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unholyhelbig · 3 years

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Artifice | Chapter 10: The Escape

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The leather was cool under Beca’s fingertips. It smelled of oil paints, and clove, and the faintest bit of smoke. There was salt and sun all at once. She had carried the bag everywhere with her, strung against her shoulder. There were only ever a few cotton shirts, and pants that were worth well with dirt and blood.

She kept her sketchbook, bound in the equally fine leather, close to her heart. A small section of charcoal was folded into a cloth. It was hard to come by, nearly impossible, but Beca knew the right people. Emily Junk knew the right people. She pulled strings for fine clay and even finer parchment.

They were simple gifts, but intricate. When Beca’s stomach was rolling and the ship rocked steadily against black waves, she would sit and sketch Emily, focused so fully on the maps, the charting, and the stars that they followed. Moonlight would dance across her features in pale magnificence.

She kept the sketchbook, the one that reminded her of the ocean before she met Christian and felt the sting of his open palm against her cheek, at the bottom of the bag, away from Chloe, and Aubrey, and Garrett, and the rest of the prying eyes of the world. It was her solace. It made her sick to her stomach.

Beca peeled the bag open. She didn’t’ care much for folding the clothes that she had strewn across the room in her time at the Beale Estate. They had fit just fine when they were pressed and smelling of fresh linen, they would fit just fine now.

Sadness pricked at the back of her eyes. She thought of betraying her own unspoken rules as an artist and tearing the cleanest page from her sketchbook out. She would scrawl a note in charcoal on the back, dirtying the pads of her fingertips and forgetting herself fully.

Unlike her first night here, she could navigate the hallways that were meant for staff with her eyes closed. Stacie had pressed the lanterns hours before Beca returned from the pub. The wax had hardened and the scent of ash hung stubbornly in the air.

Moonlight flitted through the kitchen. She figured she could slip through the back doors into the warmth of the night without anyone missing her too much. Her throat stung with two mugs of brew she had downed to quell her emotions at the pub. It spurred her on, told her to press forward.

Forget the commission, forget the billionaire that had wronged the seven seas, forget his siren wife with hot copper ringlets, and fair lambskin.

“You’re leaving without saying goodbye.”

The statement had no infliction behind it. Beca felt her heart in her throat and her fingers numb against the strap of her leather bag. She hadn’t moved yet, hadn’t gotten past the threshold of the patio door. She hadn’t estimated how long she stood there, counting the blades of grass, but the voice startled her.

“I have to go,” Beca said.

She turned to face Aubrey Posen. A tin mug with water rested at her side, half consumed. The blonde may have watched her as she watched the world, those cold apple-green eyes. They gave her away as human instead of an animal, focused instead of sure.

A silk robe covered her shoulders, the lavender material rich, and rarely seen by someone of her caliber. The whole estate was like that, fancy vases and sculptures, and iron workings that Beca had seen from the outside, looking in, but never the other way around.

“You’re a coward.”

She scoffed “A coward? No soy un cobarde.”

Even as she said it, she knew she was wrong. Someone who didn’t’ shy away from confrontation would have kneeled in front of the woman in the house by now- they would have told her about the band of looters, and pirates that intended on storming her personal palace.

Her face must have softened and given her away. Aubrey quirked an eyebrow, raising the mug to her lips before humming in satisfaction. It made Beca’s skin burn and her heart prickle.

“Leave, then. Making Chloe suffer by contemplating your own actions is doing more harm than good.”

Beca hated to swallow her words twice in one sitting but found herself taking the remaining three steps towards the kitchens island. Aubrey seemed to tense at the movement, dry-mouthed and thick with contempt.

“It’s for the better.”

“For you, or for her?” Aubrey lowered the mug and let out a sigh “Listen, you being here… has been good for Chloe. I thought you would be like them all, the artists. They waltz into the estate with their oils, and charcoals, and parchment, and think that they have the world at their fingertips. Instead of painting her, they use her. And she lets them.”

“I understand your hand over her, Aubrey,” Beca said.

“Hand over who?”

The two women glanced towards the opening to the kitchen. Chloe stood under the archway, her hair caught the moonlight like the rest of the kitchen, but in a deeper, cherry-colored way. She looked sleep-worn and content. That soon shifted against her features as she took in the leather satchel, the swept way Beca stared, and the fingerprints on the glass sliding door.

“You’re going,” She murmured.

The shatter of her words cut deep against Beca’s skin. She felt as if she might bleed there, bite her tongue until she swallowed mouthfuls of red. Her shoulders slumped, her resolve nearly broke. “I don’t have a choice.”

“A choice… Beca you’re here to paint. Have I scorned you that horribly with my antics that you’ve given up the fight?” She scoffed “I’ll ease on the chase. We can start tomorrow>”

She turned and glanced towards the backyard. The moonlit the path beautifully towards the ocean, and the docks, and the fire-filled lights that reflected off the waves. If she searched hard enough, she could see Emily’s ship, its red sails, and drafting architecture.

Aubrey scooped her mug up and was halfway out of the kitchen by the time Beca mustered up the courage to turn back to the woman. She hated the weight of the two of them this close to one another, standing off with nothing but a few inches between them.

“Garrett has wronged a very dangerous group of people,” Beca meant to sound powerful, strong, and sure of herself, but she wasn’t. There was a meekness to her words. “They’re planning to storm this place, to take back what is rightfully theirs.”

Chloe pursed her lips, frowning as she stared at the terracotta tiling. She had her own silk robe wrapped tersely around her, her blue eyes hard and unreadable. “My husband does not speak about his business and I am kind enough not to ask.”

