You are the future of the Fortes.”

Forte felt his body sway slightly before he brought his chest aloft and his chin level purely by reflex. He saw his father’s cold eyes scan him as the taller, more haggard man stalked past.

“Pray to God you’re not sick,” his father said as he started turning his head away.

Suddenly Forte stiffened himself further, snarling. A spark of green illuminated his eyes.

The elder stepped back with shock. His son nearly never was outwardly rebellious. He didn’t know what suddenly made him so brave but he had to nip that behavior in the bud right away. And he knew exactly what to say to make that happen.

“How dare you threaten me with your magic. If it was not for me– our line– you would not have your powers at all. Be humble. Be grateful. If not for us, you would not be here, with your beautiful clothes and a beautiful home,” his father hissed.

“I’m just a thing to these nobles, not a person.”

“Oh yes. Poor fragile child and his sorrow,” his father turned and began to take his leave, “Well boy, nothing makes a stronger man than pain. If you show fortitude and obedience to your masters, perhaps you’ll be spared the hellfire that surely would await all other warlocks.”

Forte heard the door shut. He felt all his weight return to him and slumped where he stood.

I’ll die if I stay here.

There came a severe frown and he began to slowly bring his head up, green briefly illuminating in his gaze as he looked at the door.

If I’m going to Hell anyway, he thought, What incentive do I have, father?

1750

Forte felt like a pane of glass, spiderwebbed with fractures, seconds away from crumbling. But everything was so happy all around; eating, revelry, drinking. And he, the prodigal child, at the center of it with his instrument and his music. His body ached but still he performed, like a trained animal. The amused guests and how they watched him; it was disgusting. There was no regard for his humanity. He was just a lovely little thing to gawk at; a pretty songbird in a cage; a conversation piece.

Oh, how the parents who sold him would soak up the prestige: the vapid compliments his owner would receive for breaking the warlock and getting him to do tricks: Forte could not stand another minute.

The playing stopped. Heads turned. His parents scowled. The young man’s eyes glared out in challenge and in finality, an ethereal glare overtaking them. His fingers slammed down into the keyboard and the room was bathed in green as his magic struck out.

They thought they’d tamed the dragon they brought into their castle. They hadn’t.

...

Wet hair smacked the side of his face as he turned around. The windows of the palace still shone with a ghostly green glow. Forte didn’t have the time to really consider the gravity of what he’d just done. Questions of morality would slow him down and he knew he couldn’t afford to hesitate. It was no secret what became of warlocks who were more dangerous than what they were worth. Forte moved backwards on the balcony in the rising storm. He watched the doors for any sign of pursuit.

Seeing no movement, he rounded to search for a way out. His eyes grew wide as he realized he’d backed into a dead end. There was nowhere to go but over the railings. Below him was a flooding river. Hyperventilating, he tried to consider his options. His head however was clouded with images of his imminent punishment.

“Look what you’ve done.”

Circling in place again, he could make out a figure coming from the darkness and onto the balcony. Father.

“Oh my poor, unhappy boy: why do you torture yourself so? I have provided you a place in the dark, cruel world and this is how you thank me?”

The railings bumped Forte’s upper legs and he knew he was truly trapped. Paralysis creeped from his feet to the rest of his body as he could only bring himself to tremble as the taller man drew closer.

“Haven’t you realized by now that there really is no escape from your sorrow?”

“I can’t--” Forte’s voice barely broke through as he forced himself to speak, “I can’t live like this anymore. I was just a thing to them; an object; not a person. I-- I have to get away.”

“You are not meant for the world out there. My son, this was your best possible life. You had purpose.”

Eyes cold and blue like ice kept the young man firmly in place. Maximillian V watched his son shake as tears began to stream down his face, and yet he felt nothing. The boy brought it on himself. His son needed to be punished for what he did. His hand tightened around the hilt behind his back as he brought his other arm out to stroke his son’s sopping wet hair.

“Oh dear. You had such hopes and dreams, didn’t you? How naive,” the elder man didn’t hide that he mocked his son, “Don’t worry. You can amend your mistakes-- and you will ensure the Forte line continues on, whether you like it or not.”

The sky became alight and young Forte caught the glow of metal at his father’s side. Adrenaline flooded his veins when he realized what he saw; a dagger. There was a spark of interest as his father realized what he saw.

“This? Simply a persuasive tool. I need you alive, silly child.”

There was a hiss from his father as suddenly Forte jumped to stand atop the slippery railing. The rush of the flooding river below filled his senses as he glanced down. He looked into his father’s eyes to see a hateful fire burning under his cold expression.

“Where do you think you’ll go? Come down and leave with me; it’s your only option.”

By then the elder man was beginning to lose his composure. His time was running out. There was stirring from the palace. If they got their hands on his son, then all the years he put into crafting the perfect heir would be for nothing and the Forte lineage would die with him.

“Do away with these childish notions! You are a warlock; a monster! The sooner you come to terms with your fate, the sooner you will stop suffering. Do you expect my pity? You brought your torment upon yourself for daring to resist your place. Life is hell, young Forte; accept it!”

The sky roared again and the blade glinted in the lightning. Forte took one step back and found the world turning around him. He saw the sky as he plummeted before the shock of the cold water hit him. When his head hit the surface, he could hear the furious cry;

“No! Stupid boy!”

#ooc #tw: toxic family #tw: abuse #tw: manipulation #aaannd more #side character: selina forte #side character: maximillian v #v: past #forte drabbles

5 notes · View notes

macbcth · 4 years

Text

i like to believe that ophelia's madness gave her a kind of meta knowledge of the plot— that she saw the tragic ending coming, knew that hamlet's indecision would be his hamartia, that she realised gertrude and claudius were both poisoned with corruption from the beginning and instead of the customary funeral goers laying flowers at a grave, it was Ophelia— mad, at death's door, about to die in less than 2 scenes— who handed flowers to the king, queen and protagonist as if the dead girl was mourning the living

38K notes · View notes

viacursecasting · 3 years

Text

A Blooming Mistake.

{ Read on AO3 }

Summary: Sonic is hiding his hybrid roses, meant for someone special, but Shadow's determined to uncover the truth...

In a way rivals know best.

Radiant light of the full moon streaked through the leafy embraces of forest branches, illuminating freckles upon the well-trodden path for the cobalt quilled hero. His buckled cherry shoes crunched upon dried foliage as he ambled toward his destination. Normally he would’ve utilized his renowned speed, but he was wary of disturbing any critters peacefully slumbering in their nests. Even so, as he heard the pitter-patter of startled animals, he cupped the corner of his lip with a gloved hand, whispering apologies into the darkness.

As he clutched a shovel in one hand and a basket of rose stems in the other, he continued onward through mossy trees and flowering bushes until he reached a clearing, grassy and kempt, overlooking the vast sea, which stretched across the horizon to kiss the distant mountains. The serenade of gentle waves lapping against the cliffside soothed his upright ears. A spring breeze combed through his quills. He inhaled deeply, the aromatic scent filling his nostrils, the air so briny he could practically taste its salt upon his tongue. Moonlight reflected divinely across the waves, a sparkle rivaled only by his toothy grin. No matter how many times he trekked here, it always felt like the first.

Refreshed from admiring the landscape, he then glanced at the bundle of stems in hand. This species was a unique hybrid, one that bloomed crimson petals with ebony splatters. The hedgehog recalled the laborious hours he poured into growing these for weeks on end—planting monochrome roses adjacently, watering them each day, breeding the resulting hybrids into super hybrids, not to mention the painstaking chore of pulling out weeds and debris by burying his knees in the dirt. If the buds successfully bloomed, he would take it as a sign to pursue his crush. Was all this effort going to be worth it?

More importantly, could he handle the answer?

As he set the woven basket down he simply… stared. At nothing in particular. Why he couldn’t bring himself to start the final stage of planting the crossbred stems, he didn’t know. He groaned, rubbing his temples as if just now realizing what a ridiculous idea this was.

What are you doing here?

He thought his inner voice was berating him until his ears perked at the unmistakable sound of a familiar, confident gait.

“I said, what are you doing here?”

He swore his heart raced faster than his feet ever have as he peered into the forest, searching for the source of the low voice. Then, as if materializing from the shadows, a jet black lifeform stepped into view, his rosy highlights complementing his fiery gaze.

“Shadow?” The royal blue hedgehog blinked repeatedly to make sure his emerald eyes weren’t playing tricks on him from lack of sleep.

Once he realized this was no illusion, Sonic discreetly held the shovel behind his quills, subtly adjusting his footing to hide the basket at his heels. But there was no fooling his dark counterpart, who analyzed his body language suspiciously.

Shadow crossed his arms. His cool and collected tone sent chills down Sonic’s spine. “Don’t toy with me, hedgehog. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing!” Sonic blurted. “What are you hiding?”

The agent rolled his carmine eyes at the feeble attempt to deflect the question. As he took several steps closer he glanced toward his rocket skates, feeling the ground get considerably flatter, devoid of twigs and stones. He observed, “This clearing appears to have been tended to.”

Sonic laughed nervously. “Nature at its finest, I guess.”

“Is that so?” Shadow humored him. The closer he got to his parallel, the softer the earth felt with every step. “I suppose nature also watered this specific plot despite having no rain all week?”

Sonic glimpsed skyward, feigning a motion as if he felt a raindrop despite the unassuming clouds. “It could start pouring any minute. We should head back—”

He stifled a breath as Shadow, nose to nose with Sonic, scrutinized him as if he could find the answer in his irises, green as a hill zone. Suddenly he reached around Sonic’s waist, fingers brushing against the underside of his back spikes.

Sonic’s muzzle reddened intensely. “Wait, what are you—?”

Shadow seized the digging tool from his rival’s grip. “Look what we have here.” He chided with a smirk, “Shame on you, hedgehog. Wrecking the beauty of nature so you can play buried treasure.”

“This isn’t a game!” Sonic cried. “Now give that back!”

Shadow kept his foe at bay with an extended arm against his chest. As Sonic clawed the air in an attempt to retrieve the shovel just out of reach, the agent spotted the basket of greenery at Sonic’s contrasting sneakers. Shadow halted, curiosity getting the better of him as his counterpart finally yanked the tool from his grasp.

But that was the least of Shadow’s worries.

Before he could get a closer look inside the rattan basket, a glowing streak of cyan made it disappear and then reappear a few feet away in Sonic’s grip.

Shadow glared at the speedster, at first with annoyance. Why would he hide a few measly plants? Then it dawned on him. Slowly his expression turned into one of horror, staring wide-eyed at the so-called hero.

But Sonic paid no mind as he refused to make eye contact, red with embarrassment. He could practically feel that scarlet gaze burning his azure fur. “Please, Shadow. Just go home.”

“Sonic.”

Shadow said it with such bleeding concern that his sapphire twin regarded him. Aghast, the ebony hedgehog paled as if he’d seen a ghost, troubling Sonic. “Stop looking at me like that, Shads. You’re scaring me.”

Shadow ignored the request. “Is that what I think it is?”

Sonic tightened his clammy grip on the wicker handle. “What do you think it is?”

Shadow’s hesitation was brief, as if his hypothesis would somehow become true if he voiced his suspicions. “Performance-enhancing drugs.”

Sonic laughed at the notion. He had never touched a drug let alone taken one. He wasn’t even sure he knew what one looked like. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“That’s why you’ve been so secretive,” Shadow mulled distantly, rubbing his fingers under his chin as if he solved the case. “Either you plan on outperforming me, or you’ve been taking these to get on my level.”

Sonic’s expression twisted into one of confusion. “What? No! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Shadow remained skeptical, requiring proof. His eyes bore into his foe like daggers stained crimson. “Then hand it over,” he demanded, the golden power inhibitor on his wrist gleaming menacingly around his outstretched hand.

Sonic’s heart seized at the thought. His fingers clenched the woven handle so tightly he nearly bled. He swallowed before replying, “I can’t.”

Neither of them wavered. Not even the void’s icy breeze could make them flinch. Was that the wind or Sonic’s internal cry for help?

Then Shadow sighed, tightening his gloves as if foreseeing this outcome. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

In a flash he leapt forward, trailing an amber aura in his wake. Sonic’s mind deconstructed the act in slow motion, perceiving Shadow’s feet leave the ground, his limbs curl into a ball, his attack home in on Sonic’s beating organ.

Sonic dropped his possessions, steeling himself to block the spindash with crossed arms, the force so powerful his heels dug trenches in the dirt. He grunted with the effort of holding Shadow off as the high-pitched rev of the spinball deafened his ears. It was like preventing a screeching tire from burning rubber on his vitals.

Seeing as this was getting him nowhere, Shadow performed a backflip, landing gracefully on his feet. “Hmph. I’m just warming up.”

Sonic chuckled, stretching his legs like a marathon runner in a show of confidence. “Sure thing, faker,” he emphasized, knowing this would warrant some aggression.

Shadow couldn’t help but clench his fist with ire, drawing his arm back before zooming forward with a punch.

The blue blur easily sidestepped to dodge but Shadow expected this, extending another blow at the last second, hitting his opponent square in the jaw.

Sonic reeled back, more out of shock than pain, rubbing the soreness away. Regardless, he found himself smiling. It wasn’t often he brawled someone who matched his abilities. After crushing laughable badniks for days on end, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t itching for some excitement. “Lucky shot.”

“Calculated shot,” the agent corrected. “Are you as slow in the brain as you are with your feet?”

Sonic gasped dramatically, tossing the back of his hand to his forehead. “Alas! You have discovered my fatal flaw!” He bowed humbly. “Teach me, O Wise One.”

Just as Sonic was about to straighten, his opposer kneed him in the abdomen. He doubled over with a groan, sinking to his knees.

“Lesson one,” Shadow advised, “never let your guard down.”

In his kneeling position, Sonic took the opportunity to grab Shadow’s ankle and yank him to the dirt, knocking the wind out of him as he landed on his back. Shadow coughed, attempting to regain control of his lungs as Sonic loomed over him, boasting, “Lesson two, surpass the master.”

Shadow sprung to his feet. Meanwhile Sonic revved up into a concussive ball, billowing dust, and charged forward to knock over his contender like a bowling pin. But Shadow performed a handless frontflip like a gold-medal gymnast, easily dodging it.

“Chaos Spear!”

Upon hearing Shadow’s battle cry, Sonic serpentined throughout the clearing to avoid numerous bolts of energy the agent’s palms emitted. But no matter how quickly Shadow fired, Sonic managed to evade every shot by a hair.

At one point the blue blur skidded to a halt, and suddenly a glowing spear jutted out of a tree right before his face.

Sonic let out a nervous chuckle, grateful to still have a nose. “Someone’s getting antsy.”

He ducked in the nick of time to avoid a jet-boosted roundhouse kick to the head. Sonic then swept his leg to trip his assailant, but to no avail as Shadow leapt high into the air, backlit by the witnessing moon, before clasping his hands together to pummel Sonic into the ground.

CRUUUSH!

The hero narrowly somersaulted clear, shaking dirt from his quills. When he looked up to see the crater Shadow formed with his fists, his stomach churned. “Whoa, Shads, take it easy!”

Tired of this dance, the lifeform was tempted to execute a Chaos Blast right then and there, but instead he sneered, “Not until I get what I want.”

He dashed forward. His parallel instinctively did the same. However, a vine caught Sonic’s toe, hurtling him straight into Shadow. The hedgehogs were a mass of flailing punches and kicks, their limbs a blur as their tangled bodies rolled in the grass like a prickly tumbleweed.

Their careening stopped dead in its tracks as Shadow straddled Sonic, their panting faces inches apart, their arms wrestling for dominance with Shadow’s fists against Sonic’s palms.

Through grunts, Sonic tried to reason with him. “Okay, Shadow… hff… This was fun at first… hff… but now—” He cried out as his wrists bent at a dangerous angle.

“It was never a game, Sonic.” Using gravity to his advantage, Shadow pushed harder.

Pain shot through Sonic’s arms. “Shadow, stop!” he pleaded, his biceps nearly giving out. “It’s not what you think!”

Shadow snarled, his fangs gleaming like dual blades. “Don’t lie to me!”

Sonic’s muscles screamed. He didn’t remember his counterpart being this strong, didn’t understand where such passion was coming from. “Why are you so worked up?”

“I won’t let you destroy yourself!”

Shadow’s guttural cry echoed throughout the crisp air, followed by a chorus of flapping from retreating crows. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he almost wished Sonic would run away, too, as he shut his eyes tight to suppress his hot tears.

Witnessing such raw emotion made Sonic yield, letting Shadow pin his wrists to the dirt beside his spiky head. Though Sonic took shallow breaths, his peach torso still brushed against his rival’s ivory chest fur, soft and full, making his back spines prickle. “If it matters so much to you,” Sonic relented, “then you can take what’s in the basket.”

No sense of victory hailed Shadow as he sulked from revealing a shred of vulnerability. Instead a numbness washed over him like a waterfall. He crawled off the sapphire hedgehog, taking a few steps to retrieve what he thought was a performance-enhancing substance. But what he found was much more tame.

Perplexed, Shadow inspected a leafy stalk carefully. “These look like rose stems.”

As Sonic stood to brush grass off his quills, he could feel his face grow warm, resorting to sarcasm as a defense mechanism. “That’s because they are rose stems, genius.” He almost laughed. This was G.U.N.’s best agent?

It still didn’t add up. “Why were you hiding these from me?” When Sonic failed to answer, Shadow read his flustered face instead. “Are they intended for Amy?” Sonic shook his head. “Blaze?” Another shake. “Knuckles? You are aware he’s in love with a rock—”

“It’s you!” Sonic blurted, immediately slapping his palm over his mouth. He had to say something—he felt as if he were going to explode any second. But the regret was instant. He wanted to be cremated right then and there and have his ashes flung over the cliff into the depths of the sea below, dissolving into nothingness.

Shadow was taken aback but quickly composed himself, clearing his throat. “I see. Yellow roses?” he surmised, knowing that this flower hue symbolized a strong bond among friends.

“No,” Sonic replied, downcast. There was no point in lying anymore. “They’re a hybrid. Black for eternity and red for luh—! …Ove.”

That last word caught in his throat, so foreign on his tongue. Unconsciously he rambled, desperate for some sense of control again. “I thought that maybe once these bloomed, I’d have the courage to… ask you out.”

Shadow had difficulty masking his bewilderment. He opened his mouth as if to say something but failed to express a coherent thought, unable to recall the last time someone rendered him speechless.

Sonic rubbed the back of his neck, elaborating, “I know it’s stupid. Even though you get on my nerves, you also… get me, you know?” He reminisced over the moments they were forced to team up against a greater evil, racing side by side, occasionally stealing sidelong glances at each other.

Then images of the Finalhazard flashed in his mind, followed by the harrowing sight of Shadow plummeting to his supposed death. “When I thought I would never see you again, it made me realize I had taken you for granted.”

I should just stop talking, Sonic told himself. But his lips betrayed him. “Since then, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

What are you doing? “I mean, look at your speed. Your strength. Everything about you screams danger.”

Shut. Up. “But instead of running away from you, why is my heart telling me—”

Shut up shut up shut up!

He growled, yelling over his thoughts, “—to run with you!?”

Sonic was practically on the verge of a cardiac arrest. His breath was short, his ears were numb. He felt as if an anchor pulled him by the pit of his chest to claim him as part of the earth’s core. He expected a witty comeback. A kick to the stomach. Anything! But what he got was worse. Shadow stared at Sonic as intently as a sniper through the lens of his scope. As pervasive as a bullet, what really killed Sonic was the silence.

Sonic shook his head to clear his mind. It was all so ridiculous, devoting so much time and effort and emotion to someone who couldn’t care less. “But it doesn’t matter.” He hastily gathered his belongings and began to head homeward. “Clearly you don’t feel the same way so let’s just move on and pretend none of this ever happened—”

“Wait.”

Sonic froze, feeling Shadow’s grip around the crook of his elbow. His heartbeat pounded so incessantly he thought his eardrums would burst. “Yeah?”

