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barbiewritesstuff · 2 years

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Chapter 10: Easy Peasy

-- Jake deserves the best, I love him

@because-edmund @blue-aconite

His alarm rang. The sharp beeps almost echoing through his bedroom. You were still asleep next to him, calmly breathing in and out. Jake had to fight the urge to stay and force himself to walk to the shower. He soaped his body and washed his hair, skipping his usual routine of imagining the water washing away his worries. He'd learnt that trick in his support group, Jake wasn't sure it actually worked but it had become so ingrained into the fabric of his day that removing it altogether would feel wrong. Skipping it for the day should be fine though, Jake thought. He stepped out of the shower and dried himself.

Shower, tick.

His phone notifications showed texts and one from his brother.

"Dude, we have neighbours!!" and "The TV is at max volume!! I can still hear you!!" were from Rooster.

"Don't forget: dinner at 6pm. Can you pick up wine?" John had sent. He'd almost forgotten about dinner on Wednesdays and now that he remembered, he didn't really look forward to it. He was already kicking himself for calling John for help. It had felt good in the moment, but now it just made him panic.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He looked over at your sleeping form on the bed and calmed down. Despite knowing the list by heart, he still looked at it. Next up: work out. He put on his trackies, trainers and a random shirt he found on the floor and shot you a text in case you woke up when he was gone and left the room.

The house was silent. Jake closed the front door behind him, leaving his keys in the stone statue Rooster kept the emergency keys in.

You were still asleep when he came back but you were starting to stir when he came out of his second shower.

"You're up early" you mumbled in your sleepy voice, he smiled

"Insomnia does have advantages, I get to be up for every sunrise" Jake lied. Insomnia had kept him from sleeping more than three consecutive hours at a time most nights since The Incident. The only memorable good sleep nights he had had were nights spent with you or spent on a hospital bed. And Jake had stopped feeling anything but dread

"We should do that someday, see the sunrise"

"Sure, we can do that next time you sleep over"

"You seem awfully certain that'll happen again"

"I thought you had volunteered to help"

"I didn't know it was a permanent position"

"Might become one" he said before he could think.

You smiled at him, Jake tried to look concerned about an imaginary spot on his floor and pretended to scrub it with his foot. He was trying to hide a blush.

"Breakfast?"

"What do you have in mind?" You asked and Jake shrugged his shoulders.

"There's a place down the road that does decent pancakes and passable coffee?" He offered.

"I love passable coffee! Let's go!"

Jake wasn't hungry. His morning cereal was usually his least favourite time of the day simply because he never felt hungry in the morning, but like his shower ritual, he had been doing it for so long that stopping it would only disturb his daily routine. And without daily routine, he spiralled.

You picked a booth by the window overlooking the beach.

"It'll give us the best view" you had said

"Yes, it's beautiful" Jake said, looking straight at you. You blushed.

"So, a permanent position… what would that entail exactly?" You asked

"Well, here at Jake Seresin inc. We are looking for someone to fill a very particular role. The candidate that will be chosen for this position will need to fulfill certain specific tasks, such as killing spiders, making cups of coffee if asked nicely, and of course being available for cuddles whenever needed" Jake replied

"Well, sir, I believe I am uniquely qualified for this position. See, I am one of the few people capable of killing spiders without being afraid of them. I also make a killer cup of coffee among many other drinks and I am always willing to go above and beyond when it comes to cuddles."

The waitress interrupted. You both ordered pancakes and a cup of coffee.

"Well miss l/n, ou make for a very attractive candidate. I shall contact you within the week to tell you wether or not you have been chosen for the position. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes. Are you interviewing many candidates for this position?"

"No, as a matter of fact, you are the only applicant"

"How would previous employees in the position describe working with you?"

"Well, I believe they would describe it as difficult. I can be away for months at a time and long distance -- err -- employment isn't easy for everyone."

"I'm up for the challenge" you winked "Oh, another question, what are the benefits for this position?"

"We pride ourselves on having amazing benefits, here at Jake Seresin inc., we really value our employees and vow to take care of any need they might have" He wriggled his eyebrow "This obviously includes being given terrible cups of instant coffee, kisses whenever demanded and of course, never having to open doors of any kind ever again." He said, making you laugh. The pancakes arrived and syrup was poured. You were both quiet while you ate.

Then, your phone rang and the phone number of one of your superiors lit up the screen. You frowned.

"I have to get this"

Jake nodded. He watched you step outside, and answer your phone with it against one ear and your finger in your other one. He had a bad feeling about this. He'd gotten enough calls like that, but when you came back, sat in your seat and said: "One of my colleagues dropped out last minute, they need me for a three week journey. I leave in an hour", Jake could suddenly smell it again. The putrid cloud coming in through the door and bee-lining for him.

#fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun x reader #top gun maverick #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #fanfiction #jake seresin #hangman top gun #original fic

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perlen-gold · 2 years

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For the WIP game: Varric ... (I'm bracing myself for feels) 😭

Man 🌹 @kourvo after the last snippet, you're one brave lion! 🦁

(I shared a snippet of this recently for WIP Wednesday XD but this time I’m sharing the whole chapter as it’s one of the short ones! Once again, it’s an excerpt from my longfic Ablaze)

💗💛💜 Thank you so much again for asking about all these WIPs! 💗💛💜

I certainly didn't expect it!

Varric shoves, not hard, but hard enough for Hawke to feel his back collide with the battlements.

“What the blight was all the about, Hawke?” Varric half-grunts, half-yells, his voice rasping in his throat.

Hawke’s dirt-streaked hand misses his eyes, rubs against his face and beard instead.

“’Go, I will cover you? Corypheus is my responsibility?’ Andraste’s bloody tits, seriously, Hawke?”

Varric is heaving hard, huge intakes of breath.

“You would have died, you stupid bastard!” Drained, Varric slouches against the rampart of Adamant fortress, sliding down until he comes to sit on the ground, hunched over his chest. “What about Kirkwall? What about the rest of us? What about Fenris, for Maker’s sake?”

He does not look at Varric.

“Under pressure, I start swearing and write stories and you are sarcastic to the point of ridiculousness and bust some asses! That is how we cope, Hawke, and dying in the fucking Fade is not one of our mechanisms!” Then Varric voiced what Hawke was thinking. “Are you mental, Hawke?”

Hawke passes a trembling hand over his eyes, the other still grinding his bearded cheek, frantically, his mouth, chin, neck. His moving eyes dart around, unfocused.

In his chest, his breath tears around. It comes in long, hard, heaving draws.

“I cannot …,” Hawke breathes, half of his face hidden in one hand . “I cannot … –“ He stops speaking when the voice flees his throat, leaving it all raw and hurting.

Slowly, Varric watches him crumple, too, collapse, slumped to the ground, his bent back supported by the fortress’ jetstone walls. They do not look at each other, not speak, simply sit there, stooped, the tips of their grime-stained boots essentially touching. Their gaze falls to the ground, hijacked there, drawn into themselves.

For a while there is naught but silence, broken solely by their heavy breathing.

“Makes our first trip into the fade look like a holiday, huh?” Varric mumbles at length. “I still vote against taking a room there.”

“Yes. Too much vermin.” The weight of Hawke’s forehead presses upon his bruised knuckles.

“I should have come sooner,” he then says, calmly.

Varric wretches his gaze from the ground. “I told you not to, remember?”

“You should not have been alone in this, Varric.”

“Maker’s breath, I was begging you to stay away,” Varric mutters, his hands all over his pale, face, “and I am glad I did. I even wrestled Cassandra for your honor.”

A remote smile tugged at Hawke’s lips. His forehead came away from his arms to rest his head against the dark, battle-stained walls.

“Would have loved watching that. And place bets.”

“On the lying dwarf or the crazed sword-lady?”

“Not saying.”

Varric’s mouth twitches but he looks away.

“That clearly says ‘the most handsome dwarf in Skyhold’.”

“You are forgetting I fancy people with tall swords.”

A small, short-breathed laughter, cleft and cupped, escapes Varric’s throat. Hawke grunts then, hoarse. “You should not have been alone in this, Varric.”

Absent-minded, Varric motions nervelessly, a tiny shaking of his head, eyes focusing on no exact point somewhere to Hawke’s left in the fuliginous night.

“Thanks. But this is no story for heroes.” An inenarrable emotion passes over his face, quick and aching. “Did you really see spiders in there?” he almost whispers.

Varric looks at his hands in his lap. “If Bartrand and I had not found it … if we had never set out for the blighted Deep Roads … if we had not been so greedy … if we had never found the idol –“

“I went to the Deep Roads as well, remember?” Hawke interjected in a sharp voice, “There was no way we could have foreseen this. No,” wearily Hawke rubs is face again, sensing dirt, blood and sweat under the pads of his trembling fingers, “if anything, Corypheus is my fault. I swear, I thought we had killed him, I really did. If my father – “

“Don’t you start on this again,” Varric snapped angrily with an irked lift of his head, “I was there as well, remember? He sure looked as dead as you can possibly be!”

Fraught with exhaustion, breathing hard and shallow, the two of them laid back their heads, their gazes losing focus once more.

“All spiders?” asks Varric, after some time, softly.

A spasm, like the sudden rupture of a very tightened string, scuds across Hawke’s features. Eventually, he nods, throat too tight to speak. “And … them.”

They stare into the smoky, bluish-gray night sky.

“I have never seen you fight with someone before.” Varric’s mouth twisted, an edge of caution smoothing out his voice. “Well, severe a few limbs here and there and pierce a few egos, but never actually argue. You are no quarreler, Hawke. Maker knows, I have rarely witnessed you become angry ever before. “

After these words they look at each other, memories kindled like fire-lit projectiles illuminating the battle-worn night. Hawke wipes at his face again while his other hand travels to his chest, rubbing it as over smooth stone, as if trying to ease a pain within his ravaging breath inside his chest.

“Strout … was a good man.” Hawke’s words come slow, cautious, placed like dulled tiles on crumbling earth. Varric looks up to see a grimace sunder Hawke’s gray, pinched features as a discordant tune. Threaded with self-disgust. And something almost like shame. “I should not have talked to him the way I did. He deserved better. My manners never exceed in the presence of good men.” Hawke adds, a cracked smile passing between Varric and him like a secret gift, a twinkling in their eyes, before it passes away.

Hawke rubs his beard and face again, massaging his jaw with a slow-moving vigorousness bordering on real pain. Then, he laboriously climbs to his feet.

“I told the Inquisitor I would go to Weisshaupt. Someone must warn the other Wardens,” he says contemplatively, almost unattentive, absent-minded. A fast shrewdness passes over Varric’s face while he fixes his gaze at him as Hawke speaks.

The air presses its cold smoke-mouths against their faces. Hawke’s gaze lingers on Varric like moon-lit clouds on a dark pool , long and intense. “Come with me, Varric.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Varric mumbles, suddenly almost inaudibly, his slow glimpse falling upon his hands still resting in his lap, with defiant defeat. “But I am in this. Something tells me I need to stay where I am. At least for the time being. Someone must write down all this shit, I guess. Maybe I will compose an ode or something.”

Reaching out, Hawke simply nods and without further ado his slightly calloused, smoke-streaked hand, willfully steady now, comes to rest in front of Varric. “The weirdest shit I have ever seen.”

Varric lets out his breath as if had been holding it within his sunken chest. Then, an inconspicuous smile darting over his canny eyes, he seizes Hawke’s proffered hand and Varric too rises to his feet. “All of it.”

“Answer this one question, Hawke,” he continues, their hands still clasped around each other, firmly so, “Cross my heart! How in the blight did you coax Fenris into staying behind? Cut the petty excuses, we both know he would rather have killed himself than remaining behind wherever you go, Hawke, let alone let you walk into peril on your own – and we also both know that he is the single most obstinate elf in the world which is saying something. Mind you, I am glad he was not with us in there. Maker knows, our angsty elf does not need to be hunted by more demons.”

Momentarily, Varric halts there as he notices something else streak across Hawke’s face, the skin beneath his beard whitening, blanching, paling. Hawke could feel Varric’s grip unobtrusively tighten, a seriousness shining forth in his mahogany eyes. “Also, you look heartsick to the bone. Tell me. How did you do it?”

Hawke’s gaze flees to wander over the rampages and battlements, unhearing of the voices in the night, the shouts of those who fought, the cries of the wounded, the jubilation of survivors.

Finally, he bends one knee to kneel down.

Thus they embrace, on the half-shattered parapet of iron-black Adamant fortress. In a swirl of desertic coldness, shrouded and obscured in battle-spiraled fumes midst a barren, hissing wasteland, verging on a harsh-steep cliff just above the gaping chasm in perpetual danger of falling. Varric accepting his silence and thereby reaching beyond it. Varric’s fingers clawing into the fabric on Hawke’s shoulders and Hawke tightening his arms, his hold around Varric.

“Sorry … about before …,” Varric mutters all but inaudibly.

“I felt a little breeze stirring up there. Was that you?” Hawke ponders, a smile in his words, Varric's snort in its wake.

“Take care, my friend,” murmurs Hawke softly and he can feel Varric’s mouth stretch into something he cannot see. “You too, Hawke.”

When he somewhat loosens his hold, Hawke grips Varric’s shoulder. “Do write to Fenris for me, will you?” he asks hoarsely, his mouth almost too dry to speak. “He … he should be back in Kirkwall by now.”

“And once again a smart dwarf rescues another human’s sorry bottom,” Varric gives a deliberate sigh as he hastily wipes his sleeve across his eyes, “Ah, but you know I cannot refuse you anything. You do look lovelorn, you realize, Hawke? It is pitiful.”

Hawke forces a low chuckle. “Another human who would be lost without his dwarf.”

“We are helpers.”

Varric’s grip clenches once more around his cloak before he taps Hawke’s shoulder with the rim of his fist. “Don’t die, Hawke.” Then, taking a deep breath, “This really is no story for heroes.”

“It is good we are no heroes, then,” retorts Hawke, a hint of the old mischief twinkling in his eyes and Varric lets out a short, breathless laughter as they break apart.

“See you in Kirkwall, Hawke.”

And Hawke, standing upright, holds his gaze, teeth clenched, the corners of his mouth twisted into a crooked though genuine smile. “See you in Kirkwall, Varric.”

On the very first step of the spiraling staircase leading down into the battered watchtower Hawke passes a mirror, cracked, partially burst, half a spider’s web. Beneath the layer of blood-soot, iron-strained, the features of the man he catches sight of remain hidden. Smudged as a line of ink slipped, scratched wildly across the parchment.

It is the face of a man who looks as though he does not know where he is.

Or what to do.

Or whom he is looking at.