“He’s robbing people, Chloe. Good innocent people.”

“Pirates.” She snapped back “the last I checked they’re the ones that pillage, and murder, and go entirely feral at the sight of a pint of ale. Garrett is doing this world well.”

“They do what they can to survive. I don’t expect you to understand.”

It came out harsher than intended. Chloe snapped her gaze up to the woman with such ferocity that it chilled her to her bones. She steadied her hand against the island, fingers white as they pressed into the countertop. “Excuse me?”

“Rich, and stubborn enough not to go with me if I asked you to.” Beca whispered, this time sure of herself “I know these people, grew up with them, love them. And they are more merciless than many. Yet you would stay to defend your home, your possessions. Your paintings.”

The words felt bitter against Beca’s tongue. As if her saliva had turned to acid. She would never speak out against the lady of a house, much less one that had offered to pay for her services. But Chloe’s world was sheltered, and it was close to crumbling.

“You never asked.” She snarled, taking another step forward, closing the gap between them. Beca could feel the anger rolling off her in waves. “You packed your things and were going to escape into the night.”

Her breath came out in a shudder, it pressed against Chloe’s collarbone, making goosebumps rise against her skin. Blue eyes flicked to her lips, to her jawline, and to her own chest heaving up and down. It would take nearly nothing to push forward and escape the space left between them.

She swallowed the hot taste in her mouth “Would you have gone?”

Chloe met her question with silence. Maybe the words were stuck in her throat, or maybe they had no place where they were to begin with. Beca frowned, fretted, and took a step back. Chloe could have held her there, tethered her to one spot. She had enough power to convince her to stand against Emily and her intent. But nothing was said. The silence dripped heavily between them.

“Give Garrett my apologies.” She said, “I pray he can find an artist to capture your likeness one day.”

Before the tears that were welling up in Chloe’s eyes could escape, Beca had turned, opened the patio door, and began to walk across the moonlit grass. There were clouds in the sky, prominent against the dark backdrop, covering the ball of light enough for her to slip through the trees that turned to swamp and swamp that stretched into an alcove.

Garrett had spared no expense, the jutting cliffs that dropped straight to the docs and choppy waves had a staircase carved into it. Metal for the same lanterns that lined the Beale estate was set up in sporadic intervals. Beca had trusted only her instinct and anger to get her down to the docks.

Emily’s ship sprouted with blue and amber lights. A man grizzled and half-drunk with the swells of the sea stood as Beca approached. He drew his sword with a slick sound of metal upon metal. The tip of the weapon found its home under her chin, close enough to slice the hair from her head.

“State your business.” He purred, lilting his head at his prize.

“Jasper,” Emily’s voice came from the deck of the ship. She leaned over the railing, having shed her leather coat, and her captain’s hat, simple and beautiful in the moonlight. The man never hesitated. “She’s fine. Come up,”

She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, running her finger over the raw spot against her throat. He could have easily sliced through the skin, could have made a meal of her before the night had even begun.

Beca scaled the rope ladder leading to the main deck of the ship. By the time she had reached the top Emily had a grin on her face, nothing short of pride and warmth. There was a subtle rocking beneath her feet that reminded her so fully of home.

“Do my eyes deceive me delicately?”

“They don’t,”

Emily furrowed her brow and lilted the woman’s head up with the curl of her finger, the opposite of the blade with her softness, and tender stare. “You’re sure about this? I can get you off the island.”

“I’ve already turned my back once tonight. No puedo hacerlo de nuevo. I wish to join you.”

The captain withdrew her touch, worry etched into her features, catching every spare light that the night sea had to offer. Her eyes flitted to the last remaining glow in the kitchen of the Beale Manor, entirely visible from the docks. Past the trees, and the hedges, and the swamps, she could have sworn she saw a woman, backed by a lantern, and forlorn with fear.

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Bechloe #Fanfiction #Historical au

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gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

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Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: With the wizarding war finally put behind you, Draco feels as though it’s time for a change.

Warnings: mentions of the war, mild angst, mentions of anxiety, fluff, lots of kisses

It had been rather dreary when morning finally rolled around at the Manor, puffy gray clouds covering the expanse of the sky as rain drizzled steadily. The weather appeared to be sticking around for a while, and it left Draco grumbling over his morning cup of coffee in disapproval as he watched the rain drops trickle down the windowpanes one after another.

“Is that a hint, Draco?” You inquire, raising a curious brow at him as you tried to pull any bit of information from him you can. You make your way around the large kitchen table to where he leaned against the marble counter, standing on your tip-toes and kissing his cheek sweetly.

“Consider it your only one, my Darling. I’m not allowing you to spoil any more surprises.”

That last part is spoken against your lips, lips that soon meld together in a lovingly gentle kiss that tasted of coffee and cream. You sigh softly when you parted, but your longing for clues is just barely appeased for the time being. However, you were not letting this go and he knew it.

He was beginning to regret telling you about such surprises the day before because you hadn’t stopped asking for bits and pieces since, even going so far as to waking him in the middle of the night. You claimed you couldn’t sleep from the excitement, and he hadn’t minded the sweet kisses you had given to wake him. But now he was rather tired.

He watched after you with a soft smile as you disappeared from the large room momentarily, coming back with your coat and shoes on.

“Are you ready, love?”

Your tone was ever so sweet with more than a hint of excited impatience laced amongst your words. He was ready, save for his shoes. You had thought he’d looked absolutely handsome, though his choice in clothes had given no indication of what the plan was for the day. He was dressed in a simple gray t-shirt and a pair of black pants, rolled up once or twice at the ankles. At first he thought it looked absolutely ridiculous, but with a lot of wearing down on your end, he finally caved. His hair was a mess, icy blonde strands dipping down in his eyes as a chunk stuck out rebelliously in the very back. He had a habit of leaving his bedhead untouched much to his mothers dismay.