The crimson-eyed hedgehog averted his gaze, though Sonic thought he spotted a faint rosy tint across his tan muzzle. “It appears as though your sentiments mirror mine.”

Cogs slowly turned in Sonic’s mind, trying to process the confession. But then he laughed in denial. “Come on, Shads. You’re not serious.”

Shadow squeezed Sonic’s arm in affirmation, finally locking his ruby irises with his counterpart’s emeralds.

Fixated, Sonic read no hesitation, no amusement in that scorching gaze, straight as a gun barrel. That’s when he knew Shadow was indeed telling the truth.

It finally clicked. Then Sonic turned bright red, realizing just how close Shadow was standing, feeling his warm breath on his lips.

Shadow stroked Sonic’s cheek with the back of a curled finger, a touch that was extra gentle in case he miscalculated his own strength, before resting it under Sonic’s chin to slightly crane his neck. The agent found his blush quite endearing, and being its trigger was icing on the cake. They were in such close proximity that Shadow could breathe in his admirer’s scent, sweet as freshly cut grass. Shadow’s blood pumped so madly he thought Sonic could hear it. He briefly wondered if he would ever get used to the hero’s presence. Perhaps he would find out at a later date.

If so, it would be a date to die for.

With slowly lidding eyes, Shadow leaned in, parting his lips just as their muzzles were a quill’s breadth apart—

“Shadow, come in!” urged an electronic voice.

The hedgehogs jumped out of their trances. Shadow cursed under his breath, realizing the command came from his wrist communicator. He pressed a button as he spoke into it. “Yes, Rouge?”

“You’re supposed to report every hour so we know you’re safe while patrolling,” his bat coworker scolded.

Shadow grimaced. “I can take care of myself.”

“It’s just a precaution,” Rouge stated. “In any case, that cheery attitude of yours lets me know you’re fine. Bye~!” The call ended with a beep.

A forlorn sigh escaped Shadow’s lips, the moment officially tainted.

But with his ever-present smile, Sonic brushed off any disappointment he may have had. “You should get back to work.”

Shadow glared at the blue hedgehog, feigning annoyance. “This area is well within my jurisdiction, and I haven’t finished inspecting it,” he claimed, watching Sonic’s grin grow wider, so contagious he wore a hint of a smile himself. He then graciously took the shovel from Sonic’s grasp, walking toward the primed plot. “Come. I hate leaving a job unfinished.”

#via drawing #via writing #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonic fanart #sth #sonadow #fanfics #a blooming mistake

151 notes · View notes

utterlyinevitable · 3 years

Note

Today’s bed time story was actually fluffy??????

Like wasn’t compelete fluff but it was pretty pleasant???????

Loved it 💕 thank you ☺️

two days late on the need for fluff. better late than never ???

transcript under the cut 💕

Trying to Plan a Forever

So ub has been in wayhaven for about two years manning the hatches and whatnot with their detective. Mason and Lia had fallen into a relationship more than a year ago.

One off day they’re sitting around her apartment and she’s sorting through the pile of Mail she’s ignored

She received not one, but three wedding invitations from people she’s gone to high school with. All within a few weekends of each other

She stared and groaned.

When did she get so old that everyone’s getting married?

She’s nearing 30 and her biological clock has been ticking and she’s caught herself wanting things she never dreamed of before.

She’s sitting on the couch next to where Mason is sprawled out. The three ornate invitations staring back at her. Almost mockingly.

“What?” He asks pulling her out of that weird state and face she’s making.

“Busy summer,” she gathers the three cards and passes them to him.

He just stares at them in her hand. Scanning one to get the gist.

“Gonna go?”

“Probably should” she shrugs

There’s a brief pause and then her eyes meet his.

“I’ll be out of town” he states.

“All three weekends?” She retorts. Shaking her head at the blatant lie.

He shrugs non committal.

“I don’t like weddings”

“It’s different when it’s your own,” is the only argument she made, wholly agreeing on how the wedding industry is a bit too much sometimes. She can only imagine what his sense would be thrown into should he accompany her.

She half expected him to make a joke along the lines of ‘how would you know sweetheart got a husband I don’t know about?’

But he didn’t.

“Don’t understand the appeal.”

His words were laced in something she couldn’t place. Something a little unsettling.

“It’s what you do when you’re in love, Mason”

He scoffs.

“You don’t want to get married? Not even back when you were a human?”

“No, don’t think it was ever in the cards for me.” He takes out the lighter and fidgets with it. He rarely needs his vices when they’re together and she knows she’s teetering on a fine line.

“The whole marriage institution means nothing to a vampire. ‘Death do us part’. there’s no death in immortality”

She instinctively leaned back to look at him fully.

“So the idea of a forever is what? Something you’re not into?”

“I never said that.”

She’s looking at him critically.

“Those contracts aren’t meant to last for centuries. They’re for the government instead of the two people.”

“So you’d prefer a spiritual ceremony to civil marriage?”

“Trying to get me down an aisle, sweetheart?”

“Just trying to figure out where your heads at.”

“What id PREFER is to skip to the good part,” he winked.

She rolled her eyes and smacked his arm.

“I like the idea of an intimate ceremony. Nothing fancy, just close family and friends”

“Got your dress picked out too?” He chided playfully.

When she didn’t respond and looked away when flush started to creep up her features, masons chest sunk.

He didn’t know what to say. All he could think of didn’t surface. That quip slipped before he even knows it was happening.

“Sweetheart...”

She didn’t look over at the comforting pet name, embarrassed.

He reached out for her to pull her closer and fold her into his chest.

“I know, it’s stupid” she muttered.

“No,” he kissed her hairline to make up for upsetting her.

“does it really mean that much to you?” He asked

“I don’t know. Yes? Maybe...” she says

They sit like that, his arms wrapped around her and she chews on her lip thinking.

“I think I’m just starting to realize a part of me wants a husband and a baby...”

“Seriously?”

The malice in his voice is oof

“Yeah” she says monotone.

His hands fall to just graze her. Pulling back while not actually letting her go.

“A kid? Really?”

Masons mind is on one track. Completely dumbfounded stumped and shocked.

She shifts in the seat to face him, legs folded. “It’s just an idea!”

“Forget it. It’s not happening” he was decisive.

“What the fuck why not?”

“Are you forgetting I’m a vampire, sweetheart? I can’t have kids.”

“But i can. Medicines come a long way in the last hundred years.”

“And what’re you gonna do, raise the kid for a couple years and abandon them like Rebecca did for you?”

The words came out harsher than he meant them. He just didn’t know what else to say to illustrate the point he was trying to make. The human and supernatural worlds CANT coexist. That’s no place to raise a kid.

“We can’t settle down in one place for too long before humans get suspicious. You won’t age and have to move around every few years”

Her face scrunched up “why won’t I age?”

And then the unintentional meaning hit her like a ton of bricks

“Oh...”

Even though in the span of the last few minutes she’s lost out on a normal adulthood, her smile grew

he wants me to turn 🥺☺️

“Can that even happen?” She wonders out loud. The agency must have protocols against all this. And ofc Rebecca will be against it. And on one hand it will solve her inferiority amongst the team.

His lips are pressed and eyes squinted as he thinks. He’s had the fleeting thought before but never so much as verbalized them. “I don’t know... your blood... we don’t know how it would react” he finally admits

We? She thinks to herself.

The agency had been batting around scenarios of what may happen if she was turned. She has vampire blood in her system. But could the mutation cause problems for a full immortal life? Mason is too selfish and hesitant to find out for sure. He’d gladly run to the ends of the dimension to find someone else with her blood type to do the experiment on.

“So... if I was normal you’d turn me” it wasn’t a question but a fact she hopes to be true.

“There’s nothing normal about you, sweetheart” he reaches out to caress her cheek. He loves every flaw and infuriating thing about the stunning woman before him. Even if he hasn’t told her yet in those three words.

He leans into his touch. Hazel eyes closing halfway to relish it fully.

She sighs and they’re in this moment for a bit.

She raises her eyebrows signaling for him to answer the damn question.

“I wouldn’t.”

Her eyes snap open “what? Why?” Utterly confused.

“Has to be your decision. Make sure there aren’t any other human things you really want to do. Being turned before you’re ready.....” a flicker of torment passes his now sullen face. And she knows exactly why.

“So when I’m ready you’ll do it? You’ll spend forever with me?”

He chuckled. Fucking chuckled like this was a joke. She was ready to start fuming at then action.

She saw his silver eyes clear and unclouded. The pureness only something she’s witnessed a handful of times.

Then he clarified,

“Felix could. It’d be the highlight of his existence.”

And without saying it she understood that a. Natural born vampire would have to turn her.

There was some unspoken tenderness flowing between then, transporting them in the apartment.

Lia climbed into his lap. Arms thrown over his shoulders and weight on her knees as not to fully press against him. At least not yet.

His hands immediately cupped her ass. Then another slipped under the fabric of her shirt to rest on her lower back.

“And THEN you’ll marry me?” She coaxed.

“Eternity’s a long time.”

“You said yourself marriage licenses are only meant to last a few decades before they expire” she winked.

He brushed her hair back out of her face and cupped it. Her fingers twining in his long strands.

And Mason wanted to say it. He itched to say the words at this perfect moment.

But instead he pulled her into an intimate kiss.

“Kissing me won’t make me forget” she mumbles against his lips.

“I can try,” he matches her right back, playfully. “We have all the time in the world.”

-the end-

#twc fic #mason x f!mc #agent m #twc #withbeautyandrage #asked

7 notes · View notes

onthevirgeofdestruction · 4 years

Link

Plea for My New Self

Sanders sides Vampire College AU - it’s gay - it’s full of fun fluffy tropes - a bit o’ hurt/comfort - mostly fluff

Words: 4,894 Warnings: Food, Money Issues, blood drinking Characters: Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, (Deceit mentioned) Ships: Prinxiety, Analogical, Eventual LAMPD/CALMD Universe: Plea for my New Self Genre: Fluff, Gay nonsense

Chapter 26: Flaws

Chapter 1 for New Readers - ffn mirror

Virgil tapped away at his laptop, writing an English paper. They were all working on homework together in a study room at the library. Logan suggested it, and it seemed like a very nice compromise between spending time together and actually doing their job as students. Virgil had plenty of time to work, but Patton was struggling a bit in psychology, and Roman had fallen back because of all the time he was practicing his parts. They shared the subject and could help each other, which was nice considering Virgil’s psychology schooling was pretty out of date and he couldn’t help much outside of the history portion. It looked like Logan was writing a history paper based on the books he had stacked next to his laptop for references and citations.

The room was on the small side, which made Virgil uncomfortable, but Virgil sat next to the door, and Roman would periodically put his hand on Virgil’s arm or leg and that calmed him down for the most part. Roman was probably just being affectionate, but maybe he caught Virgil’s glances at the doorway. Outside of the size of the room, though, it was very nice to just quietly work together. Virgil had read this story a million times and wasn’t a fan of writing another essay examining themes and symbolism on it. Especially since it was about community-mandated murder. But he could write it with minor effort on his part. It was just annoying.

If Logan and Virgil weren’t writing essays they probably would hold hands or something. Logan seemed to like doing it. Virgil couldn’t understand why a human would want to hold an ice cube, but he wasn’t complaining. Logan explained he didn’t always like contact and it was better to let Logan initiate or offer first. It sort of seemed like he’d be interested right now since sometimes he leaned towards Virgil while flipping through a book. Either way, Virgil was pretty happy. He enjoyed talking to Logan more than anything, so it didn’t bother him too much that Logan needed his space sometimes. Not that he didn’t very much enjoy kissing him. But in general, Patton and Roman were hanging off of Virgil any time Virgil dropped his shield, so he was pretty satisfied with the amount of contact he got these days. Virgil looked up from his laptop and met eyes with Roman. Roman shot a glance between Logan and Virgil and looked curiously back to Virgil. Virgil raised his eyebrow in confusion, trying to figure out what he was trying to communicate.

‘Are you going to tell him or what?’ Roman asked Virgil telepathically, looking pointedly at Logan again.

‘About the vampire thing? I don’t think he’d believe me if I tried. Why bother?’ Virgil thought back with a minuscule shrug.

‘I dunno, it seems dishonest to have him be literally the only person in the room who doesn’t know,’ Roman thought, motioning to the room with his highlighter.

‘If he doesn’t want to know, I won’t force it on him. Some people aren’t comfortable with the supernatural,’ Virgil replied mentally. ‘I at least need to get his opinion on that, first,’ Virgil motioned with his hand to try to express his priorities.

‘What are you guys thinking about?’ Patton thought, looking curiously to the two of them. Virgil hadn’t realized they had looked up from their textbook.

‘I think Virgil should tell Logan,’ Roman thought, eying Logan again and looking critically to Virgil.

‘Tell him he’s a vampire?’ Patton asked mentally, looking a little lost.

‘Yeah. They’re dating. It just doesn’t seem right,’ Roman thought, furrowing his eyebrows.

‘It’s not like you learn everything about somebody as soon as you start dating. It hasn’t been that long. Everybody’s got baggage,’ Virgil rolled his eyes. This was a little extra.

‘No, I think Ro’s right,’ Patton thought, looking concerned.

‘I don’t want to force it on him. He gets a choice on this, too,’ Virgil chided them mentally.

‘I think you’re just trying to avoid something hard,’ Patton looked critically at Virgil, too.

‘No, he’s doing that with you,’ Roman smirked impishly.

‘Roman, you want to come up to the roof with me to see if you bounce?’ Virgil thought warningly and glowered at Roman.

‘What are you avoiding with me, Virge?’ Patton looked at Virgil a little sourly.

‘Yeah, Virge, what are you not telling them?’ Roman leaned forward and smiled roguishly at Virgil.

‘We’re studying, you gobermouch, do we really have to do this now?’ Virgil crossed his arms and tapped impatiently on his jacket. Roman and Patton just stared at Virgil in bafflement for a moment.

‘Did I have a stroke? Was that even English?’ Roman raised his eyebrow.

‘Fine. Patton, I think your job makes it too hard to keep up with school. School is important. If you want to quit the craft store, I’d pay you more than they do. You’re part of my clan and entitled to the resources we have,’ Virgil huffed, looking at Patton imploringly. Patton looked surprised, considerate, and then angry. Well, shit.

“I understand that I am not the best at social cues, but it is odd that you two are glaring at each other with no words exchanged,” Logan pointed out, looking up from his laptop.

“Patton thinks I should tell you I’m a vampire and I want to give Patton money they don’t seem to want,” Virgil said flippantly, waving his hand. Roman looked shocked.

“This vampire joke again? It’s very odd, Patton. If Patton doesn’t want the money, don’t give it to them. I don’t understand why it is these things are being treated so critically,” Logan suggested and looked oddly between Patton and Virgil.

“Thanks, Logan, you’re right. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I would appreciate it if Patton would consider it, but I don’t like forcing things on people, so I understand if you won’t take it. The best I can do is make the resources available and see if anyone is willing to take them. I will just be honest,” Virgil said, hoping Patton understands his meaning. Patton frowned at him, but they didn’t look angry. ‘Told you,’ He thought to Roman. Roman huffed and rolled his eyes dramatically. Patton looked sad for a moment longer, but smiled and nodded eventually. Virgil felt relieved.

“Okay. Sorry for distracting you, Lo,” Patton apologized quietly.

“We are here together, I’m happy to discuss things with you,” Logan smiled. Patton smiled much brighter after that and looked back down. They went back to studying in silence, but Roman was tapping his fingers on his thighs and watching Logan rather than getting back to studying.

‘You know, I’d love to see how far his disbelief goes,’ Roman thought. Patton looked up from their book in surprise.

‘I’m pretty curious myself,’ Virgil smirked mischievously.

‘Roller coaster,’ Roman thought empathetically. ‘It destroyed me,’

‘Don’t be mean to him,’ Patton chided them.

‘I’m not going to do that. I shouldn't have even done that to you, Ro. I’m just wondering how far he can rationalize things,’ Virgil shrugged, uncrossing his arms.

‘That doesn’t seem in good spirits,’ Patton frowned.

‘Of course it’s friendly, Pat! It’s not even at his expense. Obviously, it’s fine if he knows, so why not just make it a little easier to connect the dots?’ Roman motioned with his head toward Logan.

‘Well, that doesn’t sound bad when you say it like that,’ Patton admitted. ‘Just don’t pick on him,’

‘Why would I want to pick on my boyfriend?’ Virgil rolled his eyes. ‘That’s such a dick move. I like him,’ Virgil pulled a partial frown. ‘I’m just thinking that maybe there’s not much of a point of hiding anything,’ Virgil raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

‘You want to make bets on what makes him question if it’s really a joke or not?’ Roman wiggled his eyebrow temptingly.

‘$500 bucks it’s something drastic. He's pretty logical to a fault,’ Virgil smirked to Roman, who smiled back playfully.

‘This is leaning back into not-in-good-spirits territory,’ Patton frowned. Virgil paused and considered for a moment.

‘Pat’s probably right. Thanks for being my good sense,’ Virgil sighed and shot an appreciative smile to Patton. ‘I still think he’s stubborn, though. I seem to like stubborn people,’ Virgil chuckled quietly and shook his head, trying to focus on writing again.

‘Hey,’ Roman thought somewhat indignantly.

‘You are a little stubborn, Ro,’ Patton looked sheepishly at Roman.

‘Hey,’ Roman crossed his arms.

‘And I love that about you,’ Virgil shot Roman a smile and Roman softened slightly.

‘Fine,’ Roman huffed, not sounding completely satisfied. Virgil would just have to make it up to Roman later. ‘I guess we should get back to work, huh, Pat?’

‘Yeah,’ Patton thought, a little despondently.

‘I’ll get you guys ice cream or something if you can catch up, how about that?’ Virgil offered, trying to lift their moods.

‘Okay!’ Patton beamed at the idea.

‘It’s something to look forward too, I guess,’ Roman frowned slightly, but nodded.

“You want to get ice cream when we’re done, Logan? There’s a gelato place in walking distance with great ratings,” Virgil asked smoothly.

“Are you trying to motivate Patton?” Logan smirked at Virgil.

“That, too,” Virgil smiled back.

“Ice cream is delicious!” Patton pouted.

“Nuh-uh, Patton, this is gelato. This is better,” Roman said, tutting and shaking his finger.

“Why is it better?” Patton asked curiously.

“It’s Italian?” Roman shrugged, not sounding sure himself.

“Gelato is lower in calories, fat content, and has a silkier texture than ice cream. Flavor profiles are subjective, however,” Logan provided.

“Yeah, that,” Roman motioned to Logan. “I’ve heard about it, they also have espresso,” Roman winked to Virgil.

“Oh, I wasn't aware,” Virgil rubbed his hands together in delight.

“I suppose that means Virgil is motivated now, too,” Patton giggled.

“I have written multiple essays on the stupid short story, I needed it. There’s a limited amount of ways to rephrase the stupid symbolism to not plagiarize myself,” Virgil grunted and dourly looked back to his laptop.

“Did you take advanced English in high school?” Logan asked curiously.

“I’ve just already taken this class elsewhere,” Virgil shrugged, shooting a look at Roman. The corner of Roman’s mouth twitched upward.

“The credits would not transfer?” Logan asked, sounding disappointed.

“Nope,” Virgil popped the ‘p’ and Roman snickered slightly.

“I’m sorry to hear about the redundant material. Hopefully, the latter semesters will be more interesting,” Logan said with a small nod.

“Thanks,” Virgil smiled, holding out his hand. Logan took it curiously and Virgil pulled it up to kiss his knuckles. Virgil was rewarded with slowly spreading blush before letting go of his hand and getting back to work. Roman stuck out his tongue just above Virgil’s laptop screen and Virgil chuckled, finding Roman’s leg under the table to hold contact with him. Roman smiled slightly and Virgil got back to work.