(Excerpt from 'Ablaze')

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we-are-a-dragon · 1 year

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DM: Lolth - the queen of spiders - goddess of the drow - stands before you in Ioreth's living room.

Tati (playing Seraph): I leave.

M (playing Kjell): So do I.

Tati: Actually, I'm going to roll to see if I just straight-up attack her.

Hamish (playing Thaddeus): Same.

Andy (playing Una): *groans* No, don't attack her...

Tati: What's a 2 in this situation, guys???

Adam (playing Billie): *exhales* Oh my god, what a twist.

Tati: I think I hold my attack, but I'm out.

DM: She says calmly, "I understand that I may not be the first ally you would choose, but think of the goal. We could rid the world of Demogorgon once and for all."

Tati: Bitch, I'll do it myself. In fact, I tell her that.

DM: She simply smiles. "We shall see."

Tati: *forcefully* We can't trust her. She's the goddess of lies and betrayal - she'll just turn around and kill us once we're done!

Hamish: Yeah, there's no way we can work with her.

Tati: Not to mention that four of us follow gods who are specifically enemies with Lolth!

Rach (playing Ashiok): Has TTC ever destroyed a cult of Lolth?

Hamish: No.

Tati: Not yet.

Rach: Ashiok has. It's a no from me.

DM: *happily* I'm going to end the session on that note.

#funny #dnd #twist #Lolth #Seraph #Kjell #Thaddeus #Una #Billie #Ashiok #Lyra DM #just little d&d things #ooc #NPCs #Ioreth #attacks #allies #enemies #Demogorgon #gods #cults #travelling trauma centre

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littlefreya · 3 years

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The Devil’s Tongue

Summary: A mask of virtue hides a man riddled with lust and while his stoicism proceeds him, even he can’t withstand a begging girl.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (3rd person POV)

Warning: 18+. Manhandling, abuse of power, MaleDom/FemSub, some thigh riding, unprotected sex, deflowering, loss of virginity, mild mentions of blood, sex in front of mirror (auto-voyeurism), profanities, bodily fluids, possessive behaviour.

Words: 4.5k

A/N: Many thanks to my muse @agniavateira for supporting me through this story and for betaing. This was inspired by a certain scene in the film. My pervy mind took it elsewhere. Sincerely, I am not sure how I feel about it, so I’ll let you be the judge while I’m having my panic attack.

Please reblog and give feedback if you enjoyed. 🖤

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Title: The Devil’s Tongue

The treacherous moon was already high in the midnight sky and winds of melancholia whispered through the ivy leaves that grew timidly around the window’s panes. Despite the solace of night, her blood seeped with venom, and vicious thorns grew beneath her skin.

Striding through the desolate corridors of Holmes’ estate, Vanessa fumed while listening to the sounds of the old house: the creaking of the floorboards, the glass panes rattling in the wind, and the scratching of mice that ran between the walls. A kerosene lamp hung heavy between her sweaty fingers; her knees cracked as she marched forward to face her master.

Same as every night, Sherlock hid in his library to chase adventures behind thin sheets of paper. He was not to be disturbed, though he left her no choice.

Sent her away he did, claiming that her service was no longer needed even though she was promised a home at the estate, despite Enola’s departure. The worst of it was that he didn’t even bother telling her himself, but simply sent another servant to announce that she must pack her belongings tonight.

‘Like hell, I would!’

Vanessa willed her heart to beat slowly as she tiptoed, cursing every wooden plank that grated beneath her feet. It’s been over a year since she started working for the Holmes family, and despite battling her concupiscence tooth and nail, Mr. Holmes has possessed her very existence. Sleepless nights left her yearning to drink the mead of his mouth and feel the slapping of his skin onto hers.

Wistfully, the brooding detective only stared at her with a lustre of ice. But the notion of never seeing him again felt like holding a blade pointed to her chest; the wish to confess nibbled in her gut like a pesky little fish.

‘At least I will have the chance to say farewell…’ she mused as she finally reached the open doorway of the library. It was a cosy cavern, stuffed with endless shelves of books and vases of pink roses to mellow its austerity.

Wood burnt to a crisp within the hearth, its aromatic scent bleeding into the air and a light layer of ashen mist wafted over the chamber. There sat her master, resting comfortably on his maroon leather armchair with a book in one hand and a pipe pressed between his succulent lips like a king on a throne of solitude.

Silently she stared, brow furrowing at his sight. It baffled her how a man can be so oblivious to the dangerous power he had over women. Sherlock was as divine as the coldest day of winter: eyes of crystal snow, curls darker than the night, and sharp facial features that gave a tinge of intimidating flavour. The ancient god Hades would have been jealous of his divinity. Even in these serene moments, Sherlock’s presence exhumed dominant masculinity, consuming oxygen like the fire that burnt in the mantle.

Clad in a white cotton shirt loose over his broad chest, he calmly turned a page on his book and sighed.

It was impossible not to sense her nearby. The young woman was a breeze of autumn wind: spiced yet soothing, bringing the omen of a season’s change. She tried very hard to hide her feral nature, abiding, serving, and acting polite. While she fooled everyone, including herself, he detected the brazen kiss that raged within her.

Nights were riddled by dreams of dismantling her shackles, only to bind her further to himself. And yet, every time he looked at her a loathing rage gnawed inside. To him, she was a dire trap meant to expose the thing that hid behind his mask of virtue—a reckless savage, sick with twisted desire.

It took true power to send her away. Yet, here she was, barging into his shelter to pour another drop of simmering turmoil into his already seething blood.

“Can’t sleep, Nessie?”

Vanessa jolted with a startle. His deep voice threaded tendrils of dark silk around her heart, attempting to draw it further out of her fragile ribcage. Maintaining attention on the book in his hand, Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a cold grin of respect, sensing her glare stabbing at his nape.

“You might be a mouse, but you have the stomp of an elephant.”

Forcing the book shut with a soft thud, Sherlock turned his head aside, daring to catch a glimpse of her. His pretentious smile died, and a surge of passion seized at his groin. Like the virgin Persephone, she stood before him wrapped in a sheer nightgown, the creamy fabric barely hiding her delicacies. A mystic glow of sweet honey and amber gold rimmed her flesh, kissing down her clavicles and leading his enslaved gaze to the soft heaps at her chest.

By courtesy, he should have looked away, but the wish to incinerate the silken threads that retained whatever left of her modesty whispered in his ear like a little devil that sat on his shoulder. It was cruel of her to provoke him like this.

Quirking an eyebrow with disdain, he finally battled the sight away.

“Something ails you, girl.” Sherlock’s rich baritone dropped. Touching the pipe to his maw, he took a long whiff and suckled his lip. “You seem unnecessarily emotional,” he noted dryly, pretending as if her appearance was a mystery.

Noticing the uncaring shift in his tone, she scowled and stepped carefully into the room. Placing the lamp on a nearby stand, she purposely stepped into his line of sight and looked at the frowning detective with the feral wilderness growing inside her chest.

“You’re sending me away tomorrow,” an unmistakable hint of rage seeped between the cracks in her voice. Grasping her knuckles, she began striding back and forth across the Parisian rug as if lost in her own musings, “why? What have I done to you?”

A small huff escaped his nose, and he rubbed a finger beneath his bottom lip. His patience spread thin as the young lady scurried about with hysteria. The mere idea of bending her over and teaching her some discipline caused the fabric of his trousers to stretch over his engorging desire.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, it was simply my decision.” He answered, striving to sound neutral and remorseless. “A lady’s maid without a lady is useless in a place like this. But now, Vanessa, it’s late, and I’d like to get back to my book. No reason for you to stand here in your... undergarments.”

Lips agape and feet nearly colliding on to one another, Vanessa paused on her steps. His words crept a chill down the length of her spine, making her cheeks blaze. Passionate and irrational, she never even noticed her lack of chastity when she left her room.

“I… didn’t think much, I was upset…”

‘Of course, she didn’t think much. Irrational, savage thing.’

A string twitched in Sherlock’s cheek, and a dark errant lock fell rogue upon his pale temple as he turned his head aside, adamant to brush her away. His self-restraint was but a delicate, dying leaf, hanging by its last yellowing strand.

“I came here to ask you to…”

“I’m afraid it’s not negotiable.” Sherlock interrupted and swatted his hand flat on the leather binding. His stern glance floated out the window, focusing on a large spider that threaded lines of silver amidst the peeling frames. “You will find a new job in London, a better house,” he apprised and took a deep inhale, turning the book over to open it where he paused. “Now please leave before we’ll both hurt one another.”

‘Before I will pierce cavities in your soft flesh.’

Stunned by his dismissive, arctic demeanour, her stubbornness and frustration only grew to monstrous proportions. With clenched fists and water pooling at her lids, she grunted and took a courageous step closer, standing at the fore of his couch while shaking her head.

“No!”

“No!?” he scowled, eyebrows lowering with dismay. “You forget your place, woman.” He flashed her a quick warning look, his icy glare tinted midnight black as he stood at his wit’s end.

If only it didn’t make her heart shrivel with wanton. Their proximity perilously close, Sherlock’s strong scent pervaded into her lungs: a musky blend of whiskey, leather, and fine tobacco that made her thighs wobble. Before she could even register what’s happening, her knees were brushing the thick carpet, her decorum and dignity gone.

“I want to stay here. With you.” Slender like stalking vines, her fingers crawled onto the armchair, squeezing at the smooth leather with pitiable desperation.

“Keep me, please!”

“Vanessa,” Sherlock drawled, still refusing to meet her gaze while his thumb circled deep into the coarse binding. Furious tides rose in his eyes, whisked by the rageful storm that inhabited his mind, “Do not make me regret this night.”

He didn’t want to hurt her, but she was pretty when she begged.

“You don’t know what it is that you’re asking, I am not the gentleman you think I am.”

Ignoring his warning, she insisted. Daring, needy talons rose from the armchair to claw at his arm, clutching it with demand. Even through barriers, a surge flushed between their bodies.

“Sherlock,” she half-whispered, crystal droplets of sadness gliding down the smooth slope of her cheeks. Not caring the least as they dribbled onto the soft sleeve of his shirt, leaving tiny stains that dampened his arm.

“Guide me, teach me, make me yours!”

Nostrils flaring and breath rigid, the large man finally snapped his stare at her with the sanguine hunger of a starved vampire. The mask of his virtue fell shattering to the floor, and a harrowing silence took over the room, diffused only by the sound of crackling embers and Vanessa’s shaky breath.

“Remember this tomorrow when you’re raw and hurting; this is what your begging bought you, little Nessie.”

A strangled gasp died at her sternum as his hand suddenly grasped her throat. With a quick yank, she was up on her feet, her toes barely scraping the ground as the hulking man held her up to his face.

“Oh the things I’ll do to you..” he whispered as his thumb dug deep onto her cheek and the rest of his fingers etched at her throat.

Swinging on his boots, he swept her across the silent halls. His stride a dark ceremonial gyrate, the creamy fabric of her pristine nightgown floating mid-air like a sheer tongue of white morning mist.

“I will make you mine as you begged,” he rasped barbarically, one hand pushing the door open while the other held her attached to his chest, “I will teach you what you asked…” his lips brushed her ear, his breath hot over her cheek, “your first lesson begins... in my bed.”

With a swift shove, she was forced into his realm. Feet stumbling upon the tepid wooden floor, her ears throbbed with shock. Her hands reached to grasp onto the engraved bed column to prevent herself from falling.

His bedroom smelled of dying roses and smoked wicks, echoing the putrid decadence that gnawed at Sherlock’s mind. A dozen melting candles burned in every secluded corner, their little orange tongues licking the reflection of a sizable mirror that stood opposite of his large bed.

A dull metallic click broke the air, followed by Vanessa’s sputtering breath as she saw him lock the door. Her faith sealed - now caged in the lair of the beast. Reduced to his own shimmering shadow, Sherlock advanced toward her, ripping his shirt off.

Fingers biting into the wooden pole, Vanessa stared, unable to determine if it was a man or a lycan god who stood before her. Every breath made his bare torso look menacing. Under the deep dusky twilight, his muscles curved and stretched, coated by a virile, dark fur.

Curious, her gaze followed the striking veins and the trail of unkempt hair that paved its way down his fine abdomen and disappeared beneath his trousers. Guiding to that which she feared and wanted at once.

Eyes of blue flame shone with absent remorse, brows arched with a pretentious demeanour as he reached a hand to seize her to him. “Your innocence dies here tonight,” he hissed in her ear, “from now on, you’ll be my little whore to plough as I please.”

The air died in her lungs as his firm chest collided with hers and his knee forced her legs apart. Bulging and muscular, his thigh rose to brush at her clit, the thin fabrics a shy barrier.

Shuddering, she swallowed hard in a dire battle to find her voice. “I will be whatever you need me to be,” she retorted as the thought of being exploited by her master released fluttering butterflies of fear and excitement in her chest.

Sherlock smirked and captured her jaw between his finger and thumb as he leaned in. Torrid lips hovered over her own, offering a phantom kiss to distract her from the greedy fingers that pushed the sleeves of the gown off her shoulders.

Like warm milk it poured down her body, exposing her delicacies to the night and to the gluttonous hands that kneaded her breasts while he flicked his tongue over her closed mouth, tasting the plumpness of her lips.

A true creature of the underworld, Sherlock’s touch was cruel like his promises; he took as he pleased, leaving his sigil seething on her skin. Her sputtering gasps served as an opportunity to invade her hot cavern. The detective’s kiss was even more ruthless, his tongue smooth as silk seized and conquered her breath.

She could feel him streaming in her blood, tasting him all the way down through her gut. Dark and intoxicating like poisonous absinthe, the promise of death swung amidst their hot, serpent-like dance.

Yet she only yearned to drink to her demise.

As if under a stupor, she swayed to his spells, bucking her hips to ground herself on the meat of his thigh, leaving the coarse fabric wet with sticky arousal. A condescending grin tugged at his lips, and his hand rushed to the back of her head, weaving through her hair and yanking her back.

“Already the wanton harlot,” he spat, swiftly turning her over and holding her against his chest. “Look at yourself,” he growled hoarsely in her ear, forcing her doe eyes to stare at their reflection. Sherlock rested his dimpled chin on the top of her head with his brows lowered like an apex predator examining his prey.

His hand disappeared behind, hastily fumbling with his trousers, “You wanted me to show you, you want to see,” he called as his trousers piled at his feet and he carefully stepped out.

Something hefty and hard nudged at the small of her back, turning her veins into thin tendrils of ice. Abysmal panic coiled at her gut at the realisation that Sherlock meant to reshape her as the vessel of his primal urge.

Hand snaking around her belly, he snatched her to fall back onto the mattress with him pillowing her fall. Her firm buttocks slid across his hairy abdomen, hands fumbling to grasp his thick thighs while her eyes flared at the sight of his hardened cock displayed in front of her in its full generous size.