He set his mug down with a soft sigh and brushed past you with a tired kiss and a hum in response, moving to slip on his shoes. He grabbed his keys from a curved iron hook at the large double doors after he slipped on his jacket, laughing to himself as you eagerly skip ahead of him down the grand stone steps of the Manor and towards the car. The two of you could easily apparate just about anywhere in a matter of seconds, but Draco found he liked the experience of a road trip better. It was a way for him to clear his head when he found himself overwhelmed; that and it gave him more time alone with you. So he bought a car.

It wasn’t brand new or extravagantly fancy like one would expect from a Malfoy; it was a vintage Volkswagen Beetle. In all honesty, it hadn’t been his first choice and maybe not even his second or third. But you lit up immediately when you saw the little yellow car and he didn’t have it in him to get anything else. He found he’d do anything just to see you smile.

“Come on!” You call out, ducking into the car as he shakes his head with a chuckle.

He rushed to the drivers side before the rain could pelt on him too much, brushing the dampened hair away that stuck to his forehead.

“Have you always been this impatient?” He quips, laughing out when you swat his arm lightly in protest. His smile is nothing short of adoring as he leans across the center console, his fingers splayed over your cheek. “I’m only kidding, darling.”

His words are soft against your lips as he kisses you sweetly, reluctantly pulling away to start the car. However, his hand quickly finds yours as he drives down the stone path and away from the Manor, his soft smile never faltering as your fingers intertwine out of absentminded habit.

“Am I dressed too casually?” You ask, playing with his fingers as your enveloped hands sat in your lap.

“You look beautiful.”

You bite back your smile as you look ahead with a fluttering heart, and he sneaks a glance your way at the lack of response.

“What?” He asks.

“I’m starting to think you’ll always say that,” you sigh, looking at him with a raised brow.

“Because you always are,” he counters without second thought and you’ve got nothing else to say. He smiles triumphantly as a rosy blush stains your cheeks and you settle for playing with the ring on his finger instead, but not before turning on the radio.

A quiet laugh left your lips at his immediate grumbling, loathing the choice in music, he wasn’t too fond of ABBA and Fleetwood Mac just yet. But if it meant he’d gotten to hear your voice when you sing he’d listen to it everyday.

It was a concept that scared him a bit if he lingered on the thought for too long. From experiencing very little love at all to feeling an insurmountable desire for it was something new to him. Something he had been apprehensive to fully accept in fear that it’d slip from his fingers if he basked in it too much. He wasn’t used to things working in his favor after all. But you came into his life and turned his very world upside down in the best of ways, and he found it impossible not to give in to the love blossoming in his chest and taking over his entire being, nor did he want to.

But he still had his doubts, he still wondered how someone as truly magnificent as you could give your heart to a Malfoy. That simple fact still baffled him each and every time it crossed his mind, had you not realized? Regardless, he had intentions of loving you for as long as you’d let him.

You found yourself looking over at him with a smile after a little while, admiring the way waves of platinum hung over his forehead and brushed over his dark lashes. The way his thumb absentmindedly tapped at the steering wheel as he hummed softly along with the radio; he’d insisted he hated this song in particular but you knew that to be false. He looked nothing short of adorable as his gaze flickered around the little town you drove through, concentration etched into his expression.

“I’m aware of your staring, you know,” he says with a knowing smirk, looking over to confirm his suspicions. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re madly in love with me.”

Without hesitation, you leaned over and brought him close, pressing a kiss on his cheek and another to the freckle on his jaw. His smile was instant, the softest of blushes coloring his cheeks.

“Love, if you keep doing that I’m going to miss my turn,” he chuckles, glancing over to you.

You sigh as your thumb runs along his cheek softly and he tries his hardest not to flush any deeper than that. Though in a matter of moments, luck seemed to be on his side as the traffic light ahead turned from yellow to red. He pulled your hand from his face gently and leaned over, pressing his lips on yours in a tender kiss. He’d been dying to do so the very moment he pulled away from the Manor and he took advantage of the opportunity the second he was given one.

A horn soon blared behind him and with a startled glance his eyes land on a very green traffic light, but still he steals another quick peck before continuing on with the trip with a racing heart.

“Am I just too distracting?” You jest, sticking your hand out the window to feel the breeze now that the rain had subsided for now.

“You have no idea,” he chuckles softly as he smiles fondly at the road ahead.

—

Another twenty minutes had passed before Draco pulled into a smaller neighborhood, promptly telling you to close your eyes. You did so, but not without a dramatic sigh from you, and you missed the way a soft look of excitement had painted its way across his face.

A few turns were made before the car had come to a stop, Draco instructing you to stay put with a kiss to your cheek. He rushed around to the other side of the car eagerly, opening your door. With gentle actions he got you from the car and kicked the door shut behind him, snaking his arm around your waist.

“Don’t look yet, darling,” Draco urges, his hand over yours to ensure you weren’t peeking as he carefully guided you to wherever it was you had been. You playfully try and do the opposite of his words, laughing out when he squeezes you close.

He turns on his heel and steps in front of you to pull his hand away, allowing you to drop yours as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

“Ideally, I could have done without the rain, and maybe it could be a bit warmer too—” His words are quickly cut off by your protest, and he kisses your lips once more. He takes a breath as he looks at you for a few fleeting moments, stepping to the side.

A cottage stands before you, nestled comfortably amongst many others in the quiet neighborhood. You look at him with a puzzled expression, but he’s got a smile that won’t seem to go away.