—

“Oh my gosh, gelato is so good!” Patton squeaked, excitedly eating another tiny spoonful of their vanilla, cheesecake, and chocolate gelato. They sat on the covered patio outside the gelato shop, taking up the sole table outside. They were alone other than brief passers-by, which was pleasant. The sun was still in the process of setting, so it washed everything with orange-red light. Virgil tried his best to stay hidden in his hoodie and in the awning’s shade.

“The espresso is pretty nice, too,” Virgil smiled, taking another sip. The steam from the espresso fogged up his sunglasses.

“They just pulled that espresso shot, Virgil. Isn’t it too hot to imbibe?” Logan asked, sounding concerned.

“High heat tolerance,” Virgil shrugged. “It doesn’t feel too hot,” Roman snickered and took another bite of his dark chocolate, pistachio, and strawberry gelato. “Aren’t those weird together, Ro?” Virgil asked, looking at the disturbingly green gelato.

“No, it’s good, your tongue is just made for black coffee,” Roman smiled. “How were the gelato bites, Logan?”

“Very satisfactory,” Logan smiled widely.

“Do you have a bit of a sweet tooth you’ve been hiding?” Virgil asked, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“No,” Logan’s ears turned slightly pink.

“Hey, I can’t judge for that. Have you ever seen me have anything but black coffee?” Virgil chuckled and offered in solidarity.

“I- no, actually. No, I haven’t,” Logan sounded surprised. “I worry for your teeth enamel,” Logan laughed slightly, but his lips pulled into a slight frown.

“My enamel is fine,” Virgil smiled widely, not bothering to hide his fangs.

“Yes, your teeth look very healthy. I do not even see coffee staining. Do you have veneers? You have extremely long canines and sharp teeth,” Logan observed Virgil’s fangs.

“I’m going to go with no, since I don’t even know what that is. These are what I was born with,” Virgil chuckled.

“Are his teeth why you call Virgil a vampire, Patton?” Logan asked as he curiously examined Virgil’s fangs. Roman nearly sputtered on his gelato and covered his mouth, giggling wildly.

“Uh, yeah, that’s part of it!” Patton said awkwardly, running their hand through their hair nervously.

“What the other part?” Logan looked to Patton, and Virgil leaned forward, very interested in what Patton had to say.

“His temperature and the whole blood-drinking thing,” Patton shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but was clearly stressed by the situation.

“Coffee bean harvesting practices can be inhumane, but calling it blood is very… extra,” Logan chuckled slightly, looking proud of himself.

“Mmm, blood,” Virgil muttered, taking another drink of espresso. Roman choked on his gelato and Patton patted his back very quickly, looking panicked. “Pat’s talking about the fridge full of blood in my dorm, though,” Virgil looked to make sure Roman was all right, but after a cough or two Roman just looked incredibly bemused, putting his hand on his chest to breathe deeply. Patton sighed in relief.

“Why on earth would you have a refrigerator full of blood, Virgil?” Logan asked incredulously.

“Drinkin’, of course,” Virgil shrugged. Roman chuckled and shook his head disbelievingly, still catching his breath.

“Is this some gothic thing I am not aware of?” Logan asked, still sounding baffled.

“Actually, I think blood bars for goths used to be a thing until they were shut down for obvious health reasons,” Roman offered. “I’ve heard of it anyway,”

“I think those were just a myth perpetuated by the one vampire show,” Patton said, sounding unsure.

“Can you use your roller coaster powers on anything other than just you?” Roman asked curiously, motioning to Virgil.

“No, it’s just me,” Virgil shook his head. “I’d totally make my coffee float if I could. I always wanted to try drinking like an astronaut can in zero gravity,” Virgil leaned forward on his elbow and swished the espresso around in his cup.

“Oh, that would be so cool!” Patton chirped, playfully holding their little gelato spoon up in front of them and eating it as if it was free-floating. Virgil couldn’t help but grin at the adorableness. Even Logan was mesmerized in watching them and turned red when Patton smiled at him.

“What about your gift? You’ve never mentioned what it was before,” Roman asked, turning from watching Patton’s cute display to lean back and look towards Virgil.

“Hm, it’s not that obvious, visually. I wouldn’t do it, anyway,” Virgil said dismissively, flipping his hand slightly.

“If this is an extended joke at my expense, I do not appreciate it,” Logan frowned.

“I wouldn’t make you the butt of a joke, Logan. That would be awful. You’re just opting to stay out of a loop we’re trying to let you in on,” Virgil held out his hand for Logan to take, but Logan shook his head, still looking upset.

“Oh, oh, let's invite Deceit!” Patton blurted out excitedly. “His gift could convince him,” They added with a sly smile.

“I still think Virgil should just do the roller coaster thing,” Roman insisted. “It convinced me right away,”

“Ro, we’re sitting on a gelato shop patio, use your brain for once," Roman huffed an offended breath through his nose. “I’m still not positive if this is something he wants,” Virgil rolled his eyes. Patton pulled out their phone.

“What is something that I may or may not want?” Logan asked, sounding equally upset and intrigued.

“Knowing the actual size of the world around you,” Virgil said, sipping his coffee again.

“The earth is 6.6 sextillion tons,” Logan said resolutely.

“Wow, it is? That’s cool. I can’t really picture that,” Roman said, leaning back and lazily eating his gelato.

“D said he would come to hang out with us!” Patton announced cheerily.

“Really? He never responded when I asked, I was worried he was still mad at me,” Virgil muttered, feeling relieved.

“That’s your other boyfriend, correct?” Logan asked curiously.

“Yeah, he’s so great. If you like sass, sarcasm, and being over-the-top, anyway,” Virgil said dreamily.

“I think he was just interested in annoying you,” Patton said, looking down at their phone with an odd expression.

“That’s completely normal,” Virgil laughed affectionately.

“What about your gift, Pat? You are gelato powered right now, you could probably pull it off,” Roman suggested.

“I can only do it for a few seconds,” Patton muttered nervously, wringing their hands.

“What are you implying Patton can do?” Logan asked, examining Patton curiously.

“Patton can make a shield,” Roman said, motioning to them as if he were a showgirl showcasing a prize.

“If you want to show off, I doubt there’s any harm in it,” Virgil sipped his coffee. Virgil checked the skyline to see how far the sun has set to judge how much time they had before Deceit could start flitting there.

“Please don’t gloss over the supposition that Patton can make a shield. I would like to know what that means,” Logan said.

“Put your hand on Patton and they can show you,” Roman motioned to Patton with a big cheesy smile.

“If you don’t want to touch me, you can just hover your hand nearby,” Patton said, standing up out of their chair and moving it out of the way, staying just clear of the table. Logan stood up and held out his hand, hovering it close to Patton. Patton scrunched their face and focused, and Logan’s hand was pushed away. Patton exhaled, sounding strained. Virgil would be worried about the public display of powers if it didn’t just look like Logan pulled his hand back to any curious onlookers.

“What an amazing magic trick,” Logan said, looking at his hand. Roman laughed and finished off his ice cream. Logan sat back down, looking mystified.

“I bet you want seconds after that. You want more coffee, Virge?” Roman asked, getting up from his chair as Patton sat back down with a sigh.

“Yeah, thanks Ro,” Virgil smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Do you want a different flavor, Pat?” Roman asked and pushed his chair in.

“I want that gelato milkshake with the dark chocolate and hazelnut,” Patton replied, finishing their cup of gelato with a few scrapes against the side.

“You want seconds, Logan?” Roman paused before heading back inside to see if Logan wanted anything.

“No, thank you,” Logan nodded. Roman went inside. “How did you do that, Patton?” Logan asked, looking between his hand and Patton’s tired-looking face.

“It’s hard and takes a lot of focus,” Patton leaned back. “Come sit next to me. Please, V?” Patton asked, Patting Roman’s abandoned seat. Virgil switched seats for Patton. Patton leaned against Virgil and closed their eyes as soon as Virgil sat down.

“Good thing we’re getting you more food,” Virgil chuckled slightly. “I don’t know if you’d make the walk back without it,” He mused, reaching up to play with Patton’s hair for a second.

“I’m demanding a piggyback ride, either way,” Patton crossed their arms and nodded, still leaning tiredly against Virgil.

“I’m fine with that if my wonderful boyfriend is,” Virgil shrugged.

“If Patton requires assistance, back I would not be opposed to you helping them,” Logan said, possibly still trying to figure out the magic trick, because he was very distracted and checking his own hand.

“Hey, seat thief,” Roman grumbled as he came back with the milkshake for Patton and another espresso for Virgil. Patton pouted intensely at Roman. “Fine, I don’t need it, anyway. Are you ready to head back?” Roman huffed, but his annoyance melted away quickly at Patton’s expression.

“I am. I hope you explain to me how you did that trick sometime,” Logan asked in wonderment, getting up from the table.

“Only Patton can do that, sadly,” Roman sighed. Virgil got up and squatted down, and Patton leaned forward on his back. Virgil picked them up and did the rest of the work, turning around to let Patton grab their milkshake off the table and they took off back to the dorms. Roman held on to Virgil’s espresso for him while Virgil carried Patton.

“I would still be interested in learning the mechanics,” Logan said, sounding intrigued.

“So would modern science, probably,” Virgil joked airily. “Do you have time to meet D?” He asked Logan hopefully.

“I have finished my homework for now and am mostly caught up in my studies, I can spare some more of the evening,” Logan said, walking alongside Virgil. The sun had gotten low enough as they ate gelato and Virgil was free to walk around without gearing up, which he was very thankful for. Keeping his hands covered while carrying Patton would have been a pain in the ass. Hopefully, that meant that Deceit was on his way, too. Virgil missed him a lot.

“Drop your shield,” Patton whined.

“You should know I couldn’t drop my shield outside if I wanted, don’t you remember that knot Roman talked about?” Virgil groaned.

“I’ve named it Balthazar,” Roman chirped, sniffing Virgil’s coffee through the small mouthpiece.

“Okay,” Virgil drawled in bafflement, but just rolled with it. “Balthazar says the outside isn’t safe, so I can’t drop it,” Virgil supplied.

“I am proverbially lost once again,” Logan said, sounding annoyed.

“Logan, how do you feel about the supernatural?” Virgil asked plaintively.

“It is an interesting story,” Logan responded, sounding vexed and confused.

“How would you feel if the supernatural was real?” Virgil continued questioning him.

“That is not realistic, I don’t need to consider that,” Logan said. “Is this line of inquiry supposed to elucidate me in some way?”

“Yeah. Just, for the sake of argument, think about how you would feel about some supernatural things being real,” Roman said, flipping around his free hand and looking like he was considering drinking Virgil’s espresso. He better not be.

“Roman, the sun is down and you’re already up way too late for your morning classes, don’t you dare,” Virgil hissed in objection.

“Fine! Fine! You don’t have to bite my head off,” Roman huffed. “It just smells good is all,”

“One sip,” Virgil said, holding out a single finger. Roman smirked and took a drink.

“Hot,” Roman held out his tongue.

“Idiot,” Virgil chuckled.

“Are you okay, Roman? Here, have some of my milkshake, it’ll cool down your tongue,” Patton passed Roman their milkshake. Roman took it and sipped gratefully.

“That is unsanitary, Patton,” Logan looked a little disgusted as Roman passed Patton’s milkshake back.

“It’s fine if it’s Ro. Did you consider what Roman said?” Patton looked hopefully at Logan.

“It would be very interesting despite the implications being concerning,” Logan admitted, sounding a little frustrated.

“Would you care to extrapolate on the concerning implications?” Virgil asked plainly.

“Oh my god, you’re such a nerd,” Roman rolled his eyes at Virgil.

“You’re both sugared up and wild. Let the man think,” Virgil chuckled.

“I don’t like the concept that there are certain things are simply outside of human understanding,” Logan said after a moment of consideration.

“Well, that’s a tough one. But would you open to the possibility despite the drawbacks?” Virgil asked gently.

“I… suppose. But this is a silly thing to consider,” Logan insisted.

“It’s just friendly conversation, Logan. The silliness can be for the sake of recreation or whatever. I don’t speak nerd as fluently as Virgil,” Roman flipped his fingers dismissively.

“I suppose that’s fair. I’d be very interested to meet extraterrestrial life,” Logan said brightly, looking much more upbeat.

“What about terrestrial but still extra?” Roman asked, tittering. Virgil shot Roman a look of annoyance. Even if it was accurate, it was a little rude. One of those ‘just @ me next time’ kind of feelings. Roman stuck his tongue out at Virgil, looking very proud of himself.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Logan furrowed his eyebrows.

“Non-human species on earth,” Virgil clarified.

“Who are dramatic and wear too much fake makeup,” Roman smirked. Okay, Virgil wasn’t sure if this was better or worse.

“I resent that, Princey. I may be a kettle but the pot shouldn’t throw stones in glass houses,” Virgil glowered at Roman.

“I, uh, that’s too many metaphors, Virge. I have absolutely no idea what you just said,” Patton said, a little flustered.

“Mood,” Roman said, nodding in agreement.

“You’re too dramatic to be calling me dramatic,” Virgil frowned.

“Boys, boys, you’re both dramatic,” Patton said patronizingly and patted Virgil’s head. Virgil sighed theatrically, perfectly aware of the irony. Roman tittered behind his hand at that.

“So you don’t object to me saying you wear too much makeup?” Roman continued to laugh at Virgil.

“It’s the style,” Virgil shrugged as much as he could manage with Patton on his back. Patton giggled at the bump.

“I like Virgil’s makeup,” Logan said, surprising Virgil. “His makeup aside, though, I think it could be educational to meet non-human species. I would love to study them,” Logan said. “I also agree that you both have had too much sugar,” He added, sounding a little amused by it. Patton giggled and took a long sip of milkshake.

“Cool. Vampires are real,” Virgil said matter-of-factly. Roman spat out something next to him. Damn it, was that fucker stealing his espresso again? He will never get to sleep. Virgil sighed deeply and shot Roman a glare. Roman grinned brightly back at him, making an innocent face. That bitch.

“This again? Honestly, it’s getting old. I thought this was a discussion for entertainment purposes,” Logan made a face.

“It can be two things!” Patton said cheerily. “Are werewolves real?”

“Yes, and they’re assholes,” Virgil groaned, remembering some unpleasant interactions with them.

“I’m pretty certain that’s racist, Virge,” Roman snickered.

“Fine, the limited number of werewolves I’ve met are assholes in that they picked fights I didn’t want to engage in. They’re just as territorial as vampires,” Virgil amended his statement. “There’s no stupid twilight rivalry or anything, it’s just territory nonsense. There’s a reason I don’t set one,” The annoyance with them continued to leak out in his voice despite trying to stay neutral.

“D mentioned mermaids, are those real?” Roman asked excitedly.

“Yes, but they don’t look anything like Ariel. There’s one I met in France that really knew how to jam,” Virgil answered this one much more jauntily. He was a fan of merpeople.

“When were you in France?” Logan asked incredulously.

“Mid-1800s? I was with D at the time,” Virgil said, looking up and trying to remember specifics, but he couldn’t. He shook his head slightly as he gave up.

“And danced the paso doble with him,” Roman snickered behind his hand. Virgil shot Roman a look, but he put up the innocent face again. Virgil could only diagnose him with too much texting with D combined with espresso. Or maybe he’s just feeling like being a bastard today, which was a mood.

“You have to let me see!” Patton said, bouncing slightly in Virgil’s arms.

“Pat, be careful, I don’t want to drop you,” Virgil hissed and held Patton tighter.

“You won’t drop me,” Patton wrapped their arms around Virgil’s neck, putting their milkshake right next to his face.

“I don’t have a dress for it,” Virgil said dismissively. “And I’m not hand-sewing one again, I continue to be thankful for electricity,” Virgil groaned.

“Then we’ll go shopping,” Roman smirked and held up an arm as he suggested.

“I regret ever suggesting gelato,” Virgil rolled his eyes and huffed at the sugared-up idiots.

“No, you don’t,” Patton grinned against Virgil’s ear and nestled their head into his neck.

“No, I don’t,” Virgil laughed in agreement. It was nice to see them so happy, even if he and Logan were slightly distressed with their nonsense.

“You are very creative, Virgil,” Logan said dismissively.

“Thanks?” Virgil raised his eyebrow. Virgil couldn’t blame him for needing more proof. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but Virgil was already in it and may as well finish the job. The delightful and telltale thrum of reconnecting with Deceit hit as they continued their trek back to the dorms.

“D’s near!” Patton cheered, jumping again. Virgil flinched from the sudden high volume declaration.

“Pat, you’re right next to my ear,” Virgil hissed, wishing he could reach up to rub his ear.

“Sorry!” Patton whispered apologetically and squeezed Virgil lightly. Virgil rolled his eyes. This was all getting ridiculous.

personal taglist: @elizabutgayer

the taglist repository (ask to be removed):

supernatural beings taglist: @callboxkat @legendsgates @nonasficcollection @rainbowbowtie @10moonymhrivertam

DLAMP taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account @a-fandom-trashdump @averykedavra @legendsgates @notveryglittery

Virgil centric: @demoniccheese83 @thatgaydemigodnerd @arya-skywalker @rainbowbowtie

#tsss #sanders sides #tsss fanfiction #sanders sides fanfiction #tsss fanfic #plea for my new self #vampire!virgil #college au #supernatural au #fanfiction #fanfic #ayri writes #prinxiety #analogical #eventual dlamp/calmd

22 notes · View notes

mayrubyy · 5 years

Photo

DAMAGE 💔 [II]

➻ Pairing - Reader x Chanyeol

➻ Genre - Mafia!AU | Status - Ongoing 🌊

➻ Word Count - 6k | ➻ Damage m.list

➻ Rating - (M)

This contains mature content. 18+ only

(WARNINGS - mentions of gun violence, killings, explicit sex)

Summary - Wild, reckless, nefarious– he had all the flaws to convince you he wasn’t the one. Yet, here you were completely drawn towards him even though you knew somewhere along the line that the damage could be fatal.

➻ Chapter Two

Your feet were planted on the warm floor of his room as you took a glance outside the window. The cold morning air hitting your face as your fingers brushed lightly along the sore flesh of your skin where he had marked you up last night. Gentle streaks of the rising sun were peeking through the scattered clouds. The sky gleamed in perfect purple, pink and golden hues. You stood idly watching the silhouettes that adorned the cityscape, admiring the view. It was breathtakingly beautiful. It felt safe and so calming.

“This apartment is huge,” you spoke over your shoulder softly as you fiddled with the hem of his shirt. Chanyeol walks over to you from his bedside, a smirk forming on his lips. “You like it?” he asks you enveloping his strong arms around your small frame. Your back hitting his chest as he nuzzles into your neck, the contact making your skin tingle because he had no shirt on.

“I like you,” you tell him turning around in his cozy embrace to capture his pink lips with yours. He smiles into the kiss, taking the opportunity to slip his hands underneath and giving your boobs a good squeeze. He merely couldn’t resist since you were standing there in nothing but his shirt alone. You grip his arms, gently stroking and trailing your fingers along his tattoos as he continues to fondle your breasts. You ask him, “how are you guys able to afford this place?” while your hands explore the nape of his neck.

“We have our ways,” he hums against your lips as his thumb brushes over your sensitive bud. “Yeol!” you playfully smack his chest. Huffing, he pulls away from you, skimming his fingers down your sides and planting his huge hands on both ends of your hips.

“It’s Eunwoo’s,” he finally blurts out.

“So, you live here for free?” you curiously arch your eyebrows and continue shooting a bunch of questions at him. “Black Pearl belongs to him too right?”.

Chanyeol smiles at you, “you ask too many questions”. He lurches forward and snuggles into your neck again, this time he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Is that a bad thing?” you pout nudging at him.

“There’s a lot…that– you need to know baby,” he pauses in between words as he struggles to support himself. He stumbles a little, his height although complemented well with yours, his feet were clumsy. “Chanyeol..you’re hea–vy,” you gasp as he puts all of his weight on you. He quickly pulls back with a worried look on his face.

“Fuck, Y/N! I’m so sorry, I–”.

“I’m okay. Gosh. You’re such a puppy,” you giggle at him. “Your puppy,” he cups your face giving you an eskimo kiss, booping his nose with yours. You run your fingers through his hair as your eyes meet again, the affection burning within you as you adore and comfort each other in the 7 am light.