It was nothing like the medical illustrations she saw in books: bulging tendons swerved across an imposing, meaty rod. Ridges rippled across its girth like soft silk, and the heart-shaped head dripped of glistening, pearly arousal.

Curious, her trembling hand wandered to feel him, stunned by the liquid-like texture that engulfed the absurd rigidness. By order of her touch, he twitched and swelled, causing the radiating heat at the apex of her groin to palpitate.

Pressing his lips to the shell of her ear, Sherlock growled, “Do you like what you see, little one?”

His taut hands reached to grasp her thighs, spreading her wide over each of his legs and holding them apart to expose her untouched sleek at the mirror. The thundering in his throat was nothing but animalistic as he glowered at her perfect sight: his little Nessie, his little untainted flower blooming fresh with dew, yearning to be plucked.

“Look at yourself,” Sherlock demanded with a whisper drenched of fervour. His coarse hand dragged to capture her chin and forced her to face the salacious spectacle reflected before them. Her breath shuddered; she saw their skin mapped onto one another, their bodies entangled and their souls unmasked.

How could something so forbidden be so beautiful?

“I dwell in the darkness, Vanessa.” Sherlock explained, his voice stroking her temple as his lips inched closer, “You must know that, you must have me as I am.”

He laved his tongue over her cheek as if he was tasting the sweetest delicacy and reached for his erection, stroking the pulsating girth between his fingers. Eyes still glued to their likeness on the glossy surface, she glanced as he pressed his pink, meaty tip between her dripping petals.

“Watch as I take something from you that can never be given back, something that will forever belong to me.”

“Sherl….”

His name died on her tongue, the moment forever lost in a loud shriek. Savagely and unceremoniously, he pried her virginal cunt open the way a predator rips at its prey’s throat. His massive shaft tore through her purity with no resistance to fight back against his brutal invasion.

Pain rattled its way through her entire entity while the dark spectacle of the loss of her innocence played right in front of her eyes, spurring grievous tears. Lost to the bliss of her warm cavern, Sherlock chanted in loud groans, continuing to force himself all the way between her squeezing walls. Remorseless of her cries, he never stopped until every hollow inch inside her was full of his cock and his sac smacked against her stuffed opening.

“My! You feel good!” He panted with astonishment, his virility twitching within the lush sanctuary between her thighs. Noxious pride flowed in his veins at the reflection of the naked young girl, spread open with him inside her.

“Do you like having me inside you, my little harlot?”

“God!” Vanessa screamed, stunned by the sensation of him swelling at her core. His invasion seared, her legs trembled against his in a plea to be kept together. But he only stretched her wider, hooking both hands below her thighs.

“It will feel good in a little while,” he promised and slowly shifted his hips back. Inch by inch, his cock slid out of her now defiled slit, coated by blood and a sheer layer of arousal. It was something of decadent theatrics; his broad chest puffed against her spine, a blissful hum leaving his bobbing throat at the image of the crimson stain that decorated his sword.

“From this moment and beyond, this belongs to me,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck and planting wicked, butterfly kisses along the tender slope, “do you understand? Your little cunny is my property, your moans, your pleasure, all belong to me.”

Her cunt clenched around nothing as she watched his full length slipping out, tainted by broken purity, the empty void leaving pure urgency to course through her tendons. Hopeless for something she couldn’t even recognise, she whined and writhed on top of him. Her eyes levitated from their sexes to meet his icy glare.

“Sherlock, please, more! Please put yourself back inside me!!!”

“Fuck!” Sherlock rasped in awe of her wanton, his control nearly lapsed. Fingers digging into her thighs, he undulated his hips and pulled her down the length of his throbbing erection. Low melodies of pleasure rolled on his tongue as her wet cunt pressed around him again.

Gawking at the mirror, she nearly fell apart in his arms, cries of daze escaped her as Sherlock's drove back into her sleek. Every bit of his flesh unfolding hers, disappearing within her body to defy the loneliness aching in her cove until his entire shaft was lost in her depth and the tip of his cock hit something lush and tender. She could have sworn she felt him waver deep in her gut.

“Sherlock!!!” she cried, shutting her eyes at the sharp twinge that shuddered through her core.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes, dove,” he warned, and the authority in his voice left her no choice but to obey. Wickedly, his fingers slithered to the little nub of flesh above her slit and ruthlessly tugged at it to expose more of her battered sex. He continued to pound into her mercilessly, quickening the rhythm with each one of his thrusts.

“Look at you, taking me so obediently. Perhaps I was wrong about you, perhaps you are easily tamed.”

The thick bones of his hips crashed into her rump vigorously, his girth violently splitting her protesting walls. He was fast, wet, and hard inside her, his cock drilling into her over and over, every plunge stripping more layers of her soul and pushing her higher toward the heavens.

Enslaved to the beguiling aphrodisiac, she squirmed on top of him, her body beginning to push down to meet every thrust. The vision of herself being brutally taken by the large, civilised beast made the blood pool at the seams of her womanhood and tingle with frustration.

A shuddering quake began to spread within her, spiralling out in a sequence of spasms sourced at the spot where they connected. Bliss and ecstasy shattered her body and a sudden flush of pleasure exploded through her body as she came all over his cock.

Engulfed in her milking cunt, Sherlock could hardly believe what beheld his eyes. His beautiful nymph, coming undone around him, ethereal and divine. Her blissful chants a song to his ears only, she was like dryad humming a hymn to call upon a lonesome hunter.

“‘My Vanessa, I wanted you for so long.” He called, fucking her wildly through her orgasm. “Tell me you want me to come inside you,” he choked out on his grunts, her sugary walls closing around his thickness like a predatory flower, demanding to suckle his sweet elixir.

Still riding her climax, she shook her head, hesitant of speaking such profanities. But the stern glower on Sherlock’s face instantly forced her into submission.

“I want you to come … come inside me!” She panted and then screamed as another wave of intense rapture swept her away.

Her squeezing cunt forced the thick stream to vibrated through his shaft, making him drill into her with zeal. His fingers clutched her waist as he slammed her down onto his swollen cock, burying himself the deepest he could. Vanessa yipped as something hot sprouted into her, flooding her womb like a soothing kiss that slowly began trickling between their tight flesh.

Still locked in an embrace, they shivered together. Soft maple hues glimmered over their wet skin, their bodies heaving against one another while a symphony of pants and gasps filled the silence.

Sherlock’s glaciers sought to capture her reflection, a dark, brooding look on his sweat-silken face while his lips ghosted over her shoulder. There was no question in the rough expression of his face.

Nothing spoke louder than the possessiveness that pierced through the sharp reflection.

~*~

A tender stream of sunshower kissed her lids awake. The cerulean sky winked at her through the open window while her senses gingerly regained their functions after what felt like graveyard slumber. Finding herself alone, she wondered for a moment if the night before was only a fantasy; but this bed was too soft and far too large, and the sensation of shame licking between her thighs told her otherwise.

Even in his absence, Sherlock’s presence lingered. His pungent sweat layered on her skin, and from her torn seal trickled the pearly, forbidden essence of his loins. She allowed herself a moment of coy bliss, pressing her lips upon her bare shoulder to kiss the taste of him off her flesh when the thud of inching footsteps and creaking wood made her sit up with fright as if her presence was forbidden.

Huddling the blankets around her chest, she gulped as the door flung open.

Already dressed in a clean shirt, a vest of golden brown, and a long black jacket, the hulking man offered her a small wrinkle on his brow. Fine silks were folded on his forearm, and his eyes fell upon the naked beauty in his bed. A shadow of dark desire danced upon his slanted smirk as he noticed the little inkling of dry blood on the edge of the mattress.

“Slept well, my little Nessie?” He asked, passing a finger over his neatly combed locks before gesturing for her to approach him. Obedient as ever, his little servant quickly climbed out, immediately regretting her haste as a spear split through her core. With jolting legs, she swallowed her discomfort and approached him with her head lowered to the floor.

“No, we will have none of this,” Sherlock chided, his finger stalking beneath her chin to fix her stare on his. Their gazes met for a shy second and then he stepped back, unfolding the fabrics held beneath his arm.

A waterfall of black and crimson flowed down, hanging from his hands.

Vanessa’s eyes rounded with wonder; being a woman of lower status, she never owned anything as beautiful and expensive as the dress he held before her.

“Lift your arms, dove,” Sherlock commanded and she did as he bid.

The soft fabrics felt like warm liquid washing over her skin as Sherlock carefully slipped the dress over her head. His hands smoothly roamed her body, tugging at the delicate fabric to fit over her figure. The tall detective stepped to stand at her back and began working the laces of the corset embedded into the gown.

One by one, he tightened the silk binds as he pulled at the laces. Vanessa slightly hissed when her breasts squished against the generous cleavage.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock mumbled as he heard her distress, “I am not used to such… arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” she asked naively, though it quickly dawned on her that her dear master never had a wife or a mistress, which didn’t come much as a surprise after witnessing his bohemian desires the night before. And yet, no regret touched her heart as Sherlock pressed his hand over her torso and perched his chin atop her head once again.

“Look at us.” His lustrous eyes carried to the mirror, guiding hers to follow as he stroked his hand lower to flatten the folds of her dress and pushed her hair over her shoulders with the other.

“Don’t we make a pair?”

Glancing forward, Vanessa took a deep inhale. Crimson and black were unusually beautiful as they graced her figure. The rim of the cleavage was beaded with fine black jewels that gave her appearance an elegant, yet erotic flavour.

Taken by her new design, she allowed herself to be swallowed into Sherlock’s beautiful darkness.

She wouldn’t have him without it.

___________________________________

Additional notes: I don’t own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes franchise. Thanks to @wondersofdreaming @wolvesandhoundshowltogether and @sapphirescrolls for moral support.

#henry cavill #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x ofc #Henry Cavill fanfiction #henry cavill sherlock holmes #henry cavill x reader #sherlock holmes x reade #enola holmes fanfiction

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sasaparilla · 3 years

Text

Crane with a s/o that gets scared easily.

(Gender neutral!)

-My my, aren't you a scaredy cat? He will absolutely adore the noises you make when getting jumpscared by him for the third time today after he simply swifts from being beside you to disappearing in the dark behind a wall and then reappearing again close to your face saying "Boo!"

-There's no safe time for you when Jon is around. If you lose him out of your point of view be sure of two things: 1- He is interested in something else in the other room. 2- He is right behind you and his fingers are already crawling up in the back of your neck before another "boo!" gently blows in your ear

-Seriously, even he will wonder how the hell do you get startled so easily? He will start to think you're just pretending but then after seeing the absolute panic painted in your face when an insect started flying in the room, it was proven to him that yes… you were scared easily.

-Funny enough when you get scared from something else that isn't one of Jon's antics, (for example a movie he recommended you two to watch) he will gladly hold your shaking frame just to feel your panicked heartbeat, while trying his best not to smirk over the scene of your arms shivering. Such a sight to behold.

-Although he enjoys seeing the bright terror in your eyes, Jon has learned about your limits too well to know when to stop. He doesn't see any sort of pleasure when seeing you cry. The first time he actually did see you shedding tears out of fear from playing a horror game it made him feel kinda guilty. Jon then realises he just likes your scared expression, not your suffering one.

-Even if his whole signature is about causing people to feel their deepest fears for his own morbid curiosity, Jon feels quite satisfied with just the surface of your fears, as generic and normal as they can be. However, if you catch your own gut and manage to sit with him to talk about some of your real traumas, he will not only play his professional psychology role and assist you to face it better but will also be so proud of you.

Imagine, you are revealing your worst fears for the one who is known to weaponize them against you. Jon sees it as a massive signal of trust you have with him and as much as he is loving your spooked expression when talking about them, he will take this as a personal treasure. A private moment that only you two know about.

-Since then, it's up to you. Jon will offer his hand of help if you're willing to face your fears and try to overcome them, he knows how it feels and has a large experience on the matter.

If you feel like you are not ready or simply prefer to keep living this way, he will respect your decision and keep your traumas locked in his head as a secret.

-Keep in mind that the everyday little jumpscares will still occur.

Bonus:

"It's not a phobia, trust me. It's an expected reaction you have from the unknown of said subject. Especially after such… inconvenient events from your past." Jon finishes his talk with you sitting at the other end of the small table in your kitchen. He usually spent the whole afternoon with you during weekends before leaving again when night began to fall. Not that he was hiding from you about his underground work but this routine simply suited well between both you and him, since you aimed to maintain your normal life and Jon his hidden one both safe.

"I don't know, it's just so tiring sometimes to me like I don't want to react but yet I can't control it." You speak kinda upset, gripping your fists that were landing on the table.

"It's the opposite, my dear. Fear controls us. Our only chance is to accept and overcome it eventually if the chance appears." He replies to your frustration as calmly as if reciting a poem.

"I don't think I can do it. Hell, you've seen me freaking out because of a ridiculous small spider last week." Your attempt to lift the mood with a laugh fails as Jon keeps looking at you with a blank expression, making you look down embarrassed.

"That's why I'm here to offer you help. To give you this chance."

Still looking down, you meditate in silence about his words for a moment. Doubt still made it seem unclear as to how you would win your trauma. Lacking any idea of a viable option at the moment from yourself.

A gentle metallic noise snaps you from your thoughts. Your eyes catch the image of a syringe containing an orange liquid inside resting on the table in the space between you and Jon. He retracts his hand away from the item, folding the small secret pocket from inside his coat in which he took it out previously.

Meeting your gaze, Jon brings his hands up to his chin, intertwining his fingers and resting his elbows on the table, not breaking the eye contact he fixed with yours, though his eyes were hidden by the bright white his glasses reflected from the room's lightning.

"Of course, the choice will be yours." He reassures you about your position.

You switch your focus back to the syringe and remember clearly what is Jon's speciality together with the dangers of it. He maintains his silence, allowing you to face your own indecision before you finally speak.

"Alright. I will take the chance."

If it weren't for his hands close to his face, it wouldn't be able for him to hide his devilish smirk.

You two rearrange the chairs to be closer now, Jon assumes the position of medical administration and holds your arm gently as the slim shadow of the syringue hovers above your skin.

"I want you to know the dose will be low to not last long but enough for the chemicals to work properly. Understand?"

You nod.

"Are you sure about this?"

Once again you nod while feeling a chill sensation in your stomach. You were scared, of course you were and he knew it too. However, it was your choice.

The syringe needle sinks in the surface of your skin and slowly makes its length disappear and appear again from the spot, injecting the unholy fear substance in your blood course. The sting pain is then replaced by a numb sensation following up to your arm shaking. Your heart begins to race and you can feel sweat forming in your forehead. Wiping it with the back of your hand, you realise that your hand feels heavier than before and checking the reason for it, you're met with the vision of your skin succumbing to putrid flesh as insects start coming out of what were supposed to be your nails.