It was obscenely beautiful, ivy tangling on every corner of the house, sticking to the gray stone slabs of its walls. The rooftop was slanted downward with dark slate colored shingles, a matching chimney on either side. Deep green shutters line each slightly fogged window and colorful flowers reached just under their windowsills. A beautifully aged wrought iron fence surrounded the perimeter, creaking rather noisily when opened. The door was hardwood, painted a matching green with a small arched window at the very top.

Clusters of wildflowers had dotted amongst the lush grass, and a blossoming tree stood on either side of the pathway, sending flower petals fluttering to the ground like rain.

It looked like a place taken right out of a fairytale.

“Why are we at someone’s house?”

He stands there timidly, his smile growing as rain droplets catch in his platinum hair.

“It’s not just someone’s house,” He laughs softly, scratching the back of his neck. The nerves swirl in his stomach as the words catch in his throat briefly. “It’s ours.”

Not completely, a few documents needed signing, but it was yours. It had been Madam Pomfrey’s home, but as of late she’d decided that a smaller residence much closer to Hogwarts would be far more manageable. Draco had been her first and only choice to offer her beloved home to, considering him to be an honorable young healer who made a concerted effort to turn his life around.

The generous offer was one Draco couldn’t object to, finding that another minute living within the Manor would surely be maddening. It wasn’t that the two of you had outgrown it in the six years you’d spent there after the war. He’s not sure if even the entire student body of Hogwarts could outgrow it, it was large and luxurious. But it wasn’t comfortable to reside in a place that held such undesirable memories, he felt as though it wasn’t allowing him to move on from that time in his life just half a decade prior.

His father had just over half his sentence left in Azkaban and he wouldn’t be coming home in the near future, but he wasn’t fond of running into him again. Draco felt being on opposite ends of the Manor was not enough distance, especially when his father had an unwavering distaste for the love of his life. He wanted a place where he could live freely, a place where he was able to kiss you and love you wherever he pleased. And this was it.

Your confusion had only grown in that very moment, your brows knitting together as you narrow your eyes curiously at him. You opened your mouth to speak, but weren’t exactly sure what to say as shock still had its hold on you.

Before you could find the words, Draco grabbed your hand, tugging you along the mossy cobblestone walkway. “Come on.”

He plucked a small silver key from under a flowerpot and stuck it in the lock, turning back to look at you with a sheepish grin before twisting the copper doorknob.

The moment he opened the door you were hit with the scent of cinnamon and sugar, the sweet air adding a certain warmth to the place. The cozy living room was furnished with an armchair in the far corner and you assumed it was intentionally placed by the window for reading, a yellow knit blanket strewn across the tattered leather. An aged brick fireplace was paces away from it, and a loveseat adorned the opposite wall with a worn flannel blanket draped over the arm. The walls were painted a beautiful sage green, wood beams stretching across the ceiling as a lamp or two lit up the room in a warm glow.

Your hand immediately slipped from his the moment your eyes landed on the bookshelf along the wall, nearly full of books that looked quite familiar. Too familiar not to notice.

“So this is where my books have disappeared to?”

The quiet laugh behind you was confirmation enough as you ran your fingers across the worn spines. A framed picture came into view, a picture of the two of you captured within it. When you turn to him with an amused expression and a raised brow his cheeks flush a pale pink as he shrugs his shoulders, scratching the back of his neck once more.

“I wanted to see how it’d look,” he defends, clearly flustered the more you linger on the subject.

You roll your eyes as you kiss his cheek, taking his hand again. “Alright, Malfoy, take me to the next room.”

The kitchen was noticeably different than the one at your current home. Instead of obsidian black cabinets, these were a light rusted color. Rather than a large mahogany kitchen table, there was a small circular one located just below a window. Small plants resided on the windowsill over the sink, teacups hanging by their handles on a set of brass hooks on the soft yellow wall. What was quite possibly the cutest part was the jade colored oven and it’s matching fridge. It was a delightfully vibrant contrast to the color palette of grays and charcoals and whites adorning the furniture at the Manor.

You were seconds away from tugging back the frilly cream curtains over the windows when Draco stopped you.

You gave him a curious look and he gave one back as he pulled you along to another hallway. With each and every room the two of you had looked at, the more anxious Draco had become. He hadn’t told you about it first, after all. He was starting to wonder if you’d even liked it, he was starting to wonder if you’d been mad that he went out and did this on his own without your input.

“Draco!”

He’s quickly pulled from his thoughts before he gets too tangled up in them, finding you running your hands over the navy blue velvet pillows of the window seat in your soon-to-be bedroom. The look on your face is nothing but one of excitement and joy, and it eases the tension in his body and the nerves bubbling in his stomach.

You’d been mentioning your desire for a window seat ever since sixth year when you sat along the grand windowsills of the castle. You insisted there was no better place to read than that, and he hadn’t forgotten. He certainly knew it’d be more comfortable to sit in when you inevitably fall asleep on his chest. He didn’t know how much more his body could take of slumping against cold stone when you fell asleep after hushed stories of classic novels had been abandoned in empty corridors. However, he couldn’t bring himself to wake you when you were so content.

“I knew you’d like it the moment I saw it,” he chuckles, bringing you close by a grip on your hands.

“You remembered,” you say softly, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he laughs against your lips.

“How could I forget?” You respond with a sweet kiss, his hands squeezing yours gently before letting them go in favor of wrapping around your waist. His lips parted from yours to press chaste kisses to your nose, to your cheek, ever so tenderly to the underside of your jaw, and perhaps the softest to ghost over your neck. He has to stop himself before he becomes to distracted with you. “There’s one more suprise, darling.”