“You hungry?” you ask him in your soft voice pecking him on the lips. You could hear his stomach growl. “After all the fucking we’ve done,” he smirks “you bet I am”. He takes the moment to spank your ass. “Stop spanking me!” you chide at him. “What if I don’t?” this time he squeezes both your cheeks eliciting another satisfied moan from you.

“This is–,” he continues kneading your ass, “like the best breakfast ever”. Chanyeol grins. “SHUT UP!” you push him away and head out of his room and start pacing towards the kitchen.

“What the fuck?!”.

Sehun startles you. Gaping at you with a bowl of cereal in hands. “Not surprised,” Minseok speaks leaning against the refrigerator. If it weren’t for Chanyeol’s oversized shirts for covering you up properly, things could have turned out so extremely awkward. You quietly curse under your breath for walking out of the room like you owned the placed.

Chanyeol emerges from behind you, basking in his shirtless form with a smug look on his face, “mornin’, fuckers!”. He starts stretching his arms flexing his muscles in front of the guys when you suddenly hear Baekhyun making lewd sounds from the couch.

“MMMMHHMM LOEEEY–”.

“HARDER LOEEEY, OOOOH YES.”

Baekhyun mocks both you and Chanyeol, “you guys up all night to get lucky or what?“.

Chanyeol glowers at him, “you of all don’t get to talk, Byun Baekhyun”. He storms towards Baekhyun to hustle him, of course. But this time, Baekhyun makes Chanyeol chase him from one room to the other making them both look extremely idiotic.

“Here we go again,” you exhale heavily throwing your hands over your face covering it.

[ 12:57 pm ] Task Force HQ

The panels’ eyes were all fixed on the screen. Exclusively engrossed as Kyungsoo briefly covered the details of the case to the taskforce, slide after slide. Jongin was seated by the edge of the table, tapping the keys of his laptop, seriously feeding in the data.

“This isn’t the matter of Incheon alone,” Kyungsoo stresses on his words. “We’re working along with the SMPA and soon we’ll narrow down the suspects”.

“So far,” he points his hand towards the screen. “We may have found our lead”. Close-ups of a gang by the Han River appear one by one and zoom in on one particular suspect. “Zhang Yixing,” Kyungsoo draws everyone’s attention to the name. “An important suspect for the killings in Area 94. He works under Jongdae who currently according to what we have managed to gather in our records– is that he is not in Seoul”. He paces back and forth in front of the screen, elaborating with his hands. The light from the projector flickers on him highlighting his square features. “Jongdae’s whereabouts are unknown as of now. This may be our only chance to get proper evidence against him”.

“It’d be best if we all cooperate in handling this,” Kyungsoo folds his arms against his chest before finishing his words. “These are underhand dealings and you are required to be very alert”.

“Any questions?” he asks the taskforce.

Kim Woosung submits the reports they collected on behalf of the SMPA. “In Area 94 last Friday, we held this boy with a gun”. Kyungsoo gravely pays attention to Woosung as he unfolds what had happened. “There was this girl too”. There’s a glint of malice in his eyes as he recollects the encounter. “I believe we must find the girl”. A crooked smile forms on his lips. “She might know something.” Jongin sighs rolling his eyes as Woosung keeps stretching his report far longer than it was required.

“That’ll be all Woosung,” Kyungsoo interrupts him suddenly. “Jongin and I will take it from here. You’re off the case until next week”.

“But, Chief?!–” Woosung’s voice falters. “There’s no need to pay attention to unnecessary details,” Kyungsoo rebukes. “The time we have is limited”. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes to stress his point. “Alright, gentleman, Jongin and I will be heading to Incheon, now”. He concludes. “For any major leads, contact us immediately”. He directs the team before walking out. Jongin rushes following Kyungsoo out of the conference room, his hands full.

“Allready found her didn’t you?” he asks as he slips the laptop and the files into his briefcase. Kyungsoo remains silent throughout their walk towards the parking lot.

Once they get in the car, Kyungsoo taps his finger on the steering wheel and turns towards Jongin with a rigid expression on his face. “Wrong place at the wrong time”. He shakes his head. “Y/N,” Kyungsoo takes her name. He then turns the key to start the engine.

“What did you get yourself into?”

[ 02:27 pm ] Black Pearl

After driving for what seemed like an hour, they arrive at Incheon. Kyungsoo pulls over to a curb near the crossing just so he can park closer to Black Pearl. His eyes grow dark like he had a glint of purpose. His intentions seemed perfectly clear. At the end of the day, this was his job. He didn’t really have a choice. “Stay here,” he tells Jongin as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You know the drill”.

“Affirmative,” replies Jongin.

The dry afternoon air hits him as he gets out of the car. It was quiet, not much buzz except for the sound of the traffic trailing by. She’s probably just arrived for her shift, Kyungsoo wonders as he steps into the café. To much of his predicted notion, he was right. There were barely any customers, about three tables were engaged, which meant things were working in his favor, at least for the moment.

He finds her by the counter arranging something. She looked pretty, glowing in fact. Her hair was tied up in a high pony and she was dressed in a tight pastel pink shirt and dark jeans. His polished shoes reflect under the light falling from the huge glass as he heads towards the counter and greets her in his soft deep voice.

“Hello again”.

Y/N peeks up from the platform to take a look. The sweet scent of roasted coffee beans fills the space between them as their eyes meet. It takes her a moment to realize it’s the same man from last night. The one dressed in the perfectly ironed black suit who had tipped her the hundred dollar bill.

“Oh hi, welcome back!” she gives him a welcoming smile. “Please, take a seat”.Kyungsoo suavely sits himself on the stool. She hastily fixes her hair and her apron. His glossy dark hair reflects under the light drawing her attention when he shifts to rest his arms on the platform. “I would like what I had yesterday,” he tells her. His cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, “you must remember, right?”.

“Of course! I remember,” she answers. Her voice jitters as she paces around the counter. “Forgive me for never asking what your name is,” he expresses. “What’s your name?” he asks looking at her in anticipation.

“Oh that’s fine,” she blushes. “It’s Y/N”.

“That’s a pretty name,” Kyungsoo combs through his dark locks, giving her his signature heart shaped smile. “Thank you,” she gets flattered and surprised by how ridiculously nice he was being to her.

However, a part of her was also very tense. She remembered Baekhyun had told them that this guy was an FBI agent and she feared he was probably here to interrogate her about Friday. She tries to distract herself and presses the button of the machine to grind the coffee.

“You’re alone?” Kyungsoo asks looking around the cafe. He leans back in the stool studying the metal door behind her. “Yup! All by myself,” she answers focusing all her attention towards brewing the espresso shots. After minutes of inner panicking and preparing, she serves the Café Latte to him.

Kyungsoo holds the beverage, fingers skimming along the porcelain of the cup as he fixes his eyes on her. She wavers under his gaze when he finally breaks the silence by asking her again.

“How long have you been working here?”.

“It’s my third week here,” she answers.

“Ah, so you’re new here?“ he asks parting his lips before taking his first sip of the latte. “I am– actually,” she stutters to form her words but musters the courage to get straight to the point.

“Officer … are you here… to arrest me?”.

Kyungsoo’s narrows his gaze back on her, surprised by her sudden query. “No, why?” he asks as she nervously fiddles with her apron with a grim look on her face. “Wait, who told you about me?” he quirks an eyebrow scanning her critically watching her falter in her speech. His eyes spark curiously. “My friend told me you were in the news,” her voice croaks. “And last Friday night, I was held by an officer and I–”.

“Y/N,” he gives her a soft smile, “I already know what has happened”.

“Relax, I’m only here to ask a few questions”.

“More importantly,” he raises his cup. “For the Café Latte, actually,” he grins this time to show how much he’s actually liking the beverage. “Oh thank god! I thought you were going to take me in for running away,” she gasps bending her knees frantically. “That officer made me really uncomfortable,” she shakes her head in contempt. Kyungsoo finds her actions adorable as she continues to tell him about what had happened.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of him,” he looks up at her from his cup as he takes another sip. “Thank you so much, officer,” she thanks him heaving a sigh of relief.

“Call me Kyungsoo, please”.

He rests his hand on top of hers, which were super soft at touch. A little comforting but very awkward. She quickly draws her hand away. Her heart flutters alarmingly for a moment or two, she shrugs silently to herself for letting it slip. She laughs it off nervously as a goofy grin forms on his lips. The energy fluctuates between the two with every passing minute further making her a little hazy. He had an intimidating personality, a little mysterious too but something intriguing about him had caught her attention, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

They exchange nervous glances at each other as he finishes the rest of his drink. “Well, I had a great time with you today,” Kyungsoo tells her as he gets down the stool. They exchange bows before he begins to leave. She watches him walk out of the cafe when he stops to turn around, face beaming brightly with his heart shaped smile, only to say…

“I’ll be back again tomorrow, Y/N”.

Neon lights flickered in the background as trails of smoke decorated the dense air of the dark room. Taehyung tapped the end of his cigarette before taking a long puff and exhaling, making the room smoggier.

He wasn’t alone.

His men were scattered across the room, right behind him, the only difference was they were a lot fewer than there was on Friday. He eyed Baekhyun and Chanyeol who both sat next to Yixing and the others with an antsy look on his face.

“I don’t understand you, motherfuckers,” Taehyung spits glaring at Junmyeon. “You clear my area of this bastard,” he curses at Yixing and then reaches for his revolver on the table. “To stab me in the back the very next week?”.

“Gotta play fair,” he scoffs as he loads bullets into his gun.

Yixing chuckles nonchalantly, “you amuse me”. He gets up from his seat and offers Taehyung his part of the deal. “Look, let’s not drag this any further”.

“Join us,” Yixing cocks his head to one side.

Taehyung shrugs in revulsion. Instead, he suddenly gets up from the couch and fixes his gun on Yixing spiting in his direction, “fuck you”.

“The nerve of you to come to my area,” Taehyung warns “and dictate terms to me?”. He looked extremely displeased. He was tired of all the games and it seemed like he wasn’t going to accept the deal despite the profits he was being promised.

Just as he’s about to pull the trigger Chanyeol suddenly takes his revolver out and shoots directly at the light fixtures behind Taehyung, shocking and distracting everyone.

“Jeez, ya’ll talk too much”.

Chanyeol charges at Taehyung in a split of a second, knocking his elbow and making the revolver drop out of Taehyung’s hands. Chanyeol then starts kicking him into the ground. Baekhyun lurches forward to stop him but Yixing orders him not to. Immediately, both the gangs take guard holding each other at gunpoint. Sehun and Junmyeon firmly fix their aim at Taehyung’s men while Chanyeol continues kicking the shit out of Taehyung.

“Sorry man,” Chanyeol grunts as he spits at Taehyung kicking him in the stomach before punching him directly in the face, nearly knocking his tooth out, “I really didn’t want this”.

“But looks like,” he kicks him one more time in the face. “I’ve got no choice,” Chanyeol kicks the revolver away from Taehyung’s reach and points his own gun at him and turns towards Yixing.

Taehyung scowls at Chanyeol with a bloody face, “you’ll pay for this”.

“Finish him.” Yixing commands.

Chanyeol remorselessly fires bullets at Taehyung killing him without another word. What ensued after was complete chaos. Wild flickering of lights and blood trailing on the floor. Bullets with shreds of glass and brick flying everywhere. Sehun and Junmyeon relentlessly fire at the men shooting at them. Baekhyun and Chanyeol join the two to finish them off. The fight goes on for another forty minutes before they all gather in the middle. They all stand in a daze amidst the murky smokey room. Chanyeol kicks the floor in annoyance.

Yixing nods in approval.

“Impressive,” he pats Chanyeol on his back. “Good thing I didn’t kill you the other night”. He smirks, “you come in real handy”.

“Get your nasty hands off me,” Chanyeol warns him with a scowl on his face.

Junmyeon alerts everyone, “boys, let’s leave before things get messy”. Sehun laughs, “hyung it’s already a mess in here”.

“No. Junmyeon’s right,” Chanyeol says in his exasperated voice. “The FBI’s involved now”.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here”.

You sat by the window alone in the café after attending the last few customers. Baekhyun had told you to lock Black Pearl after closing tonight since they had business to do elsewhere. You didn’t really ask the details but somewhere along the line, you wondered where they had gone to.

Even though you knew that the café belonged to Eunwoo it somehow surprised you when Chanyeol told you in the morning that the apartment was his too. Maybe the boys had gone to meet up with him?

You clearly didn’t know much about Eunwoo either. All you knew was that he wasn’t in Seoul. You heard Minseok say he was majoring in Economics at some university in Tokyo. But if the boys really had plans on going to Japan, they would let you know.

You quietly hummed to yourself in boredom. Waiting until it was 10 pm so you could head home. All you could think of was Chanyeol, his strong scent, his never ending kisses and his perfectly sculpted body pressed against yours, engulfing you in his warmth.

You wanted to be with him.

You remembered how he growled into your ear and marked your body with his teeth. How he made your body quiver in pleasure. Your fingers slowly reached for the hickey he gave you, still fresh and sore, you could feel yourself get wet as you pictured him, fucking you on the very table you sat right now. You wanted him to fill you up as you writhed under him screaming his name and letting him know how good it felt to have him inside you and stretch you out like this.

You were so eager for his touch but he wasn’t there. Your impatience was growing so you quickly reached for your phone to call him.

Unanswered.

You try again a bunch of times, he still doesn’t answer. So you leave him a text message hoping that maybe he’ll see it.

[ 09:56 pm ]

loey, where are you? babygirl needs her daddy.

It was almost closing time so you picked yourself up from the table and dragged your feet to the counter to turn the machines and the monitors off. You checked if everything was in place. It was a lot of work but you didn’t really mind. You switched all the lights off and soon after you were done locking everything, you grabbed your stuff and walked out the back door.

You checked your phone to see if Chanyeol had replied but it turns out he didn’t. You get a little mad but tell yourself to calm down as you begin walking along the sidewalk to catch your bus near the crossing.

As you continued walking you could hear the sound of a car. You didn’t really bother to turn around and check just to be sure. You kept heading in the direction of the crossing. Suddenly you grew very aware that the car wasn’t driving past you and was actually slowly trailing behind you. Just last week you were being interrogated and even though Kyungsoo had told you that nobody was going to bother you anymore, you feared if it was that creepy agent again.

You started scurrying towards the turning when you heard the car honk at you. Panic coursed through your body and your steps began to falter. Two more honks followed but you kept walking hurriedly without stopping, not even for a moment, it was when you heard your phone ring, your stumbled, almost crashing your shoulder into a street lamp.

You cursed as you quickly reached for your phone in your bag, still trying to keep your pace intact. When you saw the screen, your face lit up to see his name, you quickly answered it without wasting another second.

“Chanyeol, where the fuck are you?!–”.

“Babe”.

Another honk.

“It’s me”

“Look behind you,” his husky voice chirps through the phone.

You peek over your shoulder and find him in the driving seat of a G-Wagon flashing you his white teeth in a wide cheeky grin. You clench your fists and charge towards him.

You punch his chest as soon as he gets out of the huge ass car. You wince in pain as he chuckles and pulls you into his body, squeezing you into a hug like you were a plushy. You were his plushy, there was no denying in that, of course.

“Hey, babygirl” he bites his lip looking into your eyes.

“Did you miss me?” He puckers his lips to get his kiss from you but you just punch him in the stomach and cuss at him.

“Fuck you!”.

“Jesus woman! It hurts!” Chanyeol groans in pain.

“Oh yeah? I could hurt you more.“ You chide as you run out of breath. “For not answering my calls”. You take a long deep breath before continuing, “ for stalking me like a creep!”. “For scaring the shit out of me you big jerk”.

“I hate you so much–”.

He cuts you off by devouring you, smothering your lips with his. Not allowing you a single chance to draw away from him further making you frustrated. His hands travel upward flat against your sides and to your chest, his fingers ghosting over your mounds, rubbing circles just like how he did in the morning. You slowly find your composure as his tongue swirls against yours sensually. "Shhhh…“ he hushes you down sweeping his thumb over your bottom lip.

"I’m here now”.

“What took you so long?!” You pout at him nuzzling your head against his muscular frame. Your hands explore his back as you snuggle yourself into him.

“I missed you”.

He tucks your hair behind your ear and cups your face bringing it up to his for a soft kiss. He continues feathering kisses along your neck, soothing the hickeys he gave you with his delicate pecks. You suddenly become aware you’re still on the sidewalk and before someone tells you two to get a room, you eye the Mercedes.

Next thing you’re pushing him into the backseat. To your surprise, there was plenty of room in his car, he was tall as heck but still there was space for you to move around easily and as you straddled him and raked your fingers through his dark hair pulling at the strands, you really wanted to get at him for some obscure reason.

You take the moment to get your delicate hands on his wrists, slowly pinning them above his head. “What are you doing?” Chanyeol’s deep voice rasps with excitement as you grab for your coat with your other hand, picking it up and revealing the scarf underneath. You reach for the fabric and fasten it around his wrists, tying him in place. His eyes spark up as you start pulling his pants down, he was already growing, you could easily tell from the tent forming in his boxers.

“I’m going to play with you tonight” you purr into his ear. His breath hitches as you nibble along his earlobe. His hands were tied, all he could do was let you have your way and you were relishing every ounce of it. “I still have my shirt on babygirl,” he smirks, “and, I’m all tied up”. He pretends like he’s struggling making you giggle.

“Stop being so dramatic!” you cup his face and bite his bottom lip to which he responds, “says the feisty one”. He tries yanking his arms forward to do what he loves doing the most but to no avail, he couldn’t spank you, the giant puppy was all tied up.

“Ah I see,” he inhales. “It all makes sense now baby”.

You surprise him by fastening the seat belt around him. “Oh-kay?” he mumbles with a confused stare. You secure him in all ways you could with the remaining belts.

“Mhmm all set,” you lick your lips as you get on your knees wantonly and reach for his waistband. He watches you with lust filled eyes as you pull his member out. The red tip oozing with clear precum, you bring your lips closer to the head and draw your tongue along his shaft with teasing kitten licks. You watch him quiver as you start bobbing your head up and down his delicious length.

The sweet and salty taste fills your tongue along with his erratic breathing like it’s music to your ears. He suddenly jerks his hips up into your mouth, making you gag, cursing and saying it was involuntary. The seatbelt saved you from having a reflex, otherwise you know he’s enormous.

“Look what you do to me, Y/N” Chanyeol grunts as you continuing sucking his cock. “Fuck, I can’t—”. He jerks again, you draw away from his manhood and bore your eyes into his as you pump his length with your right hand.

“Daddy,” you coo in a sexy voice, “you look so good all tied up”. You pick yourself up slowly and run your index along his sharp jawline. “I want to sit on your dick”. You purr again into his ear, “can I?”.

“You needn’t even ask, princess” Chanyeol throws his head back, his wrists still pinned above his head, his face a flushing red. It turned you on that you had so much power over him. It wasn’t only you, he was hard too, ready to feel your walls clench around his length. You quickly get out of your jeans and your panties. His devilish grin returns to his face as he exhales through his teeth when you straddle him again slowly.

Your thumbs play with his ears. “Your ears are so pink baby boy,” you bite your lip as you watch his grin soften. “Daddy or baby boy?” he smirks, urging you to decide as he tilts his head to one side like a puppy.

“Baby daddy,” You lay your palms against his chest and lean forward to give him a sweet long peck. You shift slightly and feel his dick brushing against your clit. “I wish I could touch you right now,” Chanyeol whines as you start grinding yourself on him. You bring your fingers to his plump lips, brushing over them, commanding him to suck on them. He listens to you and when he takes your two fingers into his mouth, you sink yourself down his length, allowing him to stretch your cunt out.