Desperation hits, you notice Jon's form switching to something darker, scarier and menacing, but his mouth remains in a serene smile before it moves to speak.

"Now tell me, what do you see?"

#jonathan crane #jonathan crane x reader #gender neutral s/o #own writing #first fic posted here ayeee

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kurowrites · 3 years

Text

Betting On You - Part III

Casually walks in and dumps this 500 years after the first two parts.

Previous parts

---

From that day onwards, Wei Ying started to see Lan Zhan more and more. Before Lan Zhan had come to their rescue that evening, they had mainly been content with a short greeting (in Lan Zhan’s case, usually just a nod of acknowledgement) as they passed each other in the hallway of the apartment block.

Now, however, things had started to change. Lan Zhan would stop every time they met and greet Wei Ying with actual words. He would even inquire about A-Yuan’s well-being, about Wei Ying’s well-being, and ‘stealthily’ feed A-Yuan healthy snacks if he was with Wei Ying.

(It wasn’t stealthy at all, because Lan Zhan checked with Wei Ying first whether A-Yuan had any food intolerances and if snacks between meals were appropriate for children his age.)

Wei Ying was tickled by the fact that Lan Zhan was sneaking his son healthy snacks. The worst part of it was that A-Yuan genuinely liked them, and so the snacks and Lan Zhan had a meteoric rise in A-Yuan’s esteem.

(His son was turning into a goody-two shoes who loved rabbit food, and Wei Ying had never been more shocked. His own child!)

Before long, A-Yuan would break into a run and firmly attach himself to Lan Zhan’s leg as soon as he caught sight of him in the hallway. Lan Zhan didn’t seem to mind the sudden acquisition of a spider monkey clinging to him every time he left the safety of his apartment, and so Wei Ying stopped trying to discourage A-Yuan from greeting him in this way.

Lan Zhan would walk with them for a little bit if they were both headed out, and that was another thing that Wei Ying enjoyed. Because, as it turned out, Lan Zhan’s company was always enjoyable. And Lan Zhan was genuinely funny. Even if he had the habits of an octogenarian.

More than once, Wei Ying ended up chatting to Lan Zhan for so long that they ended up in the nearby park together, A-Yuan running off to play with other children while the two of them sat down on a bench, still chatting. Occasionally, one of them was required to get up in order to give the children on the swing a push, but otherwise, Wei Ying might have been tempted to sit there and chat all day.

If he was honest, it was a bit strange, suddenly having Lan Zhan around all the time, and trying to act like it was no big deal at all (LAN ZHAN WAS WILLING TO SPEND TIME WITH HIM OUTSIDE OF AN EMERGENCY, HOW), but being in his company was too comfortable for Wei Ying to question it.

Lan Zhan had an exceptionally good hand with A-Yuan, even though he had no children of his own, and more than once, Wei Ying found himself relieved for Lan Zhan’s presence. He was so… calm all the time, seemingly unflappable, even that time when one of the children in the park suddenly started vomiting all over the place, making some of the other children get upset and start crying in the process.

Lan Zhan just calmly stood up, took care of it, and herded all the upset children back to their parents.

As if it was easy.

“You’re incredible, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said, much later, bumping shoulders with Lan Zhan as he shook his head. “Can you please leave some of that coolness for the rest of us poor schmucks?”

Lan Zhan levelled him with a gaze that clearly said that he had no idea what Wei Ying was talking about, and thought he was joking.

Well, Wei Ying was usually calling him a stick-in-the-mud, but he meant that endearingly! Lan Zhan was a very cool stick-in-the-mud.

Wei Ying might have said something along those lines, but then Lan Zhan reminded him that they still had to go shopping if they wanted to make hot pot that night, and Wei Ying got distracted counting all the ingredients he wanted in the hot pot.

---

A-Yuan had been put to bed with a belly full of delicious (though sadly very non-spicy) soup a while ago, and Wei Ying was starting to feel drowsy too. After eating far too much hot pot, he was feeling just the right amount of lazy and contented, and so getting up and leaving for his bed seemed like far too much of an effort.

And if he did that, he would also have to throw Lan Zhan out, and that seemed like more than he could accomplish right now.

“Lan Zhan,” he asked sleepily. “What is your stance on carrying adults to bed?”

Lan Zhan levelled him with another one of his flat looks, and Wei Ying chuckled to himself.

He couldn’t help it, it was funny! Just imagine Lan Zhan carrying Wei Ying to bed! It would be hilarious.

The next thing he knew, he was being lifted off the sofa, and carried to his bedroom in a bridal carry.

“Lan Zhan!” he exclaimed, but before he could do anything else, Lan Zhan had dropped him onto the bed like a sack of potatoes, stomping out of the room.

Wei Ying, feeling pretty awake now after the jarring experience of being carried around by a handsome man and then dropped suddenly, scrambled after him in a panic.

What the hell had just happened? It had just been a joke, he hadn’t actually wanted to ask Lan Zhan to carry him around! He was an adult, after all, and a parent at that, not a spoiled brat.

Wei Ying barely managed to catch Lan Zhan before he slipped out of his apartment, but when he stepped between Lan Zhan and the door, Lan Zhan stubbornly turned his face away and refused to look at him.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said, in his best cajoling tone, but Lan Zhan would not budge.

“Lan Zhaaaaan,” Wei Ying sang, and Lan Zhan finally turned to glare at him.

Well, Lan Zhan could glare all he wanted, he was looking at Wei Ying. Which was all that counted

And Wei Ying would not stop saying Lan Zhan’s name however he pleased. It was a good name, and Wei Ying liked saying it.

“It was a joke, you know,” he graciously informed Lan Zhan.

That, however, had the effect of making Lan Zhan look even more constipated.

“I know,” Lan Zhan said, with a strange amount of feeling in his voice. “You are never serious.”

And with that, he gently removed Wei Ying from the front of the door, and left the apartment with a final click of the lock.

---

The next few days, Wei Ying walked around in a daze, trying to figure out what had suddenly gotten into Lan Zhan.

Try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what the issue was. Though Lan Zhan couldn’t be described being a clown, he did have a working sense of humour. He might occasionally roll his eyes at Wei Ying’s dumb jokes, but generally was a good sport. What had been different this time?

Wei Ying couldn’t figure it out. The more he thought about it, the more confused he was.

It didn’t help that A-Yuan was unhappy with him. The day after the hot pot incident, he had demanded to see Lan Zhan. He had become used to seeing him every day by now, and had been accordingly grouchy when Wei Ying had told him that they couldn’t go and see Lan Zhan right now. Wei Ying felt terrible for it, because there wasn’t a good reason to keep A-Yuan from visiting Lan Zhan.

But.

Well.

He wasn’t sure if Lan Zhan wanted to see them right now, and he also wasn’t sure if he was ready to face Lan Zhan after that. Whatever it had been.

He should probably apologise, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure what exactly to apologise for. And as long as he didn’t know…

… it was easier to just avoid the topic altogether.

Wei Ying might have carried on like that indefinitely, avoiding Lan Zhan like a pro and keeping A-Yuan from noticing his evasion tactics, but once again, Lan Zhan thwarted his plans.

Wei Ying had dropped off A-Yuan with a friend from childcare so they could play for two or three hours at the friend’s home. It was perfect, because now, Wei Ying was free to do all the housework and if he was quick about it, he might also get a short nap in.

Unfortunately, just when he had stuck the key into the keyhole of his apartment door, a familiar voice addressed him from right behind him.

He hadn’t even heard Lan Zhan approach.

“Are you willing to speak to me now?”

Wei Ying whipped around, and found Lan Zhan standing there in all his handsome glory.

Wei Ying laughed nervously, pushing his tousled hair out of his face.

“Willing to speak to you?” he asked, his voice probably a pitch higher than it should be. “When have I not been willing to speak to you?”

Lan Zhan just levelled him with a flat gaze, and herded Wei Ying into his own apartment by sheer willpower alone.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying muttered as Lan Zhan closed the door behind them. “I know I should apologise, but I’m still not sure why exactly you got mad.”

Lan Zhan just sighed once, and stood in front of Wei Ying, simply looking at him without saying anything.

“Lan Zhan, if you keep looking at me like that, it’s going to look like you’re trying to flirt with me. I’m going to blush.”

Really, who wouldn’t, when such a handsome man was staring at you so intensely.

Lan Zhan shook his head minutely in apparent exasperation, and then…

And then he reached out, and gently brushed one messy strand of hair out of Wei Ying’s face.

“Wei Ying. I am.”

And.

This time, it wasn’t a joke. Wei Ying actually blushed. Not a delicate, a little bit of red peppering the apples of his cheeks kind of blush. No. A full-on tomato red blush. He could feel himself radiating the heat of vicious embarrassment.

Ah, he thought to himself, as Lan Zhan took his hand and lifted it to his lips.

I might be a little bit stupid.

And then he might have stopped thinking for a little while.

#kuro writes #wangxian #mdzs #the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #betting on you

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hatterstan-shameblog · 3 years

Note

Okay so Aguni is sound asleep, just enjoying the few hours of peace he has, when there's a knock on the door. He ignores it, but the person just keeps knocking and knocking.

"Morizono, open the goddamn door!" he hears Takeru call, "This is an emergency!"

He groans to himself before standing up and opening the door.

"What?"

"So, remember that weird chonky cat Niragi found?"

"Yeah... what about it?"

"It's not fat... and is not a cat."

Where Hatter and apparently every other idiot at the Beach mistake a domesticated pregnant genet for a fat exotic cat. And it just gave birth on Hatter's bed.

I have no idea in what direction this is supposed to go lol but hopefully something chaotic.

alright I had to look up what a genet is and DAMN they are CUTE AS HELL and I’m love them v much

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Terminator

Rating: PG-13 for dialogue and like one drug reference

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Aguni Morizono is a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures.

He enjoys a healthy slathering of grape jelly on his toast. He enjoys watching the sunset reflect over the ocean. He enjoys watering his garden and reading the newspaper and taking naps on the sofa on Sunday afternoons after he’s finished his grocery shopping for the week.

What he does not particularly enjoy is being shaken awake by a borderline-frantic Takeru in the middle of the night.

Takeru insists that he has a good reason; that this is an emergency. Aguni reminds him that running out of marijuana does not qualify as an emergency, and pulls the blanket over his head in an attempt to shut the very exuberant man out.

But the aforementioned exuberant man refuses to be shut out, and he references the aforementioned emergency again—this time insisting that it is an actual real emergency and requires immediate attention. Aguni sincerely doubts this and tries his damnedest to fall back to sleep—a truly Herculean task, given Takeru’s incessant talking and the way he’s bouncing on the other side of the mattress like some kind of weird large puppy. Aguni is just about to enter the first misty moments of dozing off as Takeru says words like ‘Niragi’ and ‘cat’ and ‘bed’ and it’s all somewhat possible to ignore until he utters one word that makes Aguni sit straight up.

‘Babies.’

Now, ‘babies’ as a concept does not bother Aguni. He’s actually somewhat fond of them, the way they unabashedly stare at him on the train or in the park, eyes wide and fat little hands waving a clumsy ‘hello’ in his general direction. And if he waves back sometimes, well...that’s his business. (It’s only polite, after all.)

No, the issue here is that ‘babies’ and ‘the Borderlands’ sounds like a terrible, terrible mix. What’s worse is that said babies have, for some reason, been left in Takeru’s care. And, judging from Takeru’s presence in his room, the babies have been left alone.

It takes no time at all for Aguni to throw on a pair of pants and slip into his boots. It takes even less time for him to grab Takeru by the collar of his robe and physically drag him down the hall, the other man switching between heartfelt thank-you’s and desperate pleas for Aguni to be gentle when handling the raw silk of his ensemble.

Now, to those of us on the outside of Aguni’s brain, it may seem like he hasn’t thought this through; that he has tunnel-vision’d his way through the last two paragraphs without a logical thought as to how and why ‘babies’ may be present. That is simply not true. Aguni has considered that ‘babies’ could actually mean a number of things aside from ‘human infants’ and has thus compiled a short list of the three most likely candidates:

The spider plant he had placed on Takeru’s windowsill has propagated—or, as some would call it, ‘had babies.’ This is Aguni’s favorite option of the bunch. It is also the least likely.

Something about the cards. Although Aguni has never Takeru refer to them as ‘his babies,’ it is no secret that he is very protective of his prized collection. Seeing as this may or may not affect the entire Beach, it’s important for him to be aware of the situation.

Takeru is high as a goddamn kite and hallucinating. This is, unfortunately, the most likely scenario.

It is also important to mention that Aguni has taken a good look at his life and his choices throughout this ordeal, particularly when Takeru commented on the state of his biceps and made an off-color insinuation about the right one looking slightly more defined than the left—and then asked if he would like to discuss his love life, with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows. Aguni chose not to comment. He also chose to push Takeru into the doorframe on the way into his suite, and took a smidge of pleasure when his head collided with the wood with a satisfying clunk-ing sound.

“Look,” Takeru says proudly, pointing a finger at the bed, “babies!”

Nestled in what a bulging nest of fluffy white blankets are...things. Fuzzy things. One big fuzzy thing, with sleepy eyes and what looks to be a long spotted tail wrapped around one, two, three tiny fuzzy things. When Aguni leans in to get a closer look, the big one quirks a corn-chip-shaped ear and gives him a wary glare.

“What,” Aguni asks, “in the goddamn—“

But before Aguni is able to finish his sentence, Takeru is giving him a stinging slap on the arm.

“Aguni Morizono,” he hisses, hands balled into fists and perched on his hips like a mother hen, “I will not have my children exposed to that kind of language.”

There are plenty of things wrong with what Takeru just said, but Aguni is having trouble getting past the idea that these...creatures have somehow been claimed by his very silly friend.

“Think about it,” Takeru continues, swanning his way past a very confused (and tired) Aguni to sit on the edge of the bed just behind the brood of fluffy individuals, “This lovely lady could have given birth on anyone’s bed...but she chose mine. Why do you think that is?”

“Because you leave the sheets all balled up in the middle and it’s the perfect place for an animal to make a nest?”

“Wrong, but I like how confident you sounded when you said it!”

With his hands pressed together and held in front of his lips, Takeru looks almost prayerful as he very seriously explains his theory.

“A woman alone-- heavily pregnant, scared, and lost in these cold and cruel Borderlands. Her thoughts shift to her young. Who will keep them safe? Who will help take care of them? That’s when her instincts took over,” Takeru opens his arms, the silken cuffs of his robe pooling around his elbows, “and, using her superior sense of smell, followed her nose to the den of the nearest alpha male for protection.”