His words are whispered against your hair as he kisses your temple, and you’re quick to grab his hands. “What are we waiting for?”

You follow him down the curved staircase and once you reach the bottom he asks you to close your eyes once again. This time you do so without protest, his hand warm in yours as he pulls you outside. The chilly spring temperatures were a noticeable contrast to the warmth inside the cottage but you didn’t mind it very much.

“I thought you would like this the most,” he smiles, squeezing your hand before you open your eyes.

The sight before you was unlike any other you’d ever seen. Vibrant green grass served as pathways amongst the flowerbeds that curved around them. Dozens of meticulously placed floral bushes filled the space, neatly trimmed and well cared for. Wooden pergola’s with beautiful archways had stood between arrangements of fluffy hydrangeas, curls of vines snaking up its rain soaked beams to form a cluster of greenery and flowers atop it.

The gardens at Malfoy Manor seemed to have paled in comparison to this. It may not have been even half the size of Narcissa’s, but it held a different kind of beauty, one that cannot be put into words. Perhaps you deemed it better because it was your own. One that didn’t house memories of secret rendezvous’ in the late hours of the night to share hushed kisses behind moss-covered statues as teens. Staying up running hand in hand through rows of pristine red roses, sharing whispered ‘I love you’s’ under glowing moonlight and twinkling stars.

It was new and it was beautiful. It was yours.

New kisses could be shared with disregard for prying eyes, declarations of love could be shouted without repercussion. Draco could pluck as many flowers as he wanted to for you without being scolded by his mother for missing blossoms.

Utterly enchanted, you walk along the winding green paths, your fingertips brushing over soft flower petals as the light rain droplets collected across your cheeks. Draco was in tow, but found himself too enamored by you to put one foot in front of the other, deciding he was perfectly content with admiring you from afar.

The scent of flowers and rain flooded your senses with every step you took, and as if you weren’t already in love with this place, surely you were now.

You twirl once in the blooming garden, it’s flowers vibrant and thriving against the pale gray sky. It was when you stopped to stand still with a jovial laugh that your eyes landed on Draco. He stood there, hands by his sides as he looked at you with such fondness your heart fluttered in your chest and a soft shade of scarlet colored your cheeks.

You were quick to close any remaining gap between you, your arms wrapping around his neck as you lean on your toes and kiss him. He drops the keys he’d been holding as his hands settle on your rosy cheeks, and he steadies himself from your sudden embrace. Your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck gingerly, a small laugh escaping your lips and breaking the kiss. But you weren’t quite finished, chasing after his lips for another soft peck.

“Does this mean you like it?” He asks softly, tracing his finger down the length of your neck and back again to rest under your chin.

Your smile was bright as you look up at him, your fingers trailing down his shoulders to play with the buttons of his coat. His pale blue eyes were full of hope as his thumb brushes over your jaw before dropping to your waist to pull you closer.

“I love it,” you murmur against his lips. His breath fanned across your own in an airy laugh, his forehead resting on yours only briefly. “You bought us a house!”

“Well, technically Madam Pomfrey—”

You put your finger over his lips with a laugh, effectively quieting him as a soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He grabbed your wrist softly and pulled your hand away, sighing as you turn around to admire the sweet little home once more. His arms circle around your waist as you lean back against his chest, stifling a laugh when you feel the soft kisses he’s peppering across the crook of your neck.

It really was beautiful, down to every last detail one could possibly think of. It was almost unbelievable how a place so wonderful could exist, how it could be yours. But Draco had always been full of surprises, you learned that rather quickly.

In a matter of moments, the rain increased to a pace too hard to ignore and you gasp at the cold droplets hitting your skin. You were quick to grab his hand, rushing off to the nearest pergola for some form of shelter from it. The flower covered trellis only gave way to a few splashes but it didn’t seem to matter in that current moment.

Your laughter died down to an airy giggle, your hands resting on his chest. His cheeks were flushed from the brisk spring weather as he gazed down at you, his thumb tracing over your lip before his fingers swept over your cheek. He was completely obvious with his admiring, his eyes bouncing from the freckles on your cheeks—ones that could only be seen at such a proximity— to your very irresistible lips, and back to your eyes.

“Are you sure you like it?” Hesitancy has woven its way around his quiet words. It was a big commitment after all, and it wasn’t something he was accustomed to just yet, especially at twenty-four. But what weighed on his mind was the possibility that you would come to regret making such a choice—with him. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you pretended to ponder the question, but you couldn’t bring yourself to continue for a moment longer with the way he’d been looking at you. In a wordless response you press your lips on his softly, parting for only a moment before he pulls you closer for another. Any doubts he may have held had vanished from his mind your lips meld with his in a lingering kiss.

His cheeks are more flushed than before as you pull away to look at him, the sight of your kiss swollen lips making it hard to focus on anything else.

“Draco Malfoy, I’d go anywhere as long as I’m with you.”

—

Tags: @amourtentiaa

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy fic #harry potter fic

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contemplativepancakes · 4 years

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of stolen shirts and sorrow

4.5k hurt/comfort, happy ending. read on ao3 here.

Blood bubbles up between Geralt’s splayed fingers. He presses down as hard as he can without risking causing more damage. Jaskier moans faintly, and Geralt tries not to panic.

He fails.

It wasn’t supposed to be Jaskier that was in harm’s way, it was supposed to be him, should have been him lying on the ground with his blood seeping into the dirt, but they had been caught unaware, and there had barely been time for Geralt to unsheathe his sword before Jaskier had cried out beside him.