“Mmhm fuck–,” Chanyeol moans against your fingers, his chest rumbles as you start riding him. “Ride me baby,” he sucks your forefinger with a loud pop. You feel his head brushing over sweet spot making you moan his name out loud, you melt against him, sex with Chanyeol wasn’t just fiery, it had you wanting to scream from the top of your lungs. He just made you feel that good, he fit you so perfectly. You support yourself on his shoulders as your hips snap against his cock sending you both in a frenzy.

“I wish I could blindfold you Loey,” you clench around him with your words and you suddenly feel him jerk against you again, cursing loudly as he spills his warm seed inside of you. “Fuck, fuck– oh god,” he growls wildly jolting back and forth, the seatbelt restraining him from moving. You stop riding him and reach for your sensitive bundle of nerves, within seconds you find your own release and come undone on his cock making your cum mix together. You feel him soften inside you and you reach for the freckle on his nose to kiss. You unstrap the scarf around his wrists, releasing his arms. He groans lightly in pain as he stretches them and then he smiles at you with a hazy look on his face.

“I love you,“ you hear him whisper as he starts caressing your back. You blush at his words and hide your face in the crook of his neck. “I love you too”. You whisper back to him as you massage his arms. You stay in his arms all snuggled up against his chest for some time. When he finally brings his hands to your ass again, before he gets to his antics you warn him.

“No spanking!”.

He chuckles at you and pinches your butt instead making you jump. “What the fuck, Chanyeol?!”.

“About that blindfolding”.

“You were saying?” he pulls you back onto his lap with a smirk with his huge hands. “No”. You deny immediately to which he starts peppering rough kisses into your collar bone. You try pushing him away but he’s a stubborn fucker, a strong one at that.

“You’re unbelievable,” you groan as you manage to draw yourself away and facepalm at your boyfriend’s actions.

His hand rests on your left thigh as he drives you back to your apartment. You tell him about your day at the cafe and how Kyungsoo had shown up again. Chanyeol’s expression grows coarse. He looked like he was trying to suppress something. You ask him about his day and he doesn’t answer, his eyes stay focused on the road.

“We made out under this very street lamp”. He instead distracts you pointing outside towards the road, giving you squinty eyed grin. “Where were you?” you push him again this time as you start getting suspicious. “It’s not important” he pauses. Making it clear he wasn’t interested in answering that particular question of yours.

“Chanyeol”.

“What?”.

He continues looking into the road. “Did you meet Eunwoo?” you knew it wasn’t necessary to ask but he had gone without answering your calls and replying to your texts. You felt like you deserved to know what was going on.

He stops the car. “Your apartment is here”.

“Chanyeol, I need you to answer,” you stubbornly fold your arms.

(Chanyeol knew she wouldn’t understand. He just couldn’t explain to her what Black Pearl was up to or what their history was or his history to be exact.

With each passing day he grew protective of her and he wanted to keep her away from his business as much as possible.

Right now she wasn’t helping him with her unwanted interrogation.)

“I’ll tell you later,” he takes your hand to his lips, kissing it and holding it closer to his chest. “Please, trust me?”. His gaze softens on you making you realize that you went a little too far with your dumb query. “I do. I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to” you choke on your words.

“It’s all right,” he smiles kissing the back of your hand again. You lean towards him for a kiss which he returns warmly. As you get down and start walking to your apartment you turn to look at him in the driving seat, he’s watching you intently with a soft smile. After going upstairs you look down from your window, he’s still waiting for you and as soon as he sees you, he’s waving and sending you a flying kiss making your heart flutter. You wave back at him before he begins to drive away.

You suddenly hear your phone beep.

[ 12:14 am ] Loey

wear that skirt again tomorrow for me? I have something planned for you babygirl.

Chanyeol might have made it seem like he was driving away from her apartment, he wasn’t.

The look on his face was stern. His brows were knitted together and his jaw had tightened as he observed in the rear view that he wasn’t alone. He could see a dark figure behind a bush by the bus stop. He parked the car near a grey building before getting out. It hardly took him time to sprint through the alleys to reach the stop, to find out who had been following him. Upon reaching the square, he realizes who it had been all along.

“I knew I would see you again”, the man speaks in a spiteful tone.

“Knew you had something do with that girl”, the malicious grin returns to his face. “Girlfriend, perhaps?”.

"Stay the fuck away from her,” Chanyeol warns him clenching his teeth together. Giving him a possessive glare. “Or what?” Kim Woosung laughs maniacally. “I think I’m going to keep her for myself”.

“You fucking bastard!” Chanyeol draws his gun out. Making the two hold each other at gunpoint. “So, are you going to turn this gun in as well?” Woosung scoffs. “Officer,” Chanyeol clicks his tongue “you do realize I can use bullets without having to answer the SMPA, right?”. A smirk curls up on his face, "while you have to give answers for every fucking bullet you use”.

“If you shoot me right now, a mere civilian,” Chanyeol sniggers “you’re in for some big trouble”. Woosung’s face contorts like he wasn’t pleased to hear what Chanyeol had just told him. The simple rules the police had to follow unless they had orders from the higher authorities. “You have no power here. Go home”. Chanyeol gives him a hysterical grin. “Come back when you have more evidence”. Chanyeol watches Woosung as he lowers his gun and walks back to his car without another word.

“Y/N is mine and I’ll fucking tear you apart if you touch her”.

His voice is deep and hoarse as he cautions him. Woosung responds by stopping the car next to Chanyeol and pulling his glass down, “I’ll make sure to get you behind bars soon”. With that he accelerates away.

Chanyeol spits on the ground as he watches the car drive away from him. He turns around to see two familiar faces standing behind him. He watches them with vexation in his eyes as the shorter of the two speaks.

“Long time no see, Chanyeol”.

Chanyeol tightly shuts his eyes, a thin line forming on his lips.

“What do you want, Kyungsoo?”.

◄ Chapter One | ✎ Masterlist

(a/n) – maya is so sorry! I know I said I will update it on the 6th but thank you for waiting ♡ this took longer than I expected. Had some personal stuff going on but anyway, I worked really hard on this, tried to fix my errors and I think it’s better than the first chapter? I am so sorry if you like Taehyung sweetie asjdjhghdj~ Let me know how you felt about this chapter, it really encourages me to work harder. I hope you enjoyed reading it! Please look forward to Chapter Three! Thank you ♡

#chanyeol smut #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol fic #chanyeol x reader #pcy smut #exo smut #exo fic #chanyeol mafia au #exo mafia au #chanyeol imagine #exo #exo chanyeol #chanyeol fluff #chanyeol angst #mayrubyyfic #mayrubyy damage #chanyeol drabble #chanyeol fanfic

216 notes · View notes

restlessresolve · 4 years

Text

A Silent Place to Fall

Sakura hated the quiet. It wasn’t so much the lack of sound that created the problem. It was the lacking; the sense of loss that allowed the echoes inside of her room to breathe. That, of course, was always a bad thing. To breathe would mean they had the space to speak, to take possession of the silence and fill it with an almost animalistic scream. No, that wasn’t right. It was she who did the screaming. The echoes only had to whisper. The volume of their words was in their weight.

Failure.

Disappointment.

Useless.

It didn’t matter what Sakura did, who she saved, or how far she would go; it never felt far enough. Any praise or feelings of accomplishment were always crushed under the memories of the jeers. It didn’t matter that those jeers came from the mouths of children whose faces she could no longer remember, or how those failings came from a time of pubescent naiveté; they held power in their absolution.

It would never matter.

It was for this reason that Sakura kept busy. Why, despite those telling her to rest, she would sign herself up for every mission available to her, only to spend her days off on shift at the hospital. Never sitting still, never allowing herself a moment, it was always one task after the other. In keeping constantly occupied, she had no time to let her mind wander. It was the way Sakura liked it.

For the most part, it worked.

Today was not one of those days.

The hour was late. Sakura didn’t need to look at the clock on her desk to tell her it was in the early hours of the morning; she could feel it in the heaviness of her eyes and the stiffness residing in her bones. Despite all her tossing and turning, despite the candles she lit with soothing smells, or the countless deep breaths she’d taken to lull herself into the void of slumber, her mind refused to settle. Instead, it squirmed with a needling insistence, mocking her. Every mistake she had ever made throughout her life was on an unbreakable feedback loop, highlighting her every flaw. Every doubt she had had about herself jumped about, demanding attention. It was relentless. Suffocating.

Snapping her eyes open, Sakura threw back her covers and marched over to her dresser. Grabbing a spare workout uniform, she proceeded to get dressed. If she wasn’t going to get any sleep, she might as well use her restless energy to get some training in. She made a point of not looking at the time as she left her room, locking the front door of her apartment behind her before starting to jog down the road. Deliberately not thinking about where she was going, Sakura just ran, choosing to focus solely on the crisp sting of the fall air on her face as she increased her speed until her lungs burned. She counted her paces, falling into an easy rhythm as her feet hammered into the ground, the vibrations from each step reverberating inside of her. As Sakura ran, driving the tension of her body out through her legs, she started to organize her day.

Sparing practice.

Breakfast.

Research in the library.

Meeting with Hokage.

More Research.

Early dinner with friends

Night shift at Hospital.

The voices, however, still refused to cease their whispers. Sakura forced herself to move faster, desperate for air. She steered herself out of the main village square. Even in the dead of night, there were still the few stragglers that kept the village from seeming completely deserted; lights here and there in windows that flickered with moving shadows, or the faint hum of unsteady laughter returning home after a night of drinking. Sakura didn’t want to hear any of it. She didn’t need to see the reminder of all the people she continued to let down. Breaking away from the confines of the town, Sakura halted at the edge of the meadow. The surrounding forest made for a deep, black pitch of unspoken promises. Gasping for each breath, Sakura gazed into the void. She wondered if this was how Sasuke felt, all those years ago. Was it this same desperate need to become something real that drove him to leave? Sometimes the cloak of night was an all too tempting siren; all sweet words and hollow promises.

How easy it could be, it would murmur, no one would even notice.

Would anyone notice?

She took a step forward, her right hand fisted around the top of her shirt. She could feel the pounding of her own heart against her chest. With a shuddering sigh, she dropped to the ground; falling back until she was laid flat on her back, her arms and legs spread out as if ready to embrace the sky. The stars twinkled above her in the millions. Blinking as if, they too could see the world from the void that was Sakura’s own eyes.

“Rough night?” Sakura startled, her eyes flickered to the source of the sound. Standing above her, hands stuffed languidly inside his pockets, Shikamaru raised his eyebrow. Relaxing once more, Sakura turned back to the sky.

“I thought you were away on a mission.”

“Just got back.” As if to prove his point, Shikamaru shrugged off his vest, casting it to the group. It was only then Sakura noticed the tears and stains of dried blood. Something inside of her clenched.

“You’re hurt.”

“Not particularly.”

“Show me.” There was something to be said in the way Shikamaru didn’t even attempt to argue, choosing instead to merely pull off his netted shirt as he took a seat beside his fellow shinobi. Sitting up, Sakura ran her hands along Shikamaru’s back, noting the small lacerations of a kunai’s edge. They weren’t deep. Evidence of treatment could be seen in the ointment that stuck, now dry, along the openings of each wound. Placing her hand over the largest, Sakura started to infuse her chakra into the cut, sealing it shut so that it didn’t even leave a scar.

“You should see a doctor if you’re injured.” Sakura chided, moving onto the next one.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“There is no way you could have known I would be.”

“Your lab was my next stop.”

“I have a house.” Sakura retorted, falling back onto the ground, finished.

Shikamaru snorted, rolling his shoulders to test the tightness of his skin. It came as no surprise when there wasn’t a single jolt of pain.

“I am aware.” His head twisted so that he could look at her. “Are you?”

Sakura’s eye twitched. She wanted to snap back, but who was she kidding? The apartment was little more than an overpriced storage unit she occasionally slept in so people wouldn’t ask questions. Biting her lip, Sakura looked away.

“It was too quiet.” She finally whispered.

Surprised by her candor, Shikamaru turned around, noting the bags that hung under her eyes. How long had it been since she slept last? Sliding down to lay beside her, Shikamaru gazed up at the stars, his hands forming a makeshift pillow under his head.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, just as softly.

“Not really.” Sakura sighed. “How was your mission?”

Shikamaru gave the barest of shrugs, acknowledging her desire for a change in subject.

“Wet.”

“Did you really expect the Hidden Mist to be dry?”

“It should have been called the Hidden Storm with the way it poured during the mission. The entire thing was a complete drag.”

“Are you surprised?” Sakura chucked, “What else is the sky suppose to do other than weep when it has to gaze at you? You incite such disappointment from the world, all it can do its cry in pity upon your barren soul.”

“Let it wail,” Shikamaru replied, deadpanned. “I have grown strong on the tears of the gods.”

“Careful, they might hear you and seek retribution.”

“I’m sure they have better things to do than smite my sacrilege.”

“If I was a God, I’d smite you.” Sakura declared, smirking.

Shikamaru rolled onto his side, propping his head up with his hand, elbow bent.

“If you were a God,” Shikamaru drawled, his eyes twinkling, “Who would you be?”

Following suit, Sakura turned to face Shikamaru, mirroring his stance. She pondered his question.

“Izanami.” She decided at last. “As a medical ninja, I could totally pass as both the creator of life and gatekeeper to death. Plus,” She added, as an afterthought, “It would just be my luck to marry a man, die from baring his children, only for him to abandon me in the underworld because I was no longer pretty after being dead for so long.”

Shikamaru laughed, his body actually shaking from the force of it. Taken aback, Sakura couldn’t help but chuckle along with him.

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.” Shikamaru managed to say after calming down, the mirth still heavy in his voice.

“Are you implying I’m not the kind of girl who would willingly destroy thousands of living souls for each day my husband refused to come back to me?” Sakura asked, incredulous.

“More like, you’re not the kind of girl to put up with a man who would make you resort to such drastic measures.” Shikamaru explained. Still chuckling.

“Oh yeah,” Sakura glared, trying to ignore the image of a certain absent Shinobi with black hair and cold eyes. “Than tell me, which god would you be?”

“Fūjin,” Shikamaru nodded sagely.

“The God of Wind?” Sakura laughed, although she was hardly surprised. With the amount of time Shikamaru spent gazing up at the sky with his head in the clouds, it made sense.

“I could see that.” She agreed. Leaning forward, Sakura reached out her other arm and ran her hand along Shikamaru’s face, up towards his hairline. “I’m sure you’d make for a dashing red-headed, demon looking lizard man.”

Shikamaru just rolled his eyes, not even bothering to swat her hand away.

“If it means I get left alone, what do I care if people see me as a monster?”

“Wouldn’t it though?” Sakura asked, softly, the shimmer in her eyes dimming to a flat sheen. “Bother you, I mean.”

Sensing the change in atmosphere, Shikamaru’s face became a little more serious. Reaching up, he took Sakura’s hand away from his face, lacing their fingers together in front of them.

“The ones that truly mattered would know the difference.” Sakura stared at their clasped hands, unseeing. Brushing his thumb along Sakura’s knuckles, Shikamaru could not help but notice how much they felt like ice. Looking more closely at her attire, he frowned. It was no wonder, considering she only wore a pair of short shorts and a loose shirt.

“You’re cold. You should have put on more clothing.”

“Says the guy without a shirt on.” Sakura retorted. “I didn’t plan on laying around in the grass when I left the house.” She added, sheepishly, pulling her hand out of his to run it along the goosebumps forming on her arm. Shikamaru frowned further. Moving closer, he looped his arm around Sakura’s waist, tugging her against his chest before lying back down.

“There,” He smirked, his eyes glancing down at her with a gentle warmth that left Sakura feeling warmer than any fire. “Problem solved.”

Sakura hesitated, wanting to pull back. Only, she really didn’t. Shikamaru, despite being shirtless and on the ground, was incredibly warm; his heartbeat at a steady, almost lullaby-like rhythm beneath her fingertips, drawing her in. Accepting the comfort, Sakura relaxed, fitting her head into the crook between Shikamaru’s shoulder and neck.

“I could have just put on your vest.” Shikamaru only hummed in reply, re-lacing his fingers with hers atop his chest as the other hand went to play with the soft locks of her hair. Sakura clenched her fingers tightly around his, biting her lip. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had been held in this way. If, at all, even. Without even intending to, she leaned further into his touch, curling her body around his. Shikamaru responded by drawing her tighter against himself. They laid in silence after that. Sakura couldn’t bring herself to ruin it with words, just wanting to enjoy the stolen moment for what it was; a moment. As Shikamaru continued to gently graze his nails along her scalp, content to let the silence rest, Sakura reflected on their relationship.

It had only been a year since Sasuke left the village on his quest for redemption, but in that time, much had changed. Sakura had taken over as the head researcher at the hospital, under the Hokage’s tutelage, earning herself the freedom and authority to manage much of the newly developing medical experiments. Sometime during that time, Shikamaru and her had grown closer. It had started with just a few glances and brief conversations here and there in the halls or around town. Shikamaru had always been a friend in Sakura’s eyes, but never someone she would consider herself close to. However, as Sakura saw more and more of him, she realized how well they got along. Eventually, they started going on missions together, Shikamaru’s tendency for delicate strategies pairing well with Sakura’s unique set of skills with medicine and chakra control. Together, they had successfully completed more than a fair share of S Ranked assassination and recognisance missions. He had taught her to play shoji, and although she still had yet to win a single match against him, she found herself always looking forward to their games. Shikamaru had become a friend Sakura felt comfortable relying on, not just with the small things, but the things she couldn’t even open up to with Naruto or Ino. Maybe that was why she would occasionally find herself in a situation like this…

“Have you ever-“ Sakura bit her lip, instantly regretting having spoken up. “Don’t you think it would get lonely?”

Shikamaru glanced down at her, the blank look on his face making Sakura even more uncomfortable.

“I mean,” Sakura tried to hide her blush, attempting to elaborate. “Looking like a lizard demon wouldn’t make for the easiest first impressions.” When she saw a glimmer of understanding in Shikamaru’s eyes, the feeling of relief was palpable.

“Possibly…” he murmured, not breaking eye contact with Sakura for a second. “But there’s a big difference between being alone and feeling lonely. I’d rather have no one than be surrounded by a group of people, who, at the end of the day, made me feel like I wasn’t even there.”

“Do you ever feel like that now?” Shikamaru’s eyes softened and something inside Sakura squirmed.

“Sorry,” She tried to back peddle, her hand instinctively moving to let go of Shikamaru’s. “Just igno-“

“Sometimes.”

Sakura froze, eyes widening at Shikamaru’s confession.

“It’s hard finding your place when the world seems determined to leave you behind. Huh, almost feels like a joke coming from someone like me.” Shifting her weight, Sakura found herself moving even closer to Shikamaru. It didn’t matter that he spoke with mirth; Sakura could hear it, that faint tint of bitterness that slithered just beneath the surface. It wasn’t right; hearing something like that from someone like him. It was like looking into a mirror.

“It’s not a joke.” Sakura whispered, squeezing his hand. Squeezing back, Shikamaru smiled, the action more sincere than the first.

“Bad Poetry than.”

“You don’t write poetry.”

“Probably for the best.”

They didn’t say anything after that for a long while. Instead, they watched the stars. When the first rays of light started to break through the horizon, however, and the first strokes of color found their way past the darkness, Sakura broke the silence between them for the second time that night.

“Hey, Shikamaru?”

“Yah?” Lifting her head from off his chest, she smiled down at her friend. He looked back at her, eyes so dark they could almost be mistaken for black. Bringing up her spare hand, the one not currently wrapped around his, she flicked his nose.

“Any piece of this world that thinks it can do better without you in it, doesn’t deserve your devotion. This village would be lost without you.”

Shikamaru blinked up at her, his face unreadable. For a second, Sakura felt herself waver. Had she said something wrong? But before she could apologize, Shikamaru spoke.

“It’s not often I find myself second-guessing myself. But when I do, I come here.”

Sakura furrowed her brow, not understanding what he meant.

“To cloud watch?”