Aguni wishes he could say that this is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. He also wishes he had a cup of coffee (with a healthy glug of Bailey’s in there for good measure) before this whole event took place.

Takeru has since busied himself with the tiny new mother and her young, watching with gentle fascination as the newborns snuffle and snooze against her with unopened eyes and clumsy paws. When he reaches out a ring-bedecked hand to stroke along the bigger one’s head, she gives him a small growl and a pointed glare—to which he laughs and withdraws his touch, saying something cheeky about “the last time she let a man get too close” and quickly following it up with a promise to talk about it “after the kids are asleep.”

Takeru has just held up his hand for a high-five (which Aguni has decided to not reciprocate) when they hear a crash and then a bang and then the thundering thumpthumpthump of angry booted footsteps rapidly approaching their position in the bedroom. For some reason—a reason he’s not very keen to dwell upon at the current moment—Aguni instantly snaps into defense mode, hands curling into fists and shoulders squaring themselves in anticipation of a coming attack.

“WHERE. IS. TERMINATOR!?”

Niragi bursts into the room like a firework, all noise and flash and fire in his eyes. His knuckles strain around the dark of his rifle, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. Of course, Aguni knows (hopes) he won’t actually resort to filling Takeru full of bullets, but he keeps a close eye on his trigger finger, anyways.

“Ah! There’s my co-parent,” Hatter says with a measure of glee, gesturing with a flourish of his hand towards the cute, hairy pile on his bed, “As you can see, our lovely Terminator is doing very well and—“

“Our? She’s not fucking ours, she’s fucking mine,” Niragi snaps, “and I’m gonna fucking kill you for stealing my cat.”

“Not a cat,” a calm voice says, and Aguni turns to see Last Boss lurking in the doorway, katana sheathed and arms crossed, “She’s a common genet, native to the savanna’s of Africa.”

“Ooh, does that mean the babies have dual citizenship? No, wait,” Hatter claps his hands together with glee, “triple citizenship? Africa, Japan, and the Borderlands?!”

“Africa’s not a country, it’s a continent, dumbass,” Niragi retorts, “and I think we have bigger problems than what’s going to be on their fucking passports.��

It’s probably not the best thing in the world for Aguni to let Takeru and Niragi descend into heated bickering—a back-and-forth of ‘you stole her’ versus ‘no, she chose me’—but Aguni is simply not interested in breaking up their squabbling. Instead he goes to stand by Last Boss, who’s watching the two long-haired men argue like it’s a mildly interesting tennis match.

“So,” Aguni says, “you, uh, seem to know a lot about those things.”

“I did my research when Niragi first brought her back,” Last Boss says calmly, “He’s good with her, but I wanted to make sure we were taking care of her correctly.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“I had my suspicions. Niragi wouldn’t listen, though. Kept telling me she was just fat.”

“Yeah, I thought she was ‘just fat,’” Niragi interjects, his gun no longer pointed at Takeru but a murderous gleam still in his eye, “because this fucking asshole kept feeding her potato chips!”

“Because she loves them,” Takeru shouts back, throwing his arms up in the air, “So shoot me for being a nice guy and sharing my snacks with your weird cat!”

“Don’t,” both Last Boss and Aguni say in unison—which is very uncomfortable for the both of them, but at least it has the desired effect of keeping Niragi from blasting a few dozen holes through Takeru’s person.

With the two of them quickly getting back into their heated back-and-forth, Aguni turns his attention to the creatures on the bed. Somehow, despite all of the noise and excitement, the mother and her babies have curled up and fallen asleep, the rhythmic rise and fall of their bellies a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around them. Aguni feels jealous, but also, feels bad about feeling jealous because this...Terminator thing has undoubtedly had a rough night, too.

“Luckily,” Last Boss says, “genets are pretty independent creatures. She’ll be fine to take care of the kits on her own, provided that she has access to food and water.”

“So we should just...leave her alone?”

Last Boss shrugs.

“More or less.”

Aguni sighs internally. He sighs externally, too, but the internal sigh is the one that really sums up his thoughts on the whole situation. Just getting one of those hot-headed men to leave those poor animals alone is challenging enough, but both of them? That’s bordering on ‘damn near impossible.’

But, for the sake of those weird fuzzy babies, he has to try.

Takeru jumps when he feels Aguni’s hand on his elbow. He also manages to shut up for a moment, which is a nice bonus. Last Boss has also sprung into action and seems to be talking to Niragi in hushed tones, a hesitant but friendly hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon,” Aguni says, gentle-firm as he guides Takeru into a standing position—much to the other man’s confusion.

“Mori, what—?”

“You’ve had a big night. I’ve had a big night. But do you know whose had the biggest night of us all?” Aguni gestures to the snoozing creatures in front of them, “Terminator. She’s exhausted, and the last thing she needs is the four of us keeping her up. You can stay with me tonight, and we’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

“But,” Takeru protests—an iota quieter, now that he’s realized that the pipe on the bed is now a sleeping pile, “we can’t just leave them alone, can we?”

“You’re right. Which is why,” Aguni says, “Last Boss is going to stay with her and keep an eye on things. If he’s okay with that, of course?”

Last Boss offers a solemn nod. Aguni makes a mental note to thank him for this later—maybe he’ll let him pick the music on their next supply run (provided it’s from Aguni’s list of pre-approved artists, of course...)

“You know what? Fucking fine,” Niragi spits, flicking his hair back with a quick jerk of his hand, “it’s too goddamn late to deal with you fucking losers, anyways. I’ll come back to collect my cat and her kittens in the morning.”

Aguni does not risk correcting Niragi on his incorrect terminology regarding his pets—frankly, he’s a little too busy being amazed at how suspiciously easy it was to get him to leave. With a sharp pivot, Niragi is exiting the room in what could be called a ‘brisk saunter,’ no doubt wanting to put as much distance between himself and whatever-the-hell just happened in this room as possible.

Aguni, for once, can relate to Niragi quite well.

With Last Boss keeping vigil over the new little family, Aguni is able to wrangle Takeru away from his room with minimal fuss. It’s probably because the man is very tired—despite multiple claims that he ‘isn’t sleepy yet’ and ‘can stay up for hours.’ This theory is proven when, within a grand total of seven seconds of Takeru flopping face-first onto the middle of Aguni’s bed, he’s managed to slip into what only can be described as a ‘light coma.’

Aguni manages to wrestle a stray pillow away from his sleeping friend’s grasp (he’s a notoriously cuddly sleeper, which has led to some...interesting situations over the course of their friendship) and settles his weary self onto the couch. It’s not quite long enough to accommodate his height, but it’s good enough for what will most likely end up being an extended nap before the sun comes up and he needs to solve whatever other issues have popped up at the Beach overnight.

...But, at least those problems won’t involve babies.

Probably.

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Also here is a common genet and DAMN SIS U CUTE AS HELL

#alice in borderland #danma takeru #alice in borderland netflix #aguni morizono #niragi suguru #last boss #writings and such

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rabioa · 3 years

Text

The Magician

Prompt:“She was either wildly naive or dangerously intelligent.”

Side Note: I changed the pronouns of this to fit the cast of characters I have for this story, again.

The Magician

A bit of angst(?), Hopeless Love, Hints about Death, Prosthetic Limb

Second in "The Cards" Series

The sounds of gears turning could be heard, notifying the two girls of a new presence. Flos didn’t bother looking, why would she? She already knew who it was.

Valora on the other hand, did.

Dea noted Valora’s expression, bitterness. She guessed they probably had another “incident”. She sighed, Valora was a fool. No, all of them but her were fools she decided. “The hand is finished, I even gave it the gold finish you love so much.” She spoke, holding out a golden prosthetic. It shone under the harsh lights of the room.

She gave it to Flos, who now sat up. Flos grinned, she finally could use her right hand for the first time after her old one was destroyed. The girl put it on the stub of her right elbow. She made sure to tighten the straps securely and connect everything properly.

Dea couldn't help but smile. She considered Flos one of her best “works”. She managed to do something the Tronican couldn't do. To make a delicate surgery to connect the nerves to wires, making prosthetic limbs much easier to connect and changeable. Of course, all of her creations were special, every prosthetic she made for Flos had to match with the wiring within her arm. It elated Dea to think of the power she had over all of her customers. She could easily “accidentally” mess up the wiring in Flos’s new arm and Flos would no doubt face a severely painful and possibly fatal outcome.

“It fits like a glove,” Flos said with a pleased smile.

“Of course it does, I made it after all” Dea replied, her face neutral. “Now then, since you got all that you need, you can leave.” She added on. The sooner she was away from them the better. She didn't hate them per se, but it was painful to watch their romance unfold. Love was dangerous, Dea knew that first hand and thus, she refused to be a fool ever again. To her, love was a death sentence and she would be damned if she died like a fool. To her, lovers were fools and it was annoying to see so many fools.

“Val, you can go ahead, I want to talk to Dea, privately,” Flos spoke, a polite smile on her face.

Valora only huffed before leaving. Valora learned early on that Flos’s word was final.

Dea sighed. She didn't want to talk to Flos. “What do you want?” Dea asked, getting straight to the point. This only got a laugh from Flos.

“Why are you in such a rush? I just want to have a nice conversation.” Flos masterfully danced around the main topic. This annoyed Dea to no end.

“Well, you have Valora waiting for you, so you should hurry,” Dea spoke calmly to mask her annoyance. She walked over to an ottoman and sat down. Her elbow rested upon the coffee table next to it as she used her arm to support her head.

“Oh, speaking of people, what do you think of Alexander?” Flos pried, earning a sigh from Dea.

“He is either wildly naive or dangerously intelligent,” Dea replied. Alexander, she felt pity for the man. To be caught up in the spider’s web was a tragedy but Dea wouldn’t interfere. He didn't matter to her. Long ago she decided he was the least foolish of those three, but he was the most naive but there was something behind his eyes that always got Dea. There was something about him she didn't know and she was excited to see how it would unravel. Perhaps he was playing the fools? Maybe he was simply using them like how one uses a spoon to ea.

To her, it didn't matter. She was an artist and they were her paint. With it, she will paint a masterpiece to enjoy. That, she was sure of, but alas, she must refocus on the conversation in hand.

“Join us, help us save him.” Flos held out her hand.

“No,”

and with that, she got up to go to her lab.

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#a little angst #sci fi #romance #sci fi romance #i dont know what to tag this #Rabioa #lgbtq #Writing prompts #idk what else to tag

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suttttton · 3 years

Text

Growing Pains

Febuwhump Day 1: Mind Control

***

“You knew what you would find here, didn’t you?” Annabelle asks, leaning back against her kitchen counter, looking over Jon with eyes far too predatory for his liking.

“To be honest, I expected more spiders,” Jon says. He’s seated at Annabelle Cane’s table, in Annabelle Cane’s flat. Annabelle Cane is making him tea. He came here of his own accord, and even though he can feel his heart in his throat, he refuses to regret this decision. Hadn’t he long ago decided that answers were worth the fear? Isn’t that how he’s made every decision, since Jane Prentiss attacked the Archives? Since he read the wrong book and narrowly escaped being devoured by a monster?

Annabelle smiles, crosses her arms. “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t here, Jon.”

Jon swallows. “Right.” His voice is faint.

“And yet you came anyway,” Annabelle says. “Do you know why?”

“I, uh… I thought I’d ask you—something. For a statement. Maybe.”

“And you thought I was likely to give you one?”

“Well, you invited me here, didn’t you?” Jon snaps, stiff politeness finally giving way to trembling anger.

“I did,” Annabelle says. She comes closer to Jon, and it’s all he can do not to flinch away from her. “Give me your hand,” she says, holding out her own to take it.

“Why?” Jon manages, even as he’s already extending his bandaged hand toward her.

She gives him a flat look, closes her eyes, takes a breath. His hand is trembling slightly, caged between her two hands. She opens her eyes. “Because our patron is worried about you,” she says. And then, her voice low with anger. “You will not compel me again.”

“Our patron?” Jon says.

Annabelle nods, her attention occupied examining the bandages on his hand. He tries to pull away, but he can’t. He can’t move his hand at all. She runs three fingers over the surface of his palm, and Jon holds back a squeak of pain at the gentle contact. “Jude did a wonderful job,” she murmurs, more to herself than to Jon. Then she looks at him, smiling. “And Martin did a wonderful job with the bandages.”

She releases him, and Jon jerks his hand back, cradling it to his chest. She steps even closer, and he’s frozen in place as one of her hands goes to his throat. Even over the bandages, she traces a line exactly where Daisy’s knife punctured his flesh. “Daisy’s is more impressive, though.”

The kettle screams, and she steps away to finish preparing the tea. Jon can suddenly move again, and he curls his arms around himself. This isn’t like meeting Jude Perry or Mike Crew. He wasn’t on even footing with them, either, but with Annabelle, it isn’t even close. He considers running, but he’s terrified that he’ll find himself unable to move if he tries to act on that thought.

“Why am I here?” he asks. He’d grown used to the small sliver of power his questions gave him. It’s terrifying to lose that.

Annabelle sets a mug of tea in front of him. He picks it up, takes a sip. He didn’t decide to do that, but it’s happening anyway. She sits down across from him, takes a sip from her own mug. “The Mother of Puppets is fond of you,” she says. Like that explains anything.

“You mean, the—spiders?” Jon asks, dread growing in his stomach.

“Knock, knock,” Annabelle says, smiling at him over her mug.

A jolt of fear rushes through Jon, and he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “But that isn’t—I belong to the Institute, the, the Eye.” Jon still has so many questions about the Entities, so many things that he doesn’t know, puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together. But he knows that he doesn’t belong to the spiders. He escaped them.

“Sure,” Annabelle says. “But the Web claimed you first. You’ve been running around, collecting your marks like a good little Archivist, all inspired by your desperate curiosity, your gnawing fear that you won’t be able to put all the pieces together in time. It’s all very Beholding-flavored.” She wrinkles her nose, and looks at Jon, still with that sly smile. “Much better for you to strengthen your connection to the Web. Your fear will feed us. You’ll have our gifts.”

“So this is, what, an invitation?”

“Sure,” Annabelle says. “If you want to think of it that way.” She pauses. “Of course, invitations presume that you can deny them, and free will isn’t exactly the Web’s strong suit. The Mother of Puppets wants you to be ours, so you will be.”

Jon opens his mouth, to ask what the hell that means, but Annabelle cuts him off. “You should probably be going now.”