Jaskier had stayed standing long enough for Geralt to dispatch the werewolf with a vicious slice of his sword, blood spraying from its carotid as it fell to the ground and twitched. There wasn’t time for anything with more finesse. Geralt took a moment to feel sorrow that he had to kill it when his intention had been to come here to cure it, but it had been snarling and advancing towards Jaskier again, and Geralt couldn’t take any more chances.

Geralt whirled to Jaskier, and Jaskier dropped to the ground, sitting down hard and looking pale. Geralt’s eyes shot down to where he was clutching his stomach, blood dripping through his fingers and staining them red. Geralt whipped his head around to be sure there wasn’t anything else waiting for him to drop his guard before he sank to his knees beside Jaskier, helping him lie back.

Now, Geralt takes a deep breath, trying to center himself, before scrabbling at Jaskier’s clothes, ripping his shirt open so that he can better assess the damage, and he can almost hear Jaskier making a quip about it, pouting that he liked that shirt, Geralt! But Geralt’s not sure that he’s ever going to be hearing Jaskier’s voice again, because the wound is even more severe than he thought now that he’s looking at Jaskier’s bare torso.

A grunt comes from Jaskier again, determined to prove Geralt wrong even with the color starting to drain from his lips, and Geralt’s mind races, thinking about how he’s ever going to fix this. This is too much for him to solve alone, he thinks. He eyes the growing pool of blood worriedly, knowing how much blood someone can lose before they teeter off the cliff of no return, and Jaskier is closer than Geralt would like to admit. There’s no sign of the bleeding stopping anytime soon, so he further rips Jaskier’s shirt into wide strips to tie around the wound, hoping it’ll help staunch the bleeding.

He bites his lip and picks Jaskier up, hoping he’s making the right choice, and not one he’s going to regret while staring at a tombstone, but Geralt tries to block out the worry. Jaskier needs him right now, and Geralt has to focus on that.

He clicks his tongue, and Roach approaches him skittishly. Geralt drapes Jaskier over her rump, settling him so he won’t fall off or be jostled too much, because Geralt knows that is the last thing he needs right now. He wants to mount Roach and gallop away to help, but he has to go about this the right way. If he’s not fast enough, Jaskier will die, and if he’s too fast and Jaskier’s wound doesn’t manage to start to clot, he’ll die, too. Geralt takes a deep breath and absent mindedly runs his bloody hand through his hair, taking Roach’s reins in hand and leading her along the path at a fast walk. They’re close to the outskirts of Temeria; the proximity of the werewolf being why there was a contract in the first place.

It had been killing a farmer’s sheep, but Geralt regrets coming here in the first place. Farm animals were certainly not a fair trade for Jaskier, who’s cool and clammy to Geralt’s touch, his breath coming in rapid wheezes.

Geralt speeds his pace.

By the time he makes it to the walls of Temeria and shouts to the guards that he needs help, he needs their mage, Jaskier’s face is white and bloody covers Roach’s flank. It seems like the bleeding has slowed, so Geralt allows himself to take heart. “Go!” he shouts at the guard closest to him, who’s just standing there and staring uselessly.

The boy startles, because now that Geralt has taken a closer look, he can see that that’s what he is, a boy, and he’s probably never seen this much blood before. He turns on his heel and runs, and Geralt desperately hopes it’s for help and not to flee.

Geralt lifts Jaskier gently from Roach, who’s now prancing anxiously, and sets him flat on the ground. He takes a second to stroke Roach and murmur reassurances, and she settles a bit before he turns his attention back to Jaskier. He presses his hands over his hasty bandage, reapplying the pressure. He hears shouts in the distance, and he hopes Triss is on the way with her potions.

He looks back down at Jaskier, who has blood that’s starting to trickle out his mouth. He makes a wet gurgling noise, and Geralt wishes he could do more. All of his elixirs would be toxic to Jaskier and only make things worse, and he desperately hopes the metaphor doesn’t extend to himself, even though he thinks it does.

This never would have happened if Jaskier wasn’t with him. Geralt had argued with him, said werewolves were unpredictable, but Jaskier said he would be fine at their camp, thank you very much. Geralt could go and try to shove the potion down the werewolf’s jaws, and Jaskier would work on his latest ballad.

Jaskier had cut off his protests with a kiss, and Geralt found himself powerless in the face of that. The tangled threads between them had become even more twisted in the last month, with Jaskier finally getting fed up with Geralt and calling him an idiot before pulling him in and kissing him.

Geralt had been shocked. He had never dared to hope that Jaskier would ever return Geralt’s feelings, because who would love a mutant, but Jaskier had said that he’d say it however many times Geralt needed to hear it.

And now he might not ever hear it again.

All of a sudden, there are soft hands pushing Geralt out of the way, and Geralt resists until he realizes that it’s Triss, here to help Jaskier. Geralt slumps in relief and backs away, watches Triss hover her hands above the wound and pull small glass bottles from her satchel. He wraps a hand around his medallion, vibrating as Triss begins her work. He looks on helplessly while she mutters incantations and pours the contents of her bottles on the would until she takes a step back after what seems like an eternity. Jaskier’s breaths seem to be coming a bit easier. There’s no bloody foam around his mouth anymore, at least, so Geralt will take it.

“That should stop the bleeding and stabilize him for now. Let’s get him out of the street,” Triss says, pointing to the cart she arrived on.

Geralt swallows hard and leans down, pushing some of Jaskier’s soft hair off his sweaty forehead before gathering Jaskier in his arms and lifting him into the cart, settling him on the straw. Geralt climbs in after him, sitting down and ignoring the way the straw scratches at his skin. Jaskier moans and clutches at Geralt’s hand.