“To you.” Sakura couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He couldn’t be serious? Could he? Speechless, Sakura remained frozen in place, unable to respond. Her mouth felt dry, her stomach twisting itself into a million knots. Chuckling to himself, Shikamaru let go of Sakura’s hand and began to sit up. Responding on reflex, Sakura immediately followed suit, giving him the space to stand. Shikamaru stood and rolled his shoulders, grunting in relief as the joints popped along his neck and back. He glanced down at Sakura while doing this, noting her still dazed expression and smiled sadly to himself.

“Common,” he called to her, collecting his shirt and vest from the ground and putting them back on. “Breakfast is on me.”

Snapping out of her trance, Sakura scrambled to her feet.

It wasn’t just the village that would be lost without Shikamaru, Sakura realized as she watched him saunter away, hands tucked into his pockets as he walked with his eyes to the sky.

Without Shikamaru, Sakura knew she would have been lost as well.

#hurt and comfort #depression #naruto universe #shikamaru/sakura

5 notes · View notes

setaripendragon · 5 years

Text

Not All Who Wander - Chapter 5

[Chapter 1] - [Chapter 2] - [Chapter 3] - [Chapter 4] - [Chapter 5] -insert triumphant trumpet noises here- Here it is, at last! You guys have been so patient and awesome, and I love you all. Fingers crossed the next chapter won’t take quite as long ^^”

By the time they left the shire, they had filled their pockets well enough with gold, and Bilbo had gone so far as to extend to them an open invitation to tea. “A little warning if you’re coming by for dinner, though! I can’t feed the lot of us on a bare pantry!” Bilbo had added quickly. Fíli and Kíli had begged several tarts off Bilbo the last time they’d visited, and Bilbo had given in with a laugh, and added several cakes to their hoard without prompting.

The boys insisted on a small party once they returned to the mountain, to share the treats with friends and family. It wasn’t anything that could have been called a feast, but with Balin, Dwalin, Óin, Glóin and his family, and to Thorin’s surprise Ori joining them in the family apartments for dinner and more importantly the hobbitish desert, it did almost feel like a party.

“Where did you even get so many tarts?” Balin asked, looking faintly awed.

“They were a gift.” Thorin informed him, even though he was fairly sure that Balin knew he would never have condoned spending hard-earned coin on such lavish treats. Balin gave him a look that said as much, and Thorin inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Yes, from Thorin’s hobbit.” Kíli interjected, beaming from ear to ear.

Thorin narrowed his eyes at his nephew. “He’s hardly mine.” He protested.

Fíli snorted. “Well, maybe not yet.”

“What’s this about Thorin and a hobbit?” Dís demanded from right behind Thorin, making him jump. She shot him a sharp smile, then rounded on her sons with an intent stare. “Well?” She pressed impatiently.

“Well, we don’t know the whole story.” Kíli began with relish. Thorin groaned and covered his face with one hand. “Thorin just up and decided to take us through the Shire this last trip, right, and he wouldn’t tell us more than that there was a hobbit who’d promised us custom.”

“Hobbits are not known for dealing with other races.” Balin mused with a scholarly frown as he stroked his long white beard. “They’re mistrustful of outsiders, so I believe.”

“Oh, aye, they are, for the most part.” Fíli agreed. “Only ones who really wanted to deal with us to start with were the loners and the outcasts. But then up comes this well-to-do hobbit, obviously wealthy by Shire standards, and he talked with us just fine, didn’t glare or flinch or anything.”

“Thorin barely stopped smiling the whole time he was there.” Kíli interjected, in the same tone that he might use to confide that he’d caught someone in flagrante delicto. A sort of horrified glee.

Dís choked on her mouthful of apple tart, and turned to stare at Thorin. “Smiling?” She echoed in disbelief.

“He was positively beaming.” Kíli confirmed.

Dís seemed to be at a loss for words, which Thorin thought was a bit melodramatic of her, but Balin was not so shocked. He gave Thorin a shrewd look. “What could a hobbit possibly have done to earn your favour so quickly?” He wondered, and it was only the fact that his tone was more curious than disbelieving that stopped Thorin taking offence.

“He fed and sheltered me when all I had asked for were directions.” Thorin explained shortly.

“Aye, that’d do it.” Balin nodded sagely. “An open-minded fellow, then?”

“Far more than any of his kin.” Thorin agreed dryly. “He is… fascinated by the world outside the Shire, though fond enough of the comforts of home that he’s never gone beyond its bounds. He is wealthy and comfortable, but kind, and generous with his comforts.”

“Durin’s beard…” Dís breathed, still staring at him slack-jawed. It was only then that Thorin realised that, yes, he was smiling faintly just from speaking of Bilbo and his incomprehensible kindness. He immediately scowled at her, and she snorted, life coming back to her features in her mirth. “Well, I’m glad you’ve made a friend, Thorin.” She told him dryly. “It might even be good for you.”

Thorin thought back over the quest that had never happened, how Bilbo had saved his life more than once, had saved the quest more than once, had won Thorin back his home with very little help from the rest of those sworn to the quest, and had been Thorin’s only tether to sanity when he sunk to the depths of gold madness. Then he thought of spades and maps and good food and better conversation, of a stranger who sat and listened with patience and sympathy as Thorin poured out his heart in the form of stories from a long-lost childhood.

He was smiling again, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care about the knowing, delightedly mocking light in Dís’s eye. “You know, I think he will.” Thorin agreed.

The gathering lasted well into the night, the food followed by ale and song, and idle conversation as they quietly enjoyed the feeling of stomachs filled with good, sweet food. The effects lasted longer than the one evening. The following days saw the ruling family of Thorin’s Halls shifting from their typical stony-faced endurance to a blazing determination. Old problems – such as the flooding in the westernmost halls, and the sickness that resulted – were faced with new passion and fresh ideas.

The effects didn’t last long, but it gave Thorin hope, that perhaps with persistence and the bullheaded determination that was so prevalent in the line of Durin, they could manage to do more than just barely survive here in the Blue Mountains. A fool’s hope, perhaps, but with the dream of reclaiming Erebor tainted by what he knew it would cost, Thorin needed something new to cling to, to keep him going when the bleak moods took him.

On Ori’s suggestion, Thorin took to writing to Bilbo. The first missive was a short one, sent with their fastest raven, and the response Thorin got was at least half made up of exclamations about the bird, its size and training and behaviour. Thorin responded with tales about the massive flock that had once resided on Ravenhill at Erebor, and asked after the family Bilbo had mentioned. Before long, the correspondence was a regular one, each letter the highlight of Thorin’s week.

He visited the Shire again in the late spring, and returned to the mountain once again refreshed and determined to fix what he could for his people. He poured his efforts into building his people back up from ground up, focusing on forging sturdy foundations. Kíli was delighted to help him encourage more dwarves to take up the bow, a weapon more useful for hunting than the sword or axe. Dís toiled endlessly to bring more business to Erebor from the men in the nearby settlements. Fíli began to work more and more at Thorin’s side, handling the petty disputes of the nobles and the complaints of the people, flexing his authority as Crown Prince to take some of the burden off Thorin’s shoulders.

It was an unlooked for blessing, and Thorin tried not to feel too guilty as he took the unexpected free time to work on Bilbo’s gift. The rake was complete, as were the little trowel and equally small gardening fork he’d attempted next, and he decided to take on the easier task of shears and other cutting tools next, because he was familiar with how to forge blades as a true master of weaponsmithing, if he did say so himself.

He found himself once again followed by Dís. He glanced at her as he set to the bellows to coax the forge back up to a proper blaze from the embers, but she appeared lost in thought, and wasn’t likely to want his attention any time soon, so he allowed himself to focus on his work. His first attempt was a simple test run, to ensure that his design and technique would suit each other, and when that came out well enough, he turned his attention to the proper thing, using only the highest quality ores at his disposal and taking excessive care with every step of the process.

Dís had the decency to wait until the shears were complete, and only needed sharpening, before she spoke. “Thorin?” She asked, and when Thorin hummed to confirm she had his attention, even though his eyes were still on his work, she went on; “Are you quite sure about this?”

That got Thorin to look up. “Sure about what?”

“This.” Dís repeated, gesturing at the shears.

Thorin looked back at them with a critical eye. “What? Why? Is there a flaw I missed?” He asked, holding them up to the light for a better look. They seemed fine to him, but Dís did have a finer eye for detail than him, and he would not accept even a minor flaw in Bilbo’s gift.

“No, the shears are fine. You’ve done your craft proud with them.” Dis assured him, and Thorin relaxed. “I meant the hobbit.” Dís added impatiently, like she thought him a fool for not being able to work that much out for himself.

Thorin scowled. Perhaps, given that Thorin had changed the course of events, Bilbo hadn’t actually done all those things that had earned him Thorin’s regard, defending him and his people – and his sister-sons – from spiders and orcs and a dragon, but the soul was the same, the heart was the same, and the potential in Bilbo Baggins was the same. He might not be the hobbit who had faced down a dragon for Thorin’s people, but he was still the hobbit who would, and for that, Thorin would not hear a word against him, not even from those who might not know better. “What about him?” He demanded defensively.

“Don’t give me that tone, Thorin.” Dís chided. “I’m not trying to insult him, I’m sure he’s a very honourable hobbit, but he is a hobbit. You’ve known him less than a year, and I know how it can take you like that, sometimes, but are you really, really sure he’s worth this fight?”

Thorin was entirely ready to protest that Bilbo was worth more than Thorin could possibly give him, when the whole of Dís’s question registered. “What fight?” He echoed in confusion.

Dís scowled at him as though he was being dull on purpose. “Thorin. You can’t really think that the council won’t fight you on this.” Thorin had nothing to say to that, bewilderment stealing his voice. “They fought me over Vili, and for all that they loved to call him ‘un-dwarven’ for his love of the open sky and growing things, at least he was still very much a dwarf!”

Suddenly, Thorin realised what Dís was getting at, and he flushed and looked away. He hadn’t realised he’d been quite so obvious. That he was fond of Bilbo, yes, he’d had no doubt that everyone had noticed that, but he was used to keeping his heart well-guarded, and for Dís to be so convinced of his affection for the hobbit that she was already bringing up the question of the council’s reaction was unsettling. “There’s hardly a reason for the council to be involved yet.” He pointed out roughly. “As you said, it hasn’t even been a year.”

“You were planning to wait, then?” Dís asked, something almost surprised in her voice.

Thorin still couldn’t bring himself to look at her to get a better sense of her opinion. “Dís, I hadn’t even given thought to whether I plan to- to court him or not.” He informed her awkwardly. Dís made a startled sound, and Thorin huffed a bitter laugh as he hung his head. “I am in no doubt of my heart, I am quite certain I will never love another, but I do not even know if hobbits subscribe to the same prejudices as men, never mind whether Bilbo could ever return my affections.” He confessed.

There was silence from Dís for a small age, while Thorin wished the conversation could just be over. It had never come naturally to him, talking of his own emotions, but Dís was the only one left who could coax it out of him. It still left him feeling horribly raw and exposed. “Thorin, I don’t understand.” Dís said finally, softly. Thorin glanced up to see her puzzled frown, and she reached out to cover his hand with hers where it rested on the handle of the shears he’d just made. “I thought- Why are you crafting a courting gift if you haven’t decided to court him yet?”

“A what?” Thorin echoed.

Dís gave him a disbelieving look. “Thorin, you have never dipped into the stores of titanium for a personal project before.”

Thorin glanced at his titanium-coated shears, and realised all at once what it must look like to someone who didn’t know exactly what Thorin owed to Bilbo. To his mind, it had simply been a means of making amends, showing that he was sorry for his behaviour and intended to do better, that he understood that Bilbo deserved better than the way Thorin had treated him in his madness. But of course, that hadn’t happened, so what other conclusion was his family supposed to draw? Especially given that it wasn’t an entirely erroneous assumption.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Dís abruptly burst out laughing. “Oh, Thorin!” She sighed in amusement, and leaned over to rest her forehead against his. “You hadn’t even noticed what you were doing, had you?” Wordlessly, Thorin shook his head, rocking her head along with his. “Well, now you know. Best figure out what you want, mm?”

“Too much that I cannot have.” Thorin murmured before he could stop himself.

“You may be able to have this, at least.” Dís pointed out gently, and when Thorin raised an eyebrow at her, her smile turned hard. “I wasn’t asking about the council because I thought you should stop, brother, I just wanted you to be sure you were ready for the fight. You know I’m very much of the opinion that if you love him, you should fight for him.”

Thorin’s throat was too tight for words, but Dís seemed to understand his silence, anyway, because she sat back looking satisfied, and turned the topic to other, less emotionally fraught things, and Thorin managed to pack most of his feelings away before he had to leave his forge and face the rest of the world again. It lingered in his mind though, through the rest of the summer, and through his next visit to the Shire near the beginning of autumn, just before the harvest began in earnest. He tried not to think on it too hard, though, and his work helped with that.

The visit lasted nearly a full month, as bulk orders for scythes and shears and spades, wheelbarrows and mesh baskets poured in, as well as even more requests for repairs of the same. On one memorable occasion, Thorin got an order for half a dozen machetes, and it was only on relaying his utter bewilderment to Bilbo that he understood they were for hacking through tough vegetable stems, not for use on people. Bilbo had all but howled with laughter at the cultural misunderstanding, and then explained about the different methods for harvesting various types of vegetable, tuber, fruit, and grain.

Thorin had seen no sign that the Shire so much as acknowledged the possibility of same-sex relationships, but he couldn’t help but ask after what sort of harvesting Bilbo did, with the thought of what sort of specialised tools he might add to his- Yes, okay, to his courting gift. Bilbo talked about his tomatoes, his peas and carrots, onions and chives, his strawberry and raspberry vines, and his wide variety of herbs. Thorin’s heart was in his throat the entire time, with Bilbo looking so alive and animated, and he resigned himself to finishing Bilbo’s gift, even if it saw him soundly rejected.

Any hopes of dedicating time that autumn to working on Bilbo’s gift were dashed when he returned to the mountain to find that one of the western halls had collapsed, taking an entire neighbourhood and the entrance to one of the more productive mines with it. Thorin threw himself into organising the relief efforts, finding new homes for the survivors, recovering what could be of those crushed under the rubble, arranging funerals, ensuring those that survived didn’t get lost in the chaos and wind up missing out on their due rations, and a never-ending list of other minutiae to deal with.

With the disaster came an upswing of discontent among the people that was hard for Thorin to bear. Not only did it make keeping everything running smoothly more difficult, but their suffering weighed on him like a mantle of solid lead. He was their King, he was responsible for their lives, and their state of living, and he was failing. Erebor hung in the back of his mind, a distant but ever-present temptation. They had, after all, succeeded in reclaiming the mountain. Perhaps if he could only avoid the gold-sickness, avoid the battle with men and elves. Perhaps if he could broker an alliance sooner, they would have been better prepared for the orcs and goblins. Perhaps if they kept better secrecy on the journey, they wouldn’t face a battle at all, at least, not until they were better entrenched. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Then sanity would return, in the form of a vision of Fíli in a crumpled heap at Azog’s feet, Kíli a broken body on the ruins. There was no possible way he could reliably avoid that battle, except by not going on the quest at all. Then he asked himself if he was being selfish, allowing his people to continue living this precarious, dangerous lifestyle simply because he would not, could not, sacrifice his nephew’s lives for their safety. After all, several of his people had lost nephews and nieces to the cave in. Those thoughts made him angry, as well as guilty, and it was with a dark cloud hanging over him that he ploughed his way through his days. Even letters from Bilbo could only do so much to cheer him.

Bilbo was dear to him, and he would never wish misfortune on the hobbit, not even if it would get him Erebor and Khazad-dum free of orcs and back in dwarven hands, but it was hard to hear of his petty troubles with the Sackville-Bagginses and his delight at the bountiful haul from his little garden when Thorin’s people were in such dire straights. He did his best not to burden Bilbo with his foul mood and vicious temper – he would not make the same mistakes, he would not vent his ire on the hobbit who had done nothing to deserve it – but he was sure that his letters were shorter and less easy than they had been.

The tension had to snap eventually, and it came only a few short weeks after the cave in, when things were only just beginning to settle back into an equilibrium again.

It started with a commotion just outside the family rooms. When Thorin charged out, still in his nightshirt and with his sword in hand, he saw a familiar face being pinned to the floor by one of the guards. Nori looked powerfully resentful at having been caught rather than concerned, but he did blanche a little when he spotted Thorin, not that he was much of an impressive sight at that moment.

“Urgin?” Thorin questioned, but before he could get an answer, Dwalin charged into the royal chambers, followed by the other guard who had been on duty that day.

“You!” Dwalin snarled, surging forwards to snatch Nori up and lift him clear off his feet. “You’ve been a pain in my backside for years, but I never thought-” He began to rage, but Nori cut him off with an impressive attempt at an insouciant grin.

“Not my fault if the shinies are just too tempting up this end of the halls, Dwalin.” He protested. “What do they need it all for anyway? They could spare a trinket or two, don’t ya fink? C’mon, have a heart.” He wheedled. Thorin was honestly unsure if he was trying to bargain with Dwalin, or just enrage him. Anyone else he would have said it was the former, even with how unsuccessful it would be, but Nori was wily and fearless enough to bait Dwalin in a situation like this. “And I mean, security that lax is like asking for a thief to take a looksie, y’know? How was I supposed to refuse such a pretty invitation like that?” Nori went on, as Dwalin’s face went from red to purple in his rage.

“Dwalin, don’t kill him.” Thorin warned.

“I oughta.” Dwalin raged.

Thorin’s temper, stretched thin by the unrest in his halls of late, snapped. “Had he come for something valuable, I might agree, but he came for gold and jewels only.” He snapped, and it was enough to take Dwalin thoroughly aback. Thorin almost wanted to laugh. “If we had any left, he’d be welcome to them.” He snarled viciously. “Perhaps he could take the silver harp my mother made for me? Or the sapphire bead passed down through the generations from Durin himself that Fíli now wears? Or the silver and pearl comb our grandmother gave to Dís at her birth? We have already sold or melted down all the rest! As we would have sold those if they were not so valuable in other ways! How much of our legacy will we have to forsake to keep our people fed and clothed? Will the Valar not be satisfied until we have spilled the last of our blood to keep a stable roof over their heads?”

“Thorin.” Dwalin said, in a voice full of weariness and sorrow, but nothing more was forthcoming.

Thorin swallowed down the rest of his blistering, spiteful tirade. Is sacrificing my family the only way to save my people? wanted to spill out of his mouth, but he kept it behind his teeth through sheer force of will. “Let him go, Dwalin.” He grated out.

Dwalin was a good friend, because even though Thorin knew it went against all of his sensibilities, he obeyed. Nori dropped to the floor, landing on his feet as nimbly as a cat. His eyes skittered warily between Dwalin and Thorin, but that was the only sign he gave of his nerves. His posture and attitude all screamed casual arrogance as he patted Dwalin on the chest in a conciliatory manner before sauntering out of the royal chambers like he owned them.

Through the red haze of his fury, Thorin narrowed his eyes at the doorway the thief had just disappeared through. “Dwalin?” He asked, after several minutes, once he was sure he had his tongue back under control. Dwalin hummed warily in answer. “What did he just slip into your gambeson?”

“What? He didn’t-” Dwalin began, and then faltered, as one hand jumped up to where Nori had patted his chest. His fingers fumbled for a moment at the clasp of his gambeson, and then came away with a slip of paper between. “How did you-?” He began again, only to cut himself off again as he actually read whatever was written on the paper.

Dwalin’s face paled, and Thorin felt the foundations of his sanity crack under the force of his dread-turned-impotent-fury. He was going to lose his mind when Dwalin read out whatever Nori had written to warn them of, because that was the only thing Thorin could imagine it could be. But Dwalin didn’t say a word, only handed the paper over. Thorin took it with fingers made clumsy by tingling numbness.

‘The Princes are in danger.

One of the Lords is stirring shit up.

Your guards are being bribed.’

A strange calmness settled over Thorin. His mind was clear, empty and still. Although he understood the words perfectly well, knew their meaning and even their implications, true comprehension drifted just out of reach. But it was there, and he could see it, creeping in like a storm. Someone, perhaps even someone on his council, was threatening his nephews. No doubt using the unrest caused by the recent troubles as fuel for their treason.