Jon stands up, not of his own accord, and starts toward the door. Annabelle follows. Before he leaves, she plants a hand on his shoulder, and he just barely manages to not flinch away. “Jon,” she says, and there’s something different in her eyes now, replacing the sly teasing tone she’d taken before. She looks… concerned. Sad, even. “There will be some growing pains,” she says. “Just do what the Mother wants. It’ll be alright.” She squeezes his wrist, and then shuts the door.

He doesn’t decide to go back to the Archives. The Web decides for him.

***

“Good morning,” Martin says, bringing in tea, as he does every morning.

Jon smiles at him. “Good morning, Martin.”

Martin looks at him for long enough that Jon starts to frown. “Martin? Did you need something?”

“What?” Martin blinks. “No, sorry, I—You just look… really good. Better than you have since—Well, since you got back from your… vacation, I guess.”

“I suppose there’s no snappy way to say, ‘time when you weren’t coming into work because your boss framed you for murder and the cops wanted to kill you,’” Jon quips. “But yes. I feel better.” He lifts the statement on his desk. “Feels like we’re finally making progress towards something.”

“And your hand, and—It’s all healing well?” Martin asks.

Jon nods, flexing his hand slightly beneath the bandages. “I think I’m starting to get a bit of feeling back? Which is probably a good sign.”

“Probably,” Martin agrees. “I still think you should’ve gone to A&E.”

Jon nods, a little embarrassed. “Yes, well… if it gets worse, I’ll take your advice.”

“Alright,” Martin says. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” And then he leaves, smiling because, for the first time in recent memory, Jon actually seems as fine as he claims to be.

Jon wants to scream. He wants to curl up beneath his desk, arms wrapped around himself in some semblance of comfort. He wants to be held—Martin or Georgie or Tim, or someone. He wants the release of it, warm arms grounding him as he shakes apart entirely. He wants to beg the others to please, please help him.

Instead, he smiles at them when he sees them in the break room, when he asks them to look into certain details for him. He sits in his office, calmly reading statement after statement, finding as much information about the Unknowing as possible. He goes home and watches movies with Georgie, and laughs at all the right parts. None of it is his choice, and he is so, so scared. Scared of what the Web is planning. Scared that he will be nothing but a puppet for the rest of his life.

It’s strange, being so constantly terrified, but showing no physical symptoms of fear. His heart rate is normal. His hands and voice are steady.

It doesn’t escape his notice that they all like him better, like this. Unburdened by the weight he carries with him. He desperately wishes for one of them to notice that it’s wrong, that he’s wrong, but he knows they won’t. Even if they did notice, he isn’t certain they would want him to go back to what he was before.

It’s almost a relief when Breekon and Hope grab him. He chooses to fight them, kick out his legs uselessly as they tie him up and toss him in the back of their van. His heart is hammering, adrenaline firing. It’s exhilarating, but there’s no room to rejoice in his newfound freedom. He has to find a way out of this, but—

There is no way out. Nikola delights in reminding him of this, whenever she comes to see him. They tie him up in a dimly lit room, surrounded by horrifying mannequins that sometimes move. His binds are tight, as is the gag in his mouth, and though he can struggle against them, it’s clear he’ll never manage to wriggle out of them.

For a while, he expects someone to come rescue him. Maybe Annabelle, although if he really thinks about it, it’s more likely that the Web would simply manipulate someone else into coming. Maybe his assistants would come, if they can find him. (If they decide he’s worth rescuing.) He’s wanted by the Eye and the Web, and clearly that counts for something. Surely they wouldn’t just abandon him to be skinned alive by the Stranger.

But no one comes. It’s hard to keep track of time, but Jon knows it’s been a few weeks, at least. Long enough by far for a rescue party to come, if they ever planned on coming. He wonders if the Web is enjoying this, if this fear is Web-flavored enough for it. Maybe it set him up for this. Maybe it’s actively preventing him from escaping.

He’s allowed to cry now. He can even scream, if he wanted to, although the gag makes it kind of pointless. Nikola enjoys when he cries.

Michael comes, and then Helen replaces him, and Jon can see the spidercracks of the Web behind it. Helen opens her door to him, and even if he wanted to take his chances with the Stranger, the webs in his mind give him no choice but to accept her offer.

At least Helen only toys with him a little bit before depositing him back in his office.

He lays on the floor for a long time, staring at the ceiling, expecting at any moment for the vise-like grip of the Web to take hold of him once more. It keeps not happening. His breath starts to come faster and faster, so he forces himself to take deep breaths, but that only makes his shaky breathing sound louder in his ears. It’s all so loud, his breathing, his heartbeat. Even the electricity humming in the walls, the soft rattle of the air conditioner.

He brings a hand to his face, and his eyes are filled with tears that immediately start tumbling over his cheeks. A sob hitches in his chest, and he almost smiles. He’s wanted to have a breakdown for so long, and now—it’s almost pleasant, losing control of his emotions in the safety of his office. No one around to jeer and laugh at him. No spiderwebs forcing him to keep smiling.

Another sob hitches, and he suddenly feels much too exposed. He pulls himself under his desk, relishing the darkness, the smallness. He brings his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. Lets himself cry, burying the sound as much as he can. He doesn’t want the others to hear.

The door opens, and he lets out a soft gasp, biting down on his sobs. He holds his breath, willing himself to be quiet, to not be heard, not be found. He’s petrified that being found will mean his break is over, will mean the Web comes back, invading his mind.

It’s Martin. He comes in, humming quietly, and sets something on Jon’s desk. He starts to leave, and then—

Jon suddenly takes a sharp inhale, unable to hold his breath any longer.

Martin’s footsteps pause, hesitantly.

Something in Jon’s brain—the spiderwebs, he knows—pulls at him to be quiet, to let Martin leave, to not bother him with this. But it’s been so long since Jon’s seen Martin, and he just—He just wants to see him. Even if it means he has to smile. Surely, surely Martin will see that something is wrong, won’t he? The thought brings fresh tears to his eyes, and he says, “Martin?” His voice is thick with tears and rough from disuse.

“Wha—Jon?” Martin says. His footsteps move quickly to the other side of the desk, and he crouches down. “Oh my god, Jon! What happened? Where have you been?”

“Circus got me,” Jon says with a watery smile. The Web hasn’t taken hold yet. And it’s so nice to see Martin, soft and warm and safe.

“This—this whole time, you’ve been with the Circus?” Martin says, sounding horrified.

Jon nods. “How long have I been gone?”

“A month,” Martin says. “Christ, are you alright?”

The spiderwebs tell Jon to send Martin away, to claim that he’s fine. But the compulsion isn’t as strong as it was before. It’s a request, not an order. And Jon is… He isn’t fine. He hasn’t been fine in a long time.

Besides, it’s not like Martin somehow missed the dirty tear tracks on his face.

“No,” he whispers, curling up tighter into himself. The shaking is back now. A month. A month of intruding hands rubbing lotion into his skin, constantly reminding him of their plans for him, telling him how much it would hurt, letting him hear the horrible screams of their other victims.

“Can I touch you?” Martin asks, and Jon nods.

Martin pulls Jon into his arms, both of them still partially under the desk. He’s warm, and his words are soft as he runs a soothing hand up and down Jon’s back. Jon buries his head in his chest, crying until he’s all wrung out, until nothing remains inside of him.

“Sorry,” Jon says, still sniffling slightly, his voice thick. There’s a damp patch on Martin’s shirt now, and Jon flushes a bit, looking at it.

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin says, still holding on to him. He isn’t shifting impatiently, or acting like Jon should move away, so Jon doesn’t. He rests his head on Martin’s shoulder, exhausted, and Martin continues rubbing soothing circles into his back.

***

Jon wakes up on the cot in document storage, tucked in under several blankets. He spends a hazy moment wishing Martin were there with him, and then the spiderwebs re-exert themselves in full force and he is getting out of bed. Well. He hardly expected the break to last forever. He was lucky to get this much, really. The terror has lessened, and it feels like he can think in a straight line for once.

He heads out of document storage and towards the break room. It’s dark in the Archives. Everyone has left for the day, except for Martin, who didn’t want to leave Jon alone. He’s run out to fetch them both dinner, and will be back shortly.

The Web steers him to the utensil drawer, which is a disorganized mess, as always. He thinks about his feelings for Martin as he digs through it, the deep fondness he feels for him. He’s still holding on to a bit of hope that Martin will save him from this, he realizes.

He finds a knife, and pulls it from the drawer, and suddenly he is very focused on what the Web wants from him. He sets the knife on the counter, and then rolls up his left shirt sleeve. With horror sinking into his gut, he sets his arm on the edge of the sink, picks up the knife again in his right hand. He holds it firmly, tight enough that it makes his newly-healed scar ache.

He knows what’s about to happen. He tries to stop it, but it’s like trying to stop gravity. His hand doesn’t so much as tremble as he slices into the soft skin just below his elbow.

He lets out a cry of pain, or fear, but continues to carve into his arm with the tip of the knife. He’s cutting deep into his flesh, and he doesn’t want to look as blood pours out of him. But he can’t look away.

After an eternity, Jon is finally allowed to drop the knife. It clatters into the sink, leaving a trail of blood droplets behind it. He stares at the wound for a second. Even obscured as it is by blood, he can tell it’s a spiderweb. A message. A punishment.

He feels suddenly nauseous, salt flooding his mouth, and he sinks to the floor, breathing deeply, trying not to be sick. There is so much blood.

A soft pull at his mind, almost gentle. Don’t let Martin see.

He doesn’t want to know what the Web will do to him, if he refuses. There isn’t much time before Martin gets back, so he has to hurry.

He’s still dripping blood everywhere, so that’s the first step. Stop the bleeding. The first aid kit is nearby, well-stocked as always. He grabs it down from the shelf, and then wets a few napkins, which he uses to clean off as much of the blood as possible. It hurts, and he has to sit down before he finishes. It’s a bit tricky, wrapping his own arm in gauze, especially with his right hand injured as well, but he manages, adding layer after layer until he can no longer see the blood soaking through.

He rolls his sleeve down. The bulk of the gauze is visible through his shirt, but hopefully Martin won’t notice something he isn’t looking for.

Jon wipes down the table, the floor, the sink, until he can no longer see any blood anywhere. He washes the knife and drops it back in the drawer. And then he sits down, taking deep, even breaths. He should probably go lay down again, but he doesn’t think he can make it all the way back there. Not on his own.

He puts his head down, and a few minutes later, he hears the stairs creaking with Martin’s return. He hears his footsteps receding as he heads towards document storage, hears the soft creak of the door. And then the steps get louder, until Martin pokes his head into the break room.

“Oh, there you are,” he says, a relieved smile on his face. “Sorry for leaving you. I didn’t think you would wake up. I brought dinner,” he says, holding up the bag of takeout clutched in his hands.

Jon smiles in return. “The Eye told me,” he says.

“Oh, that’s—creepy,” Martin says.

“Sorry,” Jon says, his eyes flicking back to the table.

“It’s fine,” Martin says, sitting down across from him. “How are you feeling?”

The Web isn’t controlling him, but it hardly matters. “I’m fine,” he says. “Feeling better.”

***

They finish eating, and Martin insists on staying the night with Jon in the Archives. He insists that Jon sleep on the cot, even though the break room couch is much too small for Martin to sleep on comfortably.

Jon wakes up, and the fresh wound on his forearm has bled through the gauze, staining not only his shirt sleeve, but also the rest of his shirt. He’s covered in blood, so much that he can’t possibly hide it.

And he can hear Martin, already awake and moving around in the Archive.

Jon stands up, trying to decide what to do. If Martin sees the blood, he will ask questions, and there is no good way to explain the design so intricately carved into Jon’s arm. He needs fresh gauze, and a fresh shirt, but his extra clothes are in his office, and the first aid kit is in the break room.

He decides to make a break for his office, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders to hide any blood Martin might spot. Before he can move, however, the door to document storage opens, and Jon freezes.

“Hey Jon, I wanted to ask—” Martin stops, and for a moment they’re just staring at each other. Martin opens his mouth again, panic writ large on his face. “Jon, is that blood? What happened?”

“I—um—”

“Was it the Circus?” Martin asks, stepping closer. Jon flinches away from him, and he stops. “Okay, just—Jon, that looks really bad.”

“Yeah,” Jon manages, his voice coming out in an almost-laugh. Martin’s look of concern only grows deeper.

There’s no way for Jon to salvage this, no explanation that Martin will accept. Martin can’t know about this, can’t know about any of this. The Web might hurt him, if he becomes a danger to it.

And then—

He suddenly can see the exact strings he needs to pull in Martin’s mind, to make him ignore this. It’ll be easy. Martin won’t even know he’s done anything.

It’s the only option.

For the first time, Jon uses the spiderwebs. Martin’s eyes go blank and glassy for a single horrifying moment. And then he blinks, and looks at Jon. Jon is still covered with his own blood, but Martin doesn’t notice it at all. He looks vaguely confused for a second, before he gathers himself. “Sorry, lost my train of thought,” he says with a small laugh. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go get something for breakfast. I know you usually just skip it, but there’s a nice cafe not to far from here, and I thought it would be… good.”

Jon wants to cry. He wants to tell Martin everything, ask for his help. But Martin can’t help him. Asking will do nothing but hurt both of them.

Instead, Jon smiles. “Sounds wonderful,” he says.

#tma #tma fanfiction #febuwhump #febuwhumpday1 #my fic #self harm cw #blood cw #kidnapping cw

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chilling-seavey · 3 years

Text

Qui Totum Vult Totum Perdit (d.s.) - The Fight

A/N With Hope’s intense google doc analysis of trying to piece together Daniel and Avalon’s fight through his flashbacks, I figured I should give you the real thing!

“Your ignorance is fucking incredible, Daniel James!”

Her words were venomous, punctuated by the slam of the front door the moment we stepped back inside the house. I was still trying to put my wallet in my pocket after paying the taxi driver, showing exactly how quickly she decided to snap back at me after we already endured a terribly tense flight home. Yet, apparently a simple question of “are you okay” was completely disgusting of me to ask.

“You can’t just lose your temper like this every time you get a bit upset, Avalon! I’m just trying to talk to you.” I called as calmly as I could as I set my computer bag on the kitchen island.

She grabbed herself an empty glass from the cupboard and slammed the door shut before turning on the tap aggressively. Her brown eyes glared daggers in my direction over the rim of the glass as she raised it to her lips to take a sip and the diamond ring on her left hand caught the light of the late evening setting sun coming in through the window. Flickers of orange light writhed on the marble countertop between us and died when she lowered her hand out of the incoming rays.

There was a moment of silence as the beginnings of this obvious inevitable fight lingered between us.

“Trying to talk to me?” she repeated my words slowly as she stepped around the island, water glass held in both hands as if she was ready to interrogate me, “Well, gee, Daniel, that’s the first time in days you’ve even bothered.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I frowned.