Geralt’s heart clenches. “Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically soft, “it’s okay, all right?”

Jaskier squeezes his hand weakly. Geralt raises their linked hands to his mouth and kisses Jaskier’s knuckles. “You’re going to be fine.”

Geralt looks towards the front of the cart, and Triss jerks in her seat, caught staring. “I’m going to take care of him for you, Geralt,” she says softly.

The words get stuck in Geralt’s throat. He grunts and runs a hand down his face. Damn it. This is all his fault.

“What happened?” she asks.

“We were… fuck, we were trying to cure a werewolf. I should have never let him come with me, but I was going to make him stay well away from its hunting grounds, and it was supposed to be fine.” Geralt waves his hand, his eyes catching on the blood caked underneath his fingernails. “It was supposed to be fine,” he repeats helplessly.

Triss puts a hand on his shoulder, and Geralt lets himself draw comfort from the touch. His heartbeat has finally started to slow again, but he can still smell the sour scent of his own distress, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. He slumps against the side of the cart.

By the time they make it to the castle, Geralt’s adrenaline is starting to crash, but he still gathers Jaskier in his arms again and carries him where Triss directs. He waves off the offers of help; his clothes are already bloody, anyway, no one else needs to ruin theirs.

He carries Jaskier up a spiral staircase before he reaches Triss’s chambers and settles Jaskier on the bed. “Can you undress him for me?” Triss asks, as she bustles around behind Geralt, her fingers flying as she mixes herbs and other ingredients together.

Geralt swallows hard. His fingers hover over the buttons of Jaskier’s shirt, but it feels wrong. They haven’t got this far yet, and Geralt doesn’t want this moment to be the one he associates with shedding Jaskier of his clothes.

He sighs and takes Jaskier’s shirt off, pinching the bloody thing between his fingers and letting it crumple to the ground. He’s going to burn it, if Jaskier lets him. Well, even if he doesn’t. Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to see it again without flinching, no matter how well of a repair job Jaskier does.

He undoes the laces of Jaskier’s trousers, so Triss can take a look at where the wound extends down his torso, but it stops at his waist, so that’s as far as Geralt goes. Triss hums her thanks as she starts to gently rub a poultice over the wound. “This will lessen the pain and keep him unconscious until his body regenerates enough blood,” she explains.

“How long will that be?” Geralt asks, resolutely not giving into the urge to fidget.

“A few days. Maybe a week. You’re lucky you got him here when you did.”

Geralt lets out a heavy breath through his nose. All his fault. “Hmm.”

Triss straightens up. “He’s going to be fine, Geralt. The wonders of magic, huh?” She nudges his shoulder. “He just needs rest, now.”

Triss leaves them, and Geralt takes a seat by the bed, looking over at Jaskier’s motionless body, save for the slight rise and fall of his bare chest. Geralt runs his fingers down Jaskier’s chest curiously, before jerking away like he’s been burned. He’d always wanted to know what Jaskier’s chest hair would feel like under his fingertips, but this isn’t how he wanted to find out.

Jaskier might have expressed his enthusiastic support for the idea of them while he was still able to walk and talk, but Geralt thinks he might have changed his tune by now. Why would he want to be around Geralt when all Geralt’s brought him is suffering and pain?

Jaskier could have had a very comfortable life by now, but instead he insists on traipsing around after Geralt. And look where it’s gotten him.

Geralt stands up, thinking very hard. His eyes drift to Jaskier’s ruined shirt on the floor, but he lets it lie. It’s unfair of him to do this to Jaskier. He’s keeping Jaskier in a sort of limbo, stopping him from having the normal life that he deserves. Jaskier should have someone who can take care of him better than Geralt. Geralt’s been doing a piss poor job of it so far.

Geralt steps towards the doorway before hesitating. This is for the best, but… He’d like a reminder of this, something he can look back on and remember just how full his life was, once. He remembers what it was like before Jaskier came along, and it’s almost unbearable to think of going back to that, but he has to. For Jaskier’s sake. What if the next time he dies? Geralt wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Geralt steps towards Jaskier’s pack, which has somehow migrated here. He supposes Triss brought it; she’s good for things like that. He digs through it until he finds a doublet that Jaskier doesn’t wear very often but is Geralt’s personal favorite. Geralt reasons that it’s the tales of his adventures that paid for the shirt, anyway, so really, Jaskier owes him this one small thing.

Geralt brings it up to his nose. It smells like Jaskier.

When Jaskier wakes, he’s alone. He tries to sit up, but there’s a sharp pain in his side that feels like someone tried to carve out his spleen. It gets even worse when the door opens, and there’s no sign of Geralt, just a woman he doesn’t know. Generally speaking, these sorts of things don’t tend to work out for him.

“Where’s Geralt?” he croaks, and it comes out as an accusation.

She casts her eyes upward, before looking back down at Jaskier. “He left.”

“What? Without me? Why? When is he coming back?” The questions bubble out of him without his permission.

The woman hesitates. “I… don’t know.”

“Come, he surely must have said something.”

“Geralt? Say something?” She gives him a wry grin.

Jaskier shakes his head. She’s right. “He didn’t say anything about returning?” he asks again, just to be sure before his heart sinks all the way to his feet.

She shakes her head.

This is all Jaskier’s fault. If he never would have gotten hurt, they would have still been travelling together, and Geralt wouldn’t have thought he was too much of a burden to drag along any longer. Melitele's tits. What is he going to do now?

Geralt scuffs his boot against a tree trunk while Roach looks on disapprovingly. “I know, I know,” he grumbles. “You miss him. But this is for the best.”