The storm broke. Fury flooded through him, all the way down to his fingertips, desperation surging up from his gut, helplessness locking his throat and scorching all words from his mind. He rounded on the only thing nearby that he could attack without doing damage, and up-ended their large dining table with a wordless roar, sending metal plates and goblets clanging and skittering across the floor. The exertion burned away just enough of the rage to let him think somewhat rationally again.

Had he made an even worse choice, this time around? Had he sacrificed a home for his people only for his nephews to die anyway? At the hands of their own people, no less? Was there no path for him that could keep them safe? Was he simply fighting a losing battle? The whole world seemed bent on his people’s humiliation and destruction, with his own family at the top of the list. What could one poor, exiled dwarven King do against so much suffering and hatred?

“Uncle?”

Thorin looked up to see the rest of his family – Fíli, Kíli, and Dís – standing uncertainly in the doorway to the den. Dís was thin-lipped, expression gone steely in the face of his rage, and Fíli and Kíli both looked more concerned than unsettled by his temper. The vision of them, broken and lifeless, flashed across Thorin’s mind again, and it lanced pain straight through the core of him.

Without a word – he didn’t think he was capable of intelligible speech just yet – Thorin crossed the room and pulled his nephews into a hug, needing the reassurance that they were alive and well yet. He would keep them that way even if he had to bring down the entire mountain, stone by stone.

They hugged him back, just as tight and near-bruising, even though Thorin had no doubt they were confused. Dís looked like she might understand, though. Her face was pale and her eyes gleamed with a mixture of fear and fury to match Thorin’s own. Slowly, reluctantly, Thorin released the boys, and forced himself to push the rage aside and function as befitted a King. “Dwalin, I trust you to find out who is instigating this.” He stated.

“I will.” Dwalin confirmed.

“Instigating what?” Kíli asked, looking between them curiously.

“An attempt on your life, and your brother’s.” Dwalin responded, since the words got stuck in Thorin’s throat and refused to be uttered.

Fíli and Kíli both went wide-eyed, but that reaction was short-lived. Kíli’s expression quickly melted into wounded annoyance, while Fíli turned sombre. “We’ll be extra careful, Uncle, I promise.” Fíli swore.

He meant it, Thorin could see he meant it, but it was unnecessary. “We will be heading out of the mountain.” He corrected.

“What?!” Fíli demanded, looking outraged.

Dwalin grunted. “Until we know more about who and how many, it probably would be safer for you to be out of the mountain. Still a good idea to be on your guard, though. You’re not the only dwarves that travel, and some might even be traitorous enough to hire men to do the deed.” He snapped out a few insults at any dwarf who would sink so low.

Thorin had expected the stung pride from Fíli, but he was taken aback by the stubbornness he saw overtaking Kíli’s face. “Uncle, we’re not going to just run away.”

“If there’s discontent in our halls, we should root it out and face it, not flee from it!” Fíli agreed.

“I will not risk your lives for your pride.” Thorin retorted fiercely.

“It’s not pride!” Kíli protested. “Uncle, we can’t just leave. We can’t. And especially you can’t. Now? With the halls still a mess and the surveyors only half done checking the rest of the western tunnels? We can’t abandon our people just because we might be in a bit of danger!”

“I can manage the halls.” Dís interjected. “You boys leave the mountain to bring in more money often enough that it won’t necessarily look like running away, or abandonment.” She pointed out, looking between her sons with a stern stare.

For the first time in Thorin’s memory, Fíli and Kíli refused to bend under that stare. “It might not look like it, but it would be.” Fíli insisted, quieter now, but no less determined. Thorin gritted his teeth, and Dís pursed her lips, frown deepening.

“We’re not going.” Kíli added, crossing his arms and straightening to his full and rather impressive height. “If you try to make us, we’ll just sneak right back into the mountain, and then we’ll be skulking around with even less protection.”

Thorin was that close to just grabbing them by their ears and dragging them out of the mountain, but before he could do more than snarl half a breath of frustration, Dís spoke. “And what, exactly, do you hope to achieve by staying?”

“Our duty.” Fíli answered staunchly, not hesitating for a second.

Dís watched him for a moment, before something akin to pained pride painted itself across her features, and she nodded once. “Very well.”

“What?!” It was Thorin’s turn to be outraged.

Dís gave him a look so fierce it knocked him right out of his fury. She held his startled gaze for long enough to be sure he was actually listening before she answered him. “I do not like this any better than you, Thorin, but we raised my sons as Princes of Durin’s line, and we have no right to keep them from that duty, no matter how much we might like to stuff them back into the den and refuse to let them leave.”

Thorin found he couldn’t actually argue, however much he would have liked to.

#Lord of the Rings #The Hobbit #Bagginshield #Thorin Oakenshield #Bilbo Baggins #LotR #Not All Who Wander #time travel #Fili and Kili #this one is a little bit darker than the others I think #Thorin's in a very bad mood #understandably #and there are mentions of...#I think you could call it natural disaster?#and the loss of lives therein #I tried not to go into too much detail #this is primarily a romance after all #but yeah

24 notes · View notes

loganscanons · 5 years

Text

that night | pt 1

Characters: Britney and Quest

Summary: The story of Britney and Quest’s first time hooking up, which eventually turns into them having a relationship. This is part one because there’s more I want to write but I’m not sure when I’ll have time. I wanted to post what I have so far though.

@romecanons

The night didn’t go as smoothly as planned.

A regular client of Quest’s had tasked him with the job of stealing – or as Quest put it, the job of retrieving – a Paleolithic ivory sculpture from one of the client’s competitors. In the original plan, Quest planned to have no confrontation with security. Of course, he had back-up plans for elements out of control, but the run-in with security was his own fault. Britney’s fault, in a way.

Quest could’ve stolen the sculpture the traditional way. Dismantled alarms and a silent break-in during the dead of night. All black outfit and avoiding cameras. But that was so dull, especially when the perfect opportunity to get near the sculpture arose. The owner of the sculpture – a man from money that advertised himself as a charitable philanthropist but was actually intimately involved in arms trades – was hosting the premiere of a new art installation in his private museum. A party where guests turned their noses up at the homeless in their own cities while lamenting the poor orphans of Africa that they would never meet nor truly understand. Their outfits might as well be made of money. Shimmering and jeweled dresses, the name brand suits, the special-made outfits paired with hundreds or thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry. No one would be wearing outfits cheaper than $6K, and some dresses would cost over a half million.

Fancy parties with out-of-touch rich folk would always be Quest’s favorite targets. He could dress up in his best clothes and spend an evening stealing priceless items from millionaires and billionaires. What could be better?

He opted to play the role of a married man, rather than an eligible bachelor or not-quite-tied-down engaged man. Not that the status of his relationship mattered to particularly persistent women. Regardless, he made his decision, and for that decision, he needed a wife. There were a few women he could contact to help him, but none were as readily available as Britney.

Quest had contemplated bringing in team members to help with cons in the past. Their consistent impulsiveness deterred him, however. Plus, none had his extensive training in adapting to any situation. Britney wasn’t trained either, but in her life before the team, she was well-practiced in pretending. Now, she never had a need to effortlessly plaster on a smile, nor sweet-talk or flirt her way out of trouble. Turns out mutant powers can get you what you want, too.

Quest found out by chance that Britney could still use that skill when she wanted. He couldn’t remember exactly what she’d asked for, but she’d wanted him to pass her something. She demanded it. Expecting a snide response and not thinking much of it, Quest told her to ask nicely. Britney put on her smile that would’ve been downright charming if Quest didn’t know her to be a bitter and angry person. That small interaction was enough for him to seriously consider asking for her help.

Britney hesitated at first. How could someone with her complexion be any help in a con? After a decent amount of convincing and a long battle with body make-up, Britney was willing to help. With a realistic blonde wig and a floor-length, long-sleeve, black dress, she looked like any other human.

It wasn’t really her fault the plan went wrong. But she was the reason Quest lost his usual focus. During a con, he had to become his role. Anything to do with life outside of the con could be ignored until later. And Britney, stunning in her dress, distracted him from the role.

Quest had successfully done jobs with gorgeous women plenty of times in the past. Not once had they hindered a job with their beauty or personality. If he was attracted to them, or wanted to have sex with them, that waited until the job was over.

He couldn’t wait with Britney.

Maybe it was the unknown aspect. In the past, he had a pretty good idea of who would be willing to have some celebration sex after a successful heist. And if he assumed incorrectly, that was fine. They were infrequent co-workers. Britney, however, he saw regularly, and he wanted to keep in his life. She was more human and more real to him than most people in the world. Their relationship as it stood was different than anything Quest had known, and because of that, it didn’t seem right to pursue sexual intimacy. He flirted with her frequently, and she flirted back, but it never got beyond just playing.

During the job, the last of Quest’s willpower snapped. A new experience for him. He didn’t know he had limited willpower. He got so used to controlling his emotions that this sudden lack of control caught him completely off guard.

The role of man and wife gave him an excuse to touch her and flirt with her. His hand rarely left her waist. He let himself get distracted by the way her lips moved when she spoke. The way she glanced at him with amused smiles. The way she flirted and teased him. When she gently pressed her lips against his, putting her all into selling the act, Quest wanted to abandon the job and bring her home. Even if he did abandon the job though, he wasn’t sure she’d go home with him.

In his distraction, Quest screwed up his plan, and he had to deal with security. Britney came to his aid, the party of rich guests unaware of the commotion in the East wing of the building. Quest got the sculpture. They got away without anyone on their tail.

A few miles from the private museum, in a poorly lit gas station lot, Quest had another car waiting for them. They switched to that car, to shake any possible tail, and left the first car with Quest’s driver. After winding turns down a few backroads, including some unpaved, Quest felt confident that no one followed them. He pulled onto a main road, and the intersection light turned yellow, then red. He knew the light was a long one. A long one with a red-light camera. There were no cars around, just wet pavement reflecting the glowing red of the stop light and unnatural yellow of the streetlamps. Quest let himself look at Britney.

The blonde wig lay in a heap on the floor; her vibrantly yellow hair was freed from bobby pins and hair-ties, spilling over her shoulders. In the fight with security, the make-up on her hands had melted away. The acidity of her powers and perspiration left the foundation on her neck and face splotchy and streaked. Beads of sweat gathered on her collarbones, glistening red and yellow under the streetlights, magnifying the green tint of her skin. Quest wanted to lean over and touch his lips to the shimmering beads, run his tongue along her bare skin, taste the salt. He felt a stirring in his lower abdomen and mentally chided himself for his lack of control.

The night gave Britney a wonderful high. Between the gown Quest bought her, the make-up, the adrenaline of the heist, and Quest’s hands constantly on her, Britney was overcome with bliss. After spending a few hours feeling genuinely beautiful, she got to relish in the power that came with knocking out a few security guards. The combination of beauty and power was intoxicating. Only when she slid into the passenger seat of the second car did the high begin to fade.

Waiting for the light to turn green, Britney flipped down the passenger side sun visor and slid open the small mirror. The light next to the mirror lit up her face, highlighting every flaw. Her make-up was caking and oily from sweat. The orange light of the car mirror didn’t do her any favors. She looked like a sickly vampire made of wax. She disgusted herself. The high was fun while it lasted, but tomorrow would be hell. Any mirror would be a reminder of just how monstrous she was now.

“You’re gorgeous, Britney,” Quest said, breaking the chain of negative thoughts.

“Huh?” Britney said, glancing at him. “Have you looked at me? I’ve sweated all my make-up off.”

“I know,” Quest said. He reached over and put his hand on her lower thigh, their skin separated by the fabric of her dress. She didn’t visibly react to the touch or his comment. “And I mean it; you look really gorgeous.”

“I looked prettier earlier,” she said. “I look ugly now.”

Britney enjoyed play-flirting with Quest. The attention was flattering and made her feel almost normal. Sometimes though, he would get all serious. His voice would get quiet and almost husky. A sober and earnest tone. Gaze intently locked onto her. Compliments. That was always too far for Britney. The play-flirting was fun, but that intense seriousness made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t believe he was being truthful when he said those sweet words to her. It was mean.

“You looked very pretty earlier,” he said. “You look gorgeous now.”

Britney smiled a little as Quest squeezed her thigh and his fingers crept higher up her leg. Reminded of the way his palm rested on her waist all night, she said, “You couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

With that intense gaze and earnest tone, he said, “I still want to have my hands on you.”

“The light’s green,” Britney said, pointing out the window.

Quest breathed out a frustrated sigh and moved his foot to the gas. He didn’t remove his hand from her leg as he took the exit onto the freeway.

Britney didn’t want to let go of the high quite yet. Maybe with Quest, she could keep pretending for a little longer. Letting impulse dictate her decisions, Britney wrapped her fingers around Quest’s hand and moved it all the way up her thigh, to right below her hip. She focused on him, ignoring the unnatural color of her skin. Quest’s hands were nicked and scarred from knives and fights, leaving his skin rough and worn.

Quest’s body reacted before his mind could. A small smile touched his lips when Britney wrapped her fingers around his. Then she moved his hand within centimeters of her crotch, and for the first time in a very long time, his brain short-circuited, and his body decided to take the lead. Quest blinked hard, forced the muddy haze in his mind to clear, took a deep breath and held it, hoping the lack of oxygen would keep his bodily responses in check.

Cold air from the car’s air-conditioning gave Quest a weird feeling of hot and cold. His insides flashed hot, while the hair on his arms and neck rose from the cold air.

The reaction was unreasonable. He knew women’s bodies intimately. Even while driving, he’d gotten pretty intimate. But none of those women were Britney. Though he may have wanted it, he never expected anything much to come from play-flirting. If he touched Britney, it was always above the belt. He’d had her hands on her waist plenty of times. Once they’d even shared a kiss, during a rare moment alone, when they were flirting and bored.

“Britney,” Quest said. He sounded like a man deprived of water. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah?”

Quest breathed in heavily through his nose, considering what he wanted to say. Nothing sounded quite right in his head. Settling for the direct approach, he said, “I want to take you home. To my place.”

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she said.

Quest pulled his hand away from Britney’s thigh and abruptly crossed three lanes to get to an upcoming exit, making Britney grip the car to keep from leaning sideways. She stared at him, startled, but didn’t say anything.

#quest han #britney hilt #my writing #otp: partners in crime #yij #Young Injustice

6 notes · View notes

pseudoneiiric · 2 years

Text

@deathwis sent: ❝ how can a person know everything at eighteen but nothing at twenty-two? ❞ ( red tv starters pt two ) » TANYA AND ANTHONY SM ???? her at him for this please and thaaaank you !! / accepting!

it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that anthony looks forward to the evenings that tanya beckons him to her bedroom and exchanges the latest gossip with him. has him paint her nails a fresh colour, or just lets him sit on the floor while she takes off her makeup (or puts on a fresh application). either way, she usually chatters a mile a minute in the sarcastic tone that anthony’s subconsciously adopted from her. he wonders sometimes if tanya enjoys the way he looks at her with the same eyes he’s had ever since he was young — those big blue eyes that have always held the strongest of affections. the same eyes he’s looking at her with now. but when tanya speaks with rare vulnerability, anthony falters.

his relationship with tanya’s been a lot of things in the decade-and-a-half they’ve known each other. he doesn’t have many memories of the house they lived in before they went to foster care, but he does remember that tanya used to sit him down in her mother’s bathroom and “pretty him up” with borrowed makeup. he always sat obediently, curiously eyeing each device tanya brought out. in his head, it’s a pleasant memory, but when tanya recounts it, she always highlights how idiotic anthony looked, and how cute he was following her every suggestion like he didn’t have a mind of his own. somewhere in the back of his mind, he has to wonder if the whole thing was less an act of real affection and more a cruel joke. but it probably wasn’t, he reassures himself. he doesn’t remember being punished for the makeup, so tanya must have taken the fall for him. then again, she’d never mentioned that they’d gotten caught.

what he does remember is bouncing from home to home, the way tanya would put both hands square on his shoulders and tell him, no talking to yourself, no banging your head against the wall. remember your please-and-thank-you. just be a perfect little angel, okay? and when he looked troubled, her tone would soften and she’d awkwardly say, your imaginary friends won’t be mad if you don’t talk to them, it’s more important that you don’t get sent to a mental hospital for being a total freak show. anthony had obeyed her then, too — or, at least, tried to. he’d always felt shame burning his cheeks when he messed up and got too emotional. tanya had been a beacon of strength and wit, and he’d wanted to be as cool as she was. he’d always looked up to her, for as long as he can remember. and even when he got older and realized she had her own flaws, he’d never really stopped admiring her.

so when she speaks with that uncertain tone, anthony can’t help but pause. she worries at a glossy lip with her teeth, and the younger boy stares at the movement, gears turning in his ever-fogged mind. finally, he looks at tanya with his usual serious expression. “i guess that’s just a part of growing up. i don’t think mom thinks she knows everything either. it’s normal to come up against things you don’t know how to deal with, right? but i guess... it’s about how you handle it.” not that that’s reassuring at all, he chides himself. “uh, but you’ll always be... i mean, to me, you’re always gonna be... the person i go to for advice and stuff. can’t imagine anyone else in this house filling that role.”

#deathwis #answered.#anthony clarke: in character.#writing this made me SO fucking emotional. t&a everything to me actually #queue.

0 notes

lady-divine-writes · 6 years

Text

Klaine Advent one-shot - “Deserve” (Rated NC17)

Blaine has spent a lifetime in a wheelchair, hiding himself away, not wanting to be considered a burden by anyone. But he longs for intimacy, and has desires he has trouble admitting to himself, let alone anyone else. So he calls a professional, hoping that will help ... only he's not sure that the intimacy he craves is one that he necessarily deserves. (2209 words)

Notes: Written for the Klaine Advent 2017 prompt 'limited', and based off of a few personal interactions with previous clients. It just took me a long time to write. Dom/sub. Dom Kurt. sub Blaine. disabled!Blaine.

Read on AO3.

“I get paid by the hour, the first hour upfront, as I outlined in my email,” the man says, strolling through Blaine’s apartment as if he owns it, pulling back curtains on the windows that Blaine doesn’t want to admit he closed on purpose before the man arrived. As sun floods the living room, Blaine’s fingers curl uncomfortably into the arms of his wheelchair. With the room brightly lit, the man can see everything – Blaine’s guitar and his piano sitting in their corner, neglected over the past few weeks as pain in his fingers has kept him from them; his heirloom furnishings, which he doesn’t particularly like, but which he doesn’t have the motivation to replace; family pictures documenting a life that became progressively more disappointing as time went on ...

The man can see him, and everything that’s wrong with him.

“Y---yes,” Blaine says, fingers tapping subconsciously as the anxiety in his brain spreads to the rest of his body. “I understand …”

“But?” the man infers, taking his time examining the view out of the last window, which overlooks Central Park. It’s a glorious view – part of the reason why Blaine chose this apartment in the first place. Blaine never thought he’d find a view to rival it until this man came along – handsome, refined, wearing an air of debonair sophistication and a designer suit, the long line of his back straight and strong, his face positively sculpted, his eyes intelligent, the soft upsweep of his highlighted hair a work of art. He could be an actor, or a model, in Blaine’s humble opinion. Either way, he’s too good for this.

Too good for Blaine, and what Blaine is paying him to do.

“But I’m beginning to think …” Blaine swallows hard. It hurts his chest “… that maybe I’m wasting your time.”

The man looks over his shoulder, fixing Blaine with his unique blue-grey eyes, quizzically framed by a single arched eyebrow.

“Is there something wrong with me?” he asks – not self-consciously, but matter-of-factly. “Because if there is, I can refer you to someone who might suit you better.”