“You spent most of our honeymoon with your laptop and your goddamn work rather than with me.”

I sighed, “Ava, come on, you know I had to-”

“No! You didn’t have to do anything! The only thing you had to do was relax for the first time in your goddamn life but that was too much to ask, wasn’t it? God…stupid me.” she shook her head in near disbelief, “I thought you might have actually given a shit about me once we got to Costa Rica but apparently, I was wrong.”

A rouge was rising on her sun-tanned cheeks, a clear indication of her true anger she felt, but her accusations weren’t making it easy for me to simply let her have this one. It was a fight we had before and were probably destined to again. It just came with the job.

“Give a shit about you? Avalon, you’re my fucking wife, of course I give a shit about you! You were the one complaining about wanting to leave the entire time. That doesn’t make the trip very fucking enjoyable.”

“You weren’t around me!” she yelled, tapping her hand against the cup in her hand so the sound of her ring against the glass punctuated each of her words. “What person wants to spend their honeymoon alone? Of course, I wanted to go home! I was basically there by myself and I was miserable!”

“I had to get some shit done! Jonah needed me to double check a few things while we were away. It’s not the end of the world and I’m sorry if you feel that way!”

I could see her visibly tense and she turned her head so she didn’t have to look at me, jabbing under her breath, “That’s always your excuse, isn’t it? ‘Always gotta get some shit done’. Well, I’m sick and tired of coming second to your work all the time.”

“Well what do you want me to do?! Do you not like having this house and a nice car and that huge fucking diamond on your finger? Well sorry to break it to you, honey, but without this job, you wouldn’t have any of that!”

“There you go again!” Avalon threw her hand up in my direction, “It’s not all about your fucking money, Daniel! I don’t care about that! I would even be perfectly happy living on the side of the fucking street with you because I love you! None of this other shit that you think is required for a happy and fulfilling life; because – news flash – it’s not!”

“Well it makes me pretty damn happy.”

“Oh really? Are you happy now? Huh? Does this make you fucking happy?”

“Yes! Because at least my house or my car doesn’t spew this fucking bullshit at me all the time!” I yelled back.

Avalon literally scoffed and took a step back, her voice lowered to a steady unimpressed drawl, “You’re a selfish prick, Daniel Seavey. I’m done trying to help you…you’re such a lost cause that…God…sometimes I wish I never married you.”

“Then why did you? If I make you so fucking miserable all the time! Are you that insecure that you’d rather be miserable with me than be alone? You can’t stand yourself either, can you?”

“Fuck you!”

“My brother always told me you were too fucking weak to be my wife…couldn’t handle the baggage that comes with the job.”

“Leave Christian out of this. He doesn’t know bull-fucking-shit about us and especially not about me. Neither of you know how hard it is!”

“It’s not hard, Avalon! You sit here and look pretty and I buy you sparkly things! It’s not fucking hard! You’re just being an obnoxious brat about everything, and you always have!”

“You invalidate my feelings all the time!” she yelled.

“You’re too goddamn sensitive! It’s not a big deal!” I shouted louder to top her.

“God, I fucking hate you!” she huffed. She turned to set the glass angrily on the kitchen counter but it fell and shattered on the kitchen floor between us, silencing our screaming match except for our heavy breaths and Avalon’s sniffled tears.

I sighed at the realization that the whole confrontation went on too far and I tried to reach for her, but she pulled her hand back and moved away from me, “Aves.”

“Don’t.” she snapped.

“Avalon, I’m sorry, I-”

“Sorry doesn’t fix everything.” she retorted sharply, yet I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. “I’m sleeping in the studio tonight.”

I swallowed thickly and nodded, glancing to the ground with a heavy heart, the pieces of broken glass shimmering in the kitchen light between us. She went to step around me but I instinctively reached out a hand to her to keep her back from accidently stepping on any broken glass, “Careful.”

“God, Daniel.” she huffed, “Please don’t.”

I didn’t make a move to stop her as she walked around me to storm across the living room and to the back door. She didn’t look back as she opened the sliding glass door and slipped out into the darkness that the falling night brought. I watched her disappear out of the house and into the backyard, her form fading from view like she had been a figment of my imagination the whole time, the cruelest most perfect kind of dream.

Oh, how I loved her. And I was so, so stupid.

I busied myself in her absence by bringing my laptop bag and our shared suitcase to the master bedroom and rested them against the wall just inside the door. I returned to the kitchen to clean up the broken glass and spilt water, glancing out the back door as if half expecting her to come back inside. I was met with darkness.

I squinted slightly to try and see the light from the backyard studio window but it was still pitch black. Odd. Usually you could see the light from the main house. I brushed it off that she simply went to bed early after such a fight and focussed on the broken glass. I had just crouched down to pick up the worst of it with a steady hand when the pling of the security camera peaked my attention. It rang steady from the monitor’s spot on the front counter and I headed over to it to check on the studio cameras, but the alarm was disarmed from the studio before I could reach it, sending the kitchen back into silence.

My phone buzzed in my pocket at that moment and I pulled it out to read the text from my older brother,

Did you get home okay?

I hesitated as I read his message, not particularly wanting to be honest with him and have to endure his confessions of his dislike of my new wife and her very personable opinions on my job. It was our private relationship and Christian seemed to like to weasel his nose into it sometimes. Ah, well. He meant well. Before I could decide if I wanted to answer him right away or not, I heard a faint scream from the backyard and my head shot up to look towards the sliding glass doors. I paused, expecting Avalon to come running in to ask me to kill a spider any moment now.

But there was nothing.

I pocketed my phone and walked briskly across the main floor of the house, broken glass forgotten, and slipped outside into the warm LA evening. The studio was only a few paces from the back porch and I jumped down the three steps and across the stone tiles to the door. I didn’t bother knocking before I went inside, the darkness that consumed me when I entered already adding more concern to my conscious, and I reached for the light switch blindly.

“Ava? I thought I heard you scream, are you-”

The scene that met my eyes with the flick of the switch had my breath stopping in my throat, my words falling into silence, and my heart dropping into my stomach. Avalon was laying over the rug across the small room, eyes staring blankly into the ceiling, and her throat slit until she was laying in a pool of her own blood.

“Aves.” I breathed shakily, taking a step towards her, then a second, “Avalon, honey…”

She wasn’t moving. I barely made it halfway across the studio but with my back to the door I had entered through, someone came up behind me and grabbed me, slapping their hand over my mouth and holding me down by an arm around my waist. I struggled and tried to get away but they had a good grip on me as they swiped my feet out from under me and took me to the ground. The sharp slam of my head hitting the side of the piano on the way down was the last sound in the room before I blacked out.

Detective Team: @jonahlovescoffee @randomlimelightxxx @stuffofseaveyy @hopinglimelight @tempus-ut-luceant @br4nd1s @xkelsev @hiya-its-amber @the-girl-who-cried-wolf

#🔪#why dont we #daniel seavey #why dont we fanfic #daniel seavey fanfic

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roll-da-credits · 3 years

Text

Lycoris Radiata Pt. 2 -Deku x Reader-

Inspired by the piano piece, "Lycoris Radiata," Written by Spikes, played by MusicalBasics.

Highly recommend listening to it whilst reading.

[1] [2] [3]

Word Count: 1.7k

When a childhood love shows up after being lost to time, it's unnerving to be presented by something so familiar yet different. Deku lost to his own love and presented with the stresses of life and unrequited love, it isn't easy to see the world with an unbiased gaze.

!WARNING!

(This is for the entire series and not just this part)

BIG TW for death, suicide, abuse,

Minor TW for death imagery, toxic relationship, toxic friendship, toxic shit all around

A/n: I hope all of my little details are noticed by you guys because it did take a long time to take into consideration all of the details, I hope you enjoy this.

After reuniting with you in that park, Deku found himself longing to hang out with you even more. Longing to hear your stories and longing to tell you his adventure as a pro. So, that’s exactly what he did.

Every time he had an off-day or a patrol near where you worked or resided. He would always stop by, say hello, catch up, talk about your day.

On not so rare occasions he’d also meet your boyfriend at the same place. When questioned about it he realized your boyfriend worked at the same place you did. It wasn’t very odd to him so he simply laughed it off and considered how lucky you were to be in the same place as your loved one very often.

“There was also this one time where they tripped and spilled the coffee on another barista! It was hilarious!!!” Your boyfriend laughed out loud behind the display of pastries, chatting with Deku.

You looked away rather quickly after he talked about that moment, “Are you ok Y/n?” Deku queried. “Ah they’re fine, they’re just embarrassed. I mean who wouldn’t be, it was their first day.”

Deku grinned and shook his head slightly, reminiscing about all the times he’s embarrassed himself with you in front of people or embarrassed himself in front of you. He smiled at it, without realizing his gaze slowly becoming pinker. Pinker with adoration and love for you.

After all these years, you still held the same grace in his eyes. Of course, you changed a little bit, people change over time. But to him, the best parts of you still remained. You were still the perfect person he would’ve loved to spend his entire life with.

He quickly darted his eyes away from your form making another cup of coffee for a customer, realizing the fact that your boyfriend had gone quiet. Most likely because of the fact Deku was staring at his lover.

“I’m sorry I blanked out,” Deku tried his best to apologize, “What were you saying again?”

For a split second Deku could feel rage beneath your boyfriend’s eyes, it was expected of course. No one would want their significant other to be stared at.

But just as quickly as that rage rose, your boyfriend switched the topics and went back to his chipper move. Though from his already pink-tinted eyes, Deku missed the way his hand gripped the metal prongs used to get the pastries, a little bit tighter.

The next day he came over to the café you worked at, and unlike usual you didn’t greet him from behind the counter. You stayed focus on your work.

Deku couldn’t help but stare once again at your adorable focusing form. Every time he looked at you, though he has yet to come to terms with it, everything else in the room disappears. His eyes, mind, soul, body, and heart all focus on you.

“You must really like our stuff huh?” Your boyfriend interrupted his train of thought and Deku had to mentally scold himself for staring once again.

You also seemed to snap out of your trance and locked eyes with him, you offered him a small smile before rushing back to take the orders of other customers.

Deku, like he would always every other day, ordered his usual. Talked a little bit with your boyfriend, liking him more and more by the day. Then leaving after he had finished his favorite red velvet cupcake you made and morning coffee, oddly enough without talking to you the entire day.

It wasn’t until the next week would he be able to come to your café again, exhausted, tired, and drained.

The week on his last trip to your café swamped him with terribly mentally draining missions and failures. He had failed to rescue the final person from being trapped underneath rubble, after saving her entire family, before he could run in the rubble fell. Instantly killing the person.

A sprout of red blood spilled from her body as her family surrounded it and cried. Deku knelt down and faced the family, his hands stained red from the blood on the floor. He cried and apologized over and over again.

The family stopped his apologies and reassured him it was not his fault.

After clearing out the rubble, the family went over to Deku and invited him to a burial ceremony that exact night. Since their Islamic tradition pushed them to bury the body as soon as possible.

Deku obviously accepted, realizing this could be a way to get through with his own feelings. As if reminding him that people die and that he couldn’t save everyone.

The ceremony was held in a gravesite extremely close to your café, a graveyard he didn’t even notice when visiting your café. To him, the entire thing ended in a flash and after once again apologizing to the entire large family gathered there. He decided to stay and apologize to the girl he couldn’t save.

He felt a foreboding sense of fear of this ever happening again. She was in the wrong situation and no one could’ve saved her if they wanted to save the entire family as well. From the corner of his eye, he saw a beautiful red flower blooming and immediately thought of you.

To him, it was extremely odd to find a flower blooming in a graveyard but he thought it was fitting. The flower had long red petals that curved downwards, red strings of stigma protruding out holding pollen on its tips. He didn’t know what the plant was, nor did he care honestly, he thought it was an incredibly beautiful gem to grow wildly in a graveyard.

Deku stood and plucked a few of them, putting some on the girl’s grave and leaving with a few to bring to you.

Though he found himself unable to go to your café since once more he was swamped with work. He placed the flowers in water, but they seemed to die rather quickly. So, he threw it out before he got the chance to give it to you.

At long last, he was able to visit you. He was rather ecstatic when he saw that your boyfriend was absent from his work. Meaning during your break, he got to have you for himself.

Obviously, he was exhausted and drained, though that would never stop him from babbling nonsense to you. Which he noticed you were enjoying yourself, but you seemed a bit more fidgety than usual. He asked you what was wrong, only to have you brush it off.

He found it slightly frustrating that despite how close you were together, you didn’t trust him enough yet to tell him how you felt. Then the topic of what he did the last week came up.

Deku told you all about the girl he couldn’t save and the flower he found. He asked if you knew the flower and if you could make it bloom right in front of both of you with your quirk. You laughed at his rather childish request but obliged.

“Of course I can silly.” You concentrated your mind to the middle of the table and slowly the same red flower erupted from the middle of the table.

Deku grinned ear to ear and complimented you on your quirk. “You’re incredible as always. I’ve always wanted to ask you so many questions about your quirk but I don’t really think I have the time right now since I have to patrol very soon. But OH do you know what flower this is by the way? I know you love red flowers and I just like the way it looks and how it’s so pretty growing in a place where dead things are you know like in a gra-”

Your sweet laughed cut his rambling short. “Izuku, breathe, I see you still ramble a lot. No, I don’t really know what flower it is, I've just seen it from animes.”

Before Deku could prod you further about the anatomy of the plant or if you could find the flower’s name for him. You quickly turned the subject to a different thing. Letting the spider-like flower in the middle of the table die out rather slowly.

“Hey Izuku, I’ve been wanting to ask.” Deku hummed in reply, “What do you think of my boy-”

But a shriek of pain suddenly filled the café. Deku’s hero instincts caused him to stand up and run immediately to the source. Everything in his eyes went in slow motion.

A woman froze in her spot as a truck rammed against her, just mere inches from Deku’s grasps. The woman immediately got run over just as the driver pressed the breaks.

Deku knelt down on her bleeding body, warm pools of red staining his clothes. Yet another life he couldn’t save. He looked around half expecting to see the looks of disappointment in people’s eyes, and yet all he saw was a pity.

After all, he was a hero, he had to be ready to be able to deal with these situations. Even if it meant forcing himself to get used to the red tint on him from all the blood.

“Y/n look!” A middle-school Deku urged you to look at his hand, a tiny little spider crawled on it. He found the little critter rather adorable.

Yet you found it a little bit more terrifying than him. “How could you hold it so calmly Izuku!!!” You almost shrieked in horror as he tried to pass the spider over to you.

He laughed and continued observing the spider. “Where did you find it anyways??? There are barely any spiders here.” You questioned him further.