“No!” Blaine says, incredulous. Wrong with him? How in the world could he think there’s anything wrong with him? This man, sashaying away from the windows to join Blaine in his chair, looked like something out of a high-end fashion magazine. Blaine didn’t think that men like him existed in real life, but here he was, stepping out of the shadows of a vivid daydream. “It’s … it’s not that. It’s not that at all. I mean, you’re … you’re …” Blaine stumbles through adjectives, his mind cluttered with his own insecurities and self-doubts, unable to navigate the words that identify those feelings to find one that comes close to defining this man “… perfect.”

The man grins, stopping a few feet away from Blaine with his arms crossed. “Well, if I’m perfect, then what’s the problem?”

“I … I would have to say that … you know … I’m the problem … Sir.”

The man standing before Blaine isn’t smug, nor condescending. He’s simply confident. And his confidence isn’t an act. He wears it like his skin, probably one of the reasons why he’s so good at what he does, why he comes so highly recommended. Blaine wishes he could have a bit of that confidence. Dressed in shoes and socks indoors, khaki slacks, a button down shirt, a sweater vest, and a cardigan, Blaine still feels vulnerable.

Naked.

“Kurt. Until we get things started, you can call me Kurt.”

“Kurt,” Blaine repeats, though it seems sacrilege to call this imposing man anything but Sir.

“That’s right,” Kurt says, his tone softer. “So why do you think you’re the problem, Blaine?” He must immediately notice Blaine’s discomfort with that question, because he switches gears, asking a different one in a blink. “Better yet – why don’t you tell me what you know about BDSM? Give me a little insight into what about it appeals to you.”

“I don’t know much,” Blaine admits. His eyes leave Kurt’s face and drift to his hands, which he folds in his lap. “I only know what I’ve read on the Internet, mostly on Tumblr.”

“Ah,” Kurt says, a thread of sympathy in his tone that indicates he knows exactly what types of blogs Blaine has been visiting, what pictures and gifs he’s seen … and why they might make him feel like he – bound to his wheelchair, a little soft around the edges, mostly content to sit at home and re-read the same novel fifteen times than venture outdoors and explore the city – isn’t good enough to participate in Kurt’s world.

“And I’ve been to … you know … classes … but they made me uncomfortable. So I thought that maybe a one-on-one experience would work better in my case.”

“Why were they uncomfortable?”

Blaine peeks up at Kurt’s face and his curious expression. “I just … I didn’t want other people to know that I was interested in this.”

“Because they might judge you?”

“In a way.”

“Was anyone you knew in those classes?”

“No.”

“Did anyone you know know you were going to them?”

“No, it wasn’t that. It’s … the people in the classes … they weren’t like me … and I didn’t want them to know …”

“… that you want this?”

“I …” Blaine didn’t realize his cheeks had gone red, but the more he reveals, the hotter they become. He can’t remember the last time someone has been as blunt with him as Kurt is being. Most of the people he interacts with, his doctors and his psychiatrist included, tend to coddle him. The people he does business with go out of their way to make things easier for him than they would for everyone else. They want him to feel comfortable, to ease his stress, and he can appreciate that. But it doesn’t make him feel comfortable.

Quite on the contrary. It makes him feel like a leper.

“Yes,” he says quietly, ashamed of his own cowardice. He expects Kurt to laugh at him, chide him for acting immature. So many of the blog posts he’s read have told him that if he can’t ask for something he wants, he shouldn’t get it.

What Kurt says instead is worse, because it bares the roots of his feelings to light.

“Because you don’t think you deserve it. You don’t think you deserve to find pleasure this way … or at all?”

“M---maybe,” Blaine answers in a shaky voice. He attempts to laugh it off, but the chuckle he forces becomes an unattractive cough. In his daily life, he tries not to be handi-centric, plays his disabilities off, but mostly because he doesn’t want people to think he’s whining. His mom was a staunch proponent of, “Yes, you have it bad, but other people have it worse,” never allowing him to acknowledge how bad he actually did have it. Blaine often felt she said that to assuage her own guilt more than to help him out of his depression.

It was her way of shutting him down.

Blaine never blamed his mother for his disability. She couldn’t have prevented it. But her constant insistence that he be grateful for the life he did have embedded its hooks deep. It made him believe that no one would want to deal with him the way he was, accept him flaws and all, if he couldn’t find a way to just be happy. If he owned up to his pain, his bitterness, his feelings of frustration and disappointment at the way his life turned out, people would see him as a burden.

Then he would end up alone for the rest of his life.

His mother meant well but, in many ways, her attitude did as much damage as the stroke that put him in his chair.

Since he doesn’t have the energy to constantly put on a brave face, especially around strangers, he hides himself away. He doesn’t want to be a burden, but he doesn’t want to be an inspiration, either. Unfortunately, he’s discovered, those are the only two holes disabled people are given to fit into. He just wants to live in peace. And his method works, but only because he fulfilled his own prophecy.

He ended up alone.

“To be honest, I … I’m not even sure why I want this.”

“If I had to hazard a guess, it’s because you feel deprived of something.” Kurt takes a step closer, then another, gauging Blaine’s level of comfort with his proximity. “Something was withheld from you, and you weren’t consulted. You were helpless to stop it - muscle control, sensation, physical strength. Now you want to take something back, to say you’re in control of what’s left.”

Blaine darts his eyes away, bashful over Kurt’s emphasis on physical strength – an insinuation that Blaine is strong in other ways. If Kurt were anyone else, Blaine would think he was flattering him. It’s Kurt’s job, after all, to make Blaine feel a certain way. That’s how he makes his money. But from his bio, his references, and their prior communications, Kurt doesn’t seem like the kind of man who wastes words on empty compliments.

“But, if I submit to you, aren’t I giving up control?”

“It might seem that way, but in BDSM, the submissive has a majority of the control. I may want something, something I’m convinced will make you feel good, but unless I clear it with you beforehand, I can’t do it. I can’t force anything on you. And once we begin, you have the power to stop things at any time, as do I. We’ll be equals in this arrangement more than you realize.” Kurt takes a knee. It brings his face below Blaine’s eye line, but only barely. Kneeling in front of Blaine doesn’t erase any of his confidence. There’s an incredible amount of dominance in the way Kurt’s eyes lock shamelessly onto Blaine’s, so much so that it’s difficult for Blaine to maintain that eye contact. Kurt raises his hands, palms hovering over Blaine’s legs, an inch or two above his knees. “May I?”

Blaine stares at him, momentarily confused, but when he realizes that Kurt is asking for permission to touch him, he nods … and holds his breath. The last person to touch Blaine’s legs was his physical therapist, Tony. Tony is a kind man, a handsome man, and he happens to be gay. But they have a strictly professional relationship. The way Tony touches Blaine is nurturing, comforting, invigorating even, but it’s nothing like this. It never turned him on, even though there were times Blaine prayed it would. He might have to change therapists after that, but it would be worth it for one moment of arousal.

So he’d know that it was still possible.

With Kurt’s hands making their way to Blaine’s hips, apparently, it is.

There’s a sensuality in Kurt’s touch that he exudes effortlessly as he kneads Blaine’s muscles … and a tenderness, too. Kurt has experience. He knows how to touch him, and he isn’t apprehensive about doing it. It’s magical, this intuition he has. Underneath Kurt’s talented fingers, Blaine doesn’t feel ungrateful, or lesser, or ashamed.

And he doesn’t feel alone.

“I’m … I’m limited,” Blaine says, reminding Kurt as if he may have forgotten in the last few minutes, as if part of their initial contact didn’t include Blaine detailing the extent of his injuries, the length of his convalescence.

“You have limits,” Kurt corrects, “but guess what? Everybody does. I do, too. We’ll work around them. I’ll teach you. Wouldn’t it be exciting to explore those limits? Discover once and for all what your body is capable of?”

“I … I guess.” Nervousness splits his voice, overwhelmed by an excitement he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. “It’s just difficult for me to think of myself that way.”

“As what? A sexual creature?”

Blaine chews his lower lip, bites back a smile, and Kurt smiles at the innocence of it.

“Blaine, your body belongs to you. You deserve to enjoy it. You deserve pleasure, intimacy.” Kurt stops massaging Blaine’s left leg and takes his hand. He lifts it to his lips and kisses it gently – the knuckles first, then the fingers, lingering on the sensitive web of flesh in between. His next words are a whisper against Blaine’s trembling skin. “You deserve to do what you want with it.”

Kurt continues to kiss a trail down one finger and up the next. When he gets to his thumb, he turns Blaine’s hand over to plant a kiss in his palm, and another on his wrist. Kurt’s kisses ricochet throughout Blaine’s body – up his arms, across his shoulders, down his spine, in his groin. Nerves fire that have been numb for as long as Blaine can remember. None of this will make him walk or help him stand, but he doesn’t feel so confined anymore.

“Then, for the next few hours” - Blaine closes his fingers around the kiss in his left hand as Kurt starts kissing the fingers of his right - “I’m handing it over to you.”

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #frankie writes

37 notes · View notes

resultsmeasuredineffort-blog · 6 years

Text

The Prince

I didn’t choose kingdom. I ran away from it, for more years than I’d like to recall.

The young prince lay unconscious; his chest hardly rose with the shallow breaths that vainly attempted for normality. His brown hair was golden soaked from the desert sun, the color of the earth. His hand was draped over his face, a paltry attempt at preservation.

The sun beat down on his unprotected body, each degree dragging him closer to the looming grip of death. Insects looped in and out of the parched, splintered earth. Miraculously, the desolate wasteland hummed with a myriad of lives, struggling at full capacity to live. The singularity of it all could easily be overlooked, the scene passed off as a death land, but the careful observer could see the small blinks of life taking shelter underground.

Far above the Prince’s inert body, vultures glided, lazily waiting for the inevitable. Their wide arc spiraled, closer and tighter towards the being.

Death drew near. The vultures surrounded him unimpeded by the soft breaths that still escaped his lips— a cocoon of bony feathers and the rank smell of carrion.

From far away, something approached. The only precursor was a slight rumbling of the ground, a pebble shivered. The vultures didn’t mind, and the sun ignored everything. The Prince did not realize either; he was too busy dying.

And then the pair barreled into the wake of vultures, causing it to rupture like a beaky, feathery volcano. The vultures’ screeching shattered the dry air, oddly harmonizing with the newcomers’ chortling.

As the last of the vultures hobbled away, the two figures wheezed and giggled. One was thin and lanky, like a twig, with a reddish mop on his head. His mischievous grin told he was the mastermind behind their shenanigans. His friend was portly and strong, with a warm face; he knew how to laugh. Theirs was a friendship borne of their mutual inability to act as adults. The two companions paid no attention to the burning sun, the surrounding death lands, or the fact they were clearly outcasts. Instead, they continued their constant stream of aviary jokes. They did not like vultures.

Twiggy dusted his shoulders, feeling absolutely proud of himself. Portly walked off, still jumpy from the adrenaline.

Portly suddenly ceased guffawing about the persistency of birds and made a sick sort of sound. “Uh, oh” he said, guilt seeping into his voice. He called his friend over.

“I think its still alive,” said Portly about the limp, unmoving body. Though there were few signs of life, Portly did not want to be branded as a murderer. He was only having a bit of fun with buzzards, not trying to take lives.

Twiggy’s face pulled into a disgusted grimace, “Yeesh,” he began, but quickly regained his professionalism. He wiped his hands of the metaphorical dust of the whole situation.

“Let’s take a look, what have we got here?” The lanky one was miffed at the sudden cloud over his tomfoolery, and he had no plans to take responsibility for this lost soul. He sniffed.

The Prince may have been young, but his stature was still larger than that of the scrawny architect of mischief. Corpulent Portly stood to the side, still shamefaced over the consequence of their actions.

It went without saying Twiggy was the leader of the meager syndicate. He began inspecting the fallen body, making short observations under his breath. When he lifted the Prince’s hand, Twiggy’s bravado escaped like a drop of water on the scorching earth. He loudly exclaimed and grabbed his friend to run, wanting to place as much distance between them and the terribly threatening, near dead figure.

The kinder of the two, Portly rebuked his friend. He pointed out the desperate proportions and state of the lone Prince, making a strong case on his behalf. Smoothly, he transitioned to asking Twiggy if they could take this ward into their charge. It was, after all, the morally right thing to do.

Twiggy was appalled, and his panicky voice cracked through his normally cool front.

“Are you nuts?” He asked reverberatingly, making sure his friend could hear, and hopefully, possibly grasp the full nature of the situation. Twiggy pointed out all the Prince’s flaws, which amounted to a grand total of one—the very nature of the Prince’s face.

Twiggy yelled out the obvious reason. Why his friend was so dull was beyond Twiggy’s comprehension.

Portly was unconvinced and pointed out that such a young being could not be any threat to anyone. Portly’s girthy stature might have inhibited his fear, but the same could not be said for scrawny Twiggy.

Twiggy glared up at his friend and asked Portly about the young Prince’s future.

“Maybe he’ll be on our side?” Portly asked with a hopeful smile, grasping for straws of persuasion. Something in his heart refused to let him leave the lonely being to perish alone, at the beaks of ruthless buzzards.

Twiggy brushed the dusty earth from his sleeves and shoulders, snorting and laughing darkly.

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” he snorted and mimicked his friend’s nasally voice, “maybe he’ll be on our side,” when he was seized by a thought.

“Hey,” he said in a whisper of brilliance, as the thought hit him—a stroke of genius. “I got it,” he continued, raising the previously chiding finger. “What if he’s on our side? Having him around might not be such a bad idea,” the youthful confidence remerged and Twiggy was the leader once more.

He pretended as though he had never lost his cool; his ample friend ignored the plain thievery. Portly was just glad they weren’t going to abandon the individual. He iterated his joy in the form of a question, ensuring they were taking charge of the young thing.

“Of course! Who’s the brains of this outfit?” Twiggy asked, voice full of leadership and self-assured bluster. It had an interesting way of growing on one, like a wart one simply learns to accept.

“Uhh….” Portly replayed the last few minutes, and decided it was not worth it to try and reason with Twiggy. He dedicated himself to lifting the fallen Prince to shelter.

“My point exactly,” Twiggy said, arms crossed. The heat of the sun began to blister their foreheads, and the leader pointed it out.

“Gee, I’m fried. Let’s get out of here and find some shade,” Twiggy said as he wiped his forehead. They dashed off, carting the Prince with them.

Twiggy and Portly were raised in the crook of the desert’s dry arms, and the two knew exactly where that arm ended and the oasis began. They found a nice burbling river and let the Prince’s body rest beside it.

Twiggy began splashing water at the Prince’s face; Portly had laid him down under the shade of a generous palm tree. A soft breeze danced across the land, watching as three fates began to intertwine.

It took some time, but eventually enough water lodged itself in the Prince’s nose to cause him discomfort. He frowned in his comatose state and lifted his head slightly, eyes only just cracking open. The death spell fell back. The Prince gave a grunt and turned his wavering gaze to the source of the blessed annoyance. The cool water was paradise on his dry, splintered tongue.

“You okay kid?” Twiggy asked, in a half wary, half brotherly tone. The nerves only just showed.

The Prince hesitated but was still too dazed to fear the strange faces, “I guess so,” he mumbled in a gravelly voice that would have made any self-respecting desert proud.

The Prince turned his face away from Twiggy and Portly, an overwhelming guilt settling on his young brows.

“You nearly died,” exclaimed Portly with a genuine concern.

“I saved you,” Twiggy intervened, patting his chest with both hands to convey his extreme generosity.

Portly gave a disgusted snort at Twiggy’s direction, demanding a more honest story line.

Twiggy amended in a modest tone, indicating Portly’s help, albeit with an annoyed frown. He placed his hands commandingly on his hips and re-amended, “A little,” waving a casual hand in the air.

By this point, the Prince’s guilt shadowed his face entirely. He had regained enough consciousness to remember what the tugging, constant, dreadful voice was echoing. Your fault, it whispered.

The Prince ambled onto his feet and started to walk away. He hung his head, degraded, and slowly paced away.

“Hey! Where you going?” Twiggy wondered aloud. His body guard plan was quickly unravelling with each of the Prince’s steps. Twiggy was not about to watch it fall without a fight.

“Nowhere,” was the solemn response.

Something in the Prince’s tone made Twiggy pause. That was not a youthful tone. It held the regrets and agonies found only in the breasts of old men.

“Hey, he looks blue,” Twiggy pointed out eloquently, speaking out of the side of his mouth to Portly. The two friends watched the Prince’s retreating back.

And while Portly had a heart to rival his nickname, he was not always the quickest cheetah on the plain.

He squinted, wondering what his friend was talking about because it was quite obvious to him, “I’d say brownish gold,” he said matter-of-factly.

Portly glanced at Twiggy and hoped Twiggy hadn’t eaten more of those suspicious looking roots that grew at the edge of the oasis.

Twiggy was not a stranger to Portly’s gradualness and corrected his friend without pause.

“No, no, no. I mean, he’s depressed.”

“Oh,” Portly narrowed his eyes in humiliation. It passed quickly and he trotted over to the Prince and asked in a way that only he could, “Kid, what’s eatin’ ya?”

The Prince turned his head toward the sincere question and gave a look. He felt ready to spill the contents of his heart.

This was when Twiggy opted for comic relief as the cure-all and made a rather basic pun, alluding to the Prince’s strength and potential. He found his joke a highlight, and proceeded to laugh in an undignified manner, shrieking in a wheezing howl. He nudged the Prince, and repeated the pun, giggling.

The words seemed to depress the Prince further, and Twiggy began to feel the uncomfortable tension of a joke fallen flat. Too late to undo the process, he tried to cover it with an unconvincing grin. His giggling ceded to a throat clearing sound, and the Prince’s head drooped further still. Twiggy was not used to this reception, usually Portly laughed at all his jokes whether he understood them or not.

“So…” Twiggy tried to save face by changing the topic, “where ya from?”

It didn’t really help; the Prince dodged the question and began to walk again. “Who cares, I can’t go back.”

These words seemed to hit home with Twiggy, who felt them echo in his own chest.

“Ah! You’re an outcast,” he proclaimed with a confident smile, ignoring the depressed princely looks. “That’s great! So are we,” he raised both arms above his head in a welcoming manner.

Twiggy was glad things were finally going in a saner direction, that coincidentally ran parallel to his own somewhat selfish desires.

Portly cut in, not wanting to be left out of the loop, “What’d ya do, kid?”

The Prince’s face was grief, for a second before he closed his eyes and muttered, “Something terrible.” He turned his head away, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Twiggy had no qualms, “Good, we don’t want to hear about it,” he said cheerily, holding his hands across his chest.

Portly felt his friend was being a bit crass and muttered as much to his buddy. He turned and in a louder voice asked the Prince, “Anything we can do?”

The Prince looked back despondently, his golden eyes darting this way and that, “Not unless you can change the past.”

“You know kid, in times like this, my buddy here says, you gotta put your behind in your past,” Portly said in a hearty voice.

“No, no, no!” Twiggy intervened, waving his arms again, implying Portly’s vast foolishness.

“I mean…” Portly meandered abashedly.

“Amateur,” Twiggy muttered, “Lie down before you hurt yourself.”

“It’s,” Twiggy paused for effect, “you gotta put your past behind ya,” he held his hands out like a professor.

The Prince did not waver from his sorrowful expression. Twiggy redoubled his efforts.

In a stronger voice he said, “Look kid, bad things happen. And you can’t do anything about it. Right?” The Prince looked at him with a morose face, and sadly replied, “Right.”

“Wrong,” Twiggy jumped loudly, jabbing his finger at the Prince’s face for super emphasis.

Twiggy’s face contorted to that of a lone adventurer, a single hero outcast. He swished his hands dramatically, illustrating the hordes that had ostracized him. He spoke, “When the world turns its back on you, you turn your back on the world,” he finished triumphantly, closing his fist in a tone of finality.

“Well, that’s not what I was taught,” the Prince said, shaking his head. He wasn’t willing to be talked out of his grief.

“Then maybe you need a new lesson,” responded Twiggy, who loved challenges.

“Repeat after me,” he said cheerily, and then cleared his throat, “Hakuna Matata.”

#creative writing #long story short #tbt #humor #for the lols #prince #story time #regrets #kingdom

0 notes