Deku merely shrugged, “I found it on that tree, it had pretty red flowers I want to give you…” Realizing what he just said his face turned red and quickly backtracked, “Because you got that perfect score in that final test!!! I just wanted to give you a gift and I know how much you liked red flowers and I’m going to go to a separate school very soon. I don’t know where you’re going, but you know I’m going to UA and going to be the number one hero after I graduate. But I wanted to give you a gift and red flowers seem really cute and if I picked them myself it would be even cuter and I know it's weird and I hope you don’t think I’m we-”

His rambling stopped when he felt something warm on his cheek. “It isn’t weird at all Izuku. I think it’s really cute. Also don’t think so much about that kiss. You seemed too lost in thought so I wanted to snap you back to reality.”

Your funny and mischievous ways of toying with him made his heart ache a tiny bit more. He knew you didn’t realize what you were doing to him was making him fall deeper and deeper to the depths of love.

“Anyways put that spider back on the tree, I want to tell you about this guy that I met the other day.”

He closely listened to your rambles about a boy you seemed head over heels for. He just smiled and agreed to everything. He tuned out every time you gushed about him, the ache in his chest growing heavier and heavier.

He had to be selfless.

After all, if he was going to be a hero, he had to be able to control his emotions. Even if that meant pushing down the urge to tell you to be with him instead, deep inside.

#deku angst #izuku midoriya #deku x reader #izuku x reader #midoriya angst #deku fluff #my hero academia #mha #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #deku x you #izuku midoriya x you #bnha x reader #izuku fanfic #deku fanfiction

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radioactivepeasant · 4 years

Text

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

(Part 2 of yesterday's snippet!)

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

Luke had been so sure of himself when he'd entered the chamber. He knew what he had to do, and he knew there was always a chance that he would die in the attempt. But his friends -- no, his family -- were trapped in this facility, and Luke would not let them die.

Yoda didn't understand. He claimed to have watched over Luke all his life. He criticized Luke for looking to the future and not the present.

If the present is so important, Master, if you can see so far, why didn't you see that Leia's been tortured by Vader before? How can you be willing to let her fall into his hands again?

No. Luke would never let that happen. His friend was more important than his training: he would never choose to let someone die for his own benefit.

That's not the kind of Jedi I'm going to be.

And so he had chosen to fight.

But there was a problem.

Darth Vader had chosen not to fight.

The man's presence filled the room like smoke, billowing and curling around them both as though it could cut off every escape route. Maybe it could. Luke was not foolish enough to believe that Vader was vulnerable, just because he refused to draw his sword. The Force was with him, after all. Corrupted, used for selfish purposes, but nevertheless a powerful ally.

But Vader did not attack.

Again and again he admonished Luke for his aggression. A hint of scolding. A hint of fond exasperation. As if he were a teacher correcting a favored pupil.

Or a fa-

Luke cut off the thoughts in fury. His enemy was underestimating him. Patronizing the would-be Jedi, so sure of his own superiority.

This was not a Darth Vader he had seen before. Where was the cold pragmatism? The apathy towards others? Clearly it had been in play when he had harmed Han and Leia and Chewie.

"I have no specific grievance against those you keep company with."

And that was worse. Infinitely worse. Everything he had done to his friends -- to Leia! -- and he didn't even have any particular issues with them?! If he could torture someone he didn't hate, what would he do to someone he did have a grudge against?

What will he do to me?

Now he walked down the stairs, ignoring Luke's lightsaber, speaking calmly as though he could pretend he hadn't just used sentient beings as bait to draw him here. It didn't work like that! He couldn't just make Luke drop his guard with honeyed words. Every child raised on Tatooine knew the danger of those who spoke sweetly and held a transmitter behind their backs. Luke wasn't going to fall for it and he wasn't shy about saying so.

"The jakreb learns to listen before he runs," his enemy quoted suddenly. He sounded amused.

That was an old saying on Tatooine. A proverb to teach children to watch carefully for signs of danger before making a move. There should have been no reason for Vader to know it.

None whatsoever.

I don't like this. Something is wrong.

Something plucked at his memories. A tickle at the back of his mind, like a spider crawling across his skin. Nothing concrete, but a nameless, formless, something.

"The dragon who moves too soon is a dragon who starves," Luke shot back, a little rashly.

Another old proverb. Less about wariness and caution and more about patience.

I know what you're doing, old man. You're the dragon. I'm the jakreb. So which one of us is going to move first?

But Vader kept walking. After all this, after the horrible things he'd done just to get Luke here, he was just...just leaving?! But that didn't make any sense!

“You want me to drop my guard, so you can kill me. Just like you did to Ben!” he accused.

He turned his blade to a more horizontal guard and stepped up to the high ground.

If Vader was trying to lure him in close enough to run him through, he was going to be disappointed.

“Luke.” Vader shook his head and continued to descend the staircase. Again his voice was sickeningly compassionate. “Obi-wan allowed himself to be killed. What his motives could have been, I do not know. He told himself and everyone around him such pretty lies that I am no longer certain that even he knew what his motivations were. But I assure you that whatever he did, he did so deliberately.”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Luke's stomach. There was so much anger hiding in those words. Maybe Vader didn't have a vendetta against Luke's friends, but it was very clear that he'd hated Obi-wan. But why?

Ben said that Vader betrayed and murdered his father. He said nothing about Vader betraying him. And he'd given no hint that there might be particularly bad blood between them. Did he just think it wasn't Luke's business?

But Luke knew that Vader was right about one thing: Ben had chosen to die at that particular moment. “To give us time to escape," he said defiantly. Lightsaber at the ready, he cautiously began to descend the stairs after Vader. "So we could destroy your Death Star! Worked out pretty well, Vader.”

“Indeed?”

Vader glanced back over his shoulder at Luke, then stepped off the edge of the platform.

What the kriff?!

He was leaving! Why? Was this room a trap? Would he activate one of those machines as soon as he was out?

Oh no way. Not a chance. You don't get to walk away from me, Sithspawn.

Luke scrambled to the edge of the platform in time to see Vader stepping into one of the maintenance tunnels.

“That is a topic for speculation, I believe," the rumbling voice echoed back. Luke definitely caught some sarcasm in his tone. "But for all the times your “Ben” betrayed me, it is fitting that in his final moments he unwittingly revealed you to me. Returning what he stole all those years ago.”

What.

The reverberating breaths faded out, and Luke stood at the edge of the platform. He tried to piece together what he'd just heard logically.

Had Ben stolen something from Vader? If the Sith wanted it, it was probably a good thing Obi-wan had taken it. Whatever it was. Maybe a weapon?

Luke's heart sank as he looked down at the brilliant blue glow of his saber.

Vader killed his father. He might have felt that Anakin's lightsaber rightfully belonged to him.

What do I do?! This is my lightsaber! My inheritance. It's all I have of my father and I will not let him take that away.

Luke's emotions twisted around each other, bending back over themselves in a discordant jangle of mismatched rhythms as he tried to understand what was happening. The grip of the saber was slick in his hands.

I'm…

No, no, I can do this.

I'm scared

I can do this!

He was being torn in two different directions. Every fiber of his being begged him to flee. To not walk into what could very well be a trap. But at the same time, something down that tunnel was calling him. Like a cord wrapped around his heart, steadily pulling him to an unknown destination, he felt the whispers more than he heard them.

I'm scared.

It's alright to be scared. I'm here.

They weren't words so much as sensations. Faintly brushing against his memory like a butterfly's wing, the whispers seemed to promise that everything would be alright, he just couldn't look back.

Frightened, but determined, Luke clipped his saber to his belt and eased over the edge of the platform.

It's okay. I can do this.

I can win.

Just don't look back.

The instant Luke stepped into the tunnel, the lights snapped on. He had a feeling that he was walking into a trap. But then, the place he had just left felt like a trap, too.

Kriff kriff kriff.

Stupid jakreb hopped right into the snare.

There was a control room at the end of the tunnel.

There was a Sith Lord at the end of the tunnel.

Luke had his lightsaber out almost before he had time to think.

A grate slid shut over the tunnel mouth behind him, cutting off his retreat.

Well.

At least he could see in this room.

"Put down your weapon, young one," Vader said again. He did not even turn away from the holographic map to face Luke.

"Not. Happening." Luke bared his teeth and forced himself to take two steps forward. "You have to answer for what you did, Vader. To my friends, and the galaxy, and the Jedi...and my father."

Quite suddenly, Vader's shoulders fell. He leaned against the projector as if he were bone-weary.

"Child, I have done nothing to your father."

He still did not turn.

"He is a contemptible, pitiable wretch, too quick to give his loyalty to those who do not deserve it. But he is a powerful wretch. Powerful enough to conceal your existence from the emperor for the last three years."

Luke stumbled back. His father's lightsaber hung by his side uselessly.

Present tense.

Darth Vader was speaking about his father in the present tense.

Anakin Skywalker.

Present tense.

"You...you're lying."

No please, please don't be lying-

I can't…

Don't toy with me you sleemo

Don't you dare use my father's memory as a ploy-

At last, Vader turned to face him. "I have done what I can, Luke," he said simply. "But now we are out of time."

"I have done what I can"

Something cold and clammy slithered in Luke's gut. It knotted in coils around his spine to sink its teeth into his heart. Against his will, tears sprang to his eyes.

He knew Darth Vader was evil, but this was a cruelty he had not expected. The carefully laid trap, baited with words, and the insinuations eased between sentences, struck deeper than any lightsaber's blow. He played on the memory of Luke's father -- of his loneliness, his lifelong yearning for his father -- and twisted it. Perverted it into an attempt at manipulation so blatant it could hardly be believed.

Did he believe it was an attempt at manipulation?

What if it was worse? What if Vader actually believed what he seemed to be implying? Pointing out how illogical it was could quickly become dangerous. But Luke was past the point of caring.

"You...you aren't half the man my father was!" he hissed.

Something bitter and almost amused dripped from the Sith to puddle around Luke's fear.

"An ironic statement."

"You don't know me!" Luke continued gamely on as if he had not been interrupted. "You think you're the first person to play mind games with my memories? Huh? Kriff you!"

He swung the blade up in a ready position.

Darth Vader tilted his head to one side, considering.

"This is not going to go the way you think."

The spiders were back, creeping across his brain. Luke blinked and shook his head to clear it. Losing his focus here would be fatal.

"Don't fight it."

Vader raised a hand towards him, almost reaching out.

"You have been running for a long time. It is alright to rest, now."

Was the Sith doing something to his mind?!

But Ben said mind tricks only worked on the weak-willed! And Yoda was always complaining about how stubborn he was!

"Get out of my head!" Luke shouted. Don't panic, don't panic-

"It is not me."

Oh, gentleness did not sound right coming out of that voice.

"You have forgotten who you are, and yet from our first encounter your memories have tried to reestablish themselves. Stop fighting them, Luke. Let them flow."

Luke stopped pretending he wasn't afraid. He was terrified. He was alone in an isolated place, too far away to call for help, and trapped with a deadly enemy who meant to prey upon his very sense of self.

His hands were shaking too badly to hold up his father's blade. This was so stupid, he was so stupid, he never should have come here! He had to get out, there had to be a way out!

Luke scanned the room frantically for an exit. He backed away from Vader and edged towards what looked like a corridor.

"Luke."

"No!"

Luke stumbled over a bundle of cables on the floor and nearly fell. He managed a graceful recovery despite his terror and kept moving.

"Stay away from me!"

Vader did not. He began to move at last, slow and purposeful and relentless.

The Force moved around them like a frigid tide, pulling machinery from the walls to land behind Luke. He was cutting off his escape. The trap had been sprung.

"Stop running, Luke."

"Leave me alone!"

He was pleading now.

All sense of bravado, of dignity, had fled.

Obi-wan was right. I'm not ready. I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die-

If Leia lives, it's worth it

But I don't-

I don't want to die

And then at last, he could go no further. His calves caught on some discarded hunk of metal, and toppled him. Sharp, broken pieces dug into his back as he landed. The pain felt distant, like something that was happening to someone else. Luke's increasing disorientation muffled everything but his fear.

This was the end. Luke, on the ground at Darth Vader's feet. If the encounter didn't end in immediate death, his interrogation was likely imminent.

But Vader

Knelt.

He kneeled down beside Luke and rested his gloved hand on Luke's cheek. Luke was very sure that his heart was going to stop.

Oh. He's going to snap my neck. At least it'll be quick.

"Enough, child." A deep bass growl vibrated through the words. He sounded as though he was finally angry. "I am not going to kill you!"

Before Luke had time to process that, he added, "I am trying to save you."

Save me?! From what?!

Luke swung out with one arm, trying to push the dark lord away. Vader caught his wrist easily and squeezed it.

"You know me." Each syllable dripped with an unexpected urgency. "Search your feelings: you will know it to be true. Remember, Luke. You must remember."

"No!" Luke tried in vain to pull away. "S-stop!"

He was pulled, gently, but firmly, up into a sitting position.

He was pulled, less gently, by the thread around his soul. It reached out, straining for something it had once known. A sense of something missing.

A sense that was being answered in kind.

And he felt something. Something he had felt before.

Or rather

Someone.

Luke knew the answer to the question his soul was asking.

He didn't want to know.

He didn't want to face it.

No, no please-!

"You have forgotten what you once knew," Vader murmured. "You have forgotten me. And I- I believed you had died."

Seething shadows coiled around them both.

"The Emperor will suffer no Skywalker to be free. If he is not entirely beneath the emperor's thumb, then he must die. If you lived, his hold on me was jeopardized. Luke, he told me you were dead. But here you are, alive again!"

Skywalker.

Vader was referring to himself as Skywalker.

The Force resonated. A great bell seemed to have tolled, and with each reverberation the jagged pieces were forced together.

Darkness and Light.

Hunter and quarry.

Lost and found.

Father and son.

Luke could not see through his tears. He didn't need to. He could feel.

The Force was no longer a counterpoint around them. It was a harmony. And that was the hardest truth of all.

Shhh, you are safe. I'm here, I'm here.

The same soundless lullaby that had soothed his childhood nightmares. The thing he had forgotten.

His father's voice.

I know you.

"Oh." Darth Vader lifted him free of the machinery as easily as if he were still a little child.

He pulled Luke into his arms. Luke did not have the strength to resist.

“There you are.”

#Free Day Thursday #star wars wednesday #star wars au #bespin au #esb au #darth vader #luke skywalker #fic prompts #writing prompts #Luke is Not having a good time but hey he doesn't lose a hand #sneaky Mufasa references Because I Can #look if a human baby can know and recognize their parents' voices before birth and you add Force Weirdness to that #then not only do you get a plausible explanation for Leia having memories of her mother #you also have the possibility of Luke recognizing his dad's Force signature

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