He’s not sure who needs more convincing: him or Roach.

He putters around, setting up his camp for the night and trying not to think of what Jaskier is doing now. His brain decides to seize on the werewolf instead, and Geralt sighs, sitting down heavily with his back against the tree. The bark is scratchy, and there’s a stone digging into his ass, but he doesn’t move. It’s just the start of what he deserves, anyway.

The werewolf should have been cured, it should have been them that Geralt rushed to town for care, not Jaskier. But now, because of his ineptitude, the werewolf is dead, and Jaskier almost died. The cure that sits in his satchel mocks him. He had mixed it together hopefully, with the best intentions, but it was worth fuck all in the end.

Roach paws at the ground, and Geralt knows his distress is making her nervous, but he just doesn’t have the energy to sort out his feelings right now. He pulls his cloak over his head and tries to sleep.

He’s unsuccessful, of course. His thoughts won’t stop stampeding through his head, and his ears are picking up on every sound of the night. This is one of the times when Jaskier would do his best to distract him.

They’d barely been together for a month before it all went awry, and this, this is why Geralt doesn’t get close to people. There’s nothing but misery in his future, and he dragged Jaskier into it.

Geralt smells a storm on the horizon, and he sighs. Typical.

Jaskier watches the rain outside, running his fingers over the droplets that race down the window. Triss had left him a few hours ago, telling him he could stay until he felt fully healed. He traces his fingertips over the wound; it’s hard to believe that it was life threatening with how well it’s looking now. Pink and tender to the touch, but a far cry from gushing blood like Triss had told him it was.

Triss had also told him that he woke up not fours hours after Geralt dumped him on her and fled. Triss didn’t put it like that, of course, but Jaskier can read through the lines well enough. He racks his brain back to the last thing he remembers. He can dimly recall teasing Geralt, sneaking Roach a sugar cube, and then things start to get blurry. There was a...snarl? He knows they were looking for a werewolf, but Jaskier wasn’t supposed to get anywhere close to it in the first place.

No wonder Geralt didn’t want him slowing him down anymore, if Jaskier’s intestines are just going to spill out of him at the first sign of danger. His side throbs at the reminder, and Jaskier gets up to rustle through his pack and find a shirt so he can cover his wound.

He’s looking for a particular shirt, one Geralt had always liked, because Jaskier’s not above a bit of self-flagellation when a breakup is still so fresh, but he can’t find it. Great. He had always saved it for special occasions, because life on the road tended to not be great for the longevity of his clothing, and now he’s gone and lost it.

It’s probably for the best anyway. He doesn’t need to dwell on the memories. But, it’s too soon for him to completely move on. Heartbreak is the best muse, and all that.

Jaskier unties his bundle of parchment and pulls out a clean sheet, along with his quill and inkwell. He dips his quill in ink, but no words come. He wants to write something scathing about Geralt, for leaving him behind like he’s worth nothing at all, but the lyrics don’t come as easily as the other ballads he’s written singing Geralt’s praise.

Jaskier stares at the page for a few more minutes, but all he manages to write is The. He scratches it out and sighs, pushing his paper aside.

Geralt drums his fingers and looks skeptically at the paper that’s just been slapped in front of him.

“There’s a pack of ghouls, right along the path to town. We’ve lost two supply wagons trying to pass through already!” the man tells him.

Geralt looks up at him, raising his eyebrows. “How do you know they didn’t just pocket your coin and disappear?”

The man throws up his hands in exasperation. “Are you going to take the job or not, Witcher?”

“Fine. I’ll look into it.”

In the end, it turns out not to be ghouls, but a graveir. Similar to ghouls, but larger, nastier, and venomous. Geralt rustles through his satchel, looking for the elixir that will cure it. He was off balance and too slow the entire fight, and now he’s paying for it. Geralt downs the elixir and yanks his fingers through his hair, trying to get rid of some of the guts. He attempts not to think of Jaskier.

When he makes it back to the inn where he’s staying, he takes a bath before he makes his way outside to the stables to check on Roach. He gives her a solid pat along her flank before he rustles through her saddle bags, where Jaskier’s shirt lives.

He brings it up to his nose. It smells like both of them, and now Geralt finally knows what it would have smelled like if he had let Jaskier get close enough for the scents to meld together. They’d been on their way there, for sure, but Geralt had had too many hang ups for it to truly go anywhere in the short amount of time they had where they both knew how the other felt before it all went to shit.

He takes it back up to his room and puts it beside his pillow, letting the scent soothe him to sleep.

Jaskier looks down at the ruined shirt in his hands. Money has been tight since Geralt left and all Jaskier’s inspiration followed him. He hasn’t written any new songs in months, and he thinks the crowds can pick up on his melancholia no matter how many cheerful songs he performs, because his takes have been pitiful. He supposes part of the problem might be the fact that he refuses to sing about Geralt, and those had always been his most well liked songs. Jaskier always skirts around any requests for them.

He scrubs at the shirt, trying to get the last traces of blood out of it. Once he’s successful, he pulls out his needle and thread. It’s so tattered that he’s going to have to patch it, but he’s always been good at starting new fashion statements. He replaces the ripped off buttons and pokes his tongue between his teeth as he selects the fabric for the patch.

Geralt’s not sure how much time passes before he allows himself to bring the shirt out again. Time seems meaningless, and he’s taken as many contracts as possible, trying to keep busy. Roach hasn’t been happy with him, and he knows he should let her rest, so that’s why he’s packed it in for the night. The break will do him good, as well, he supposes. Assuming he can actually manage to fall asleep, which is by no means assured.

He stares out at the swamp for an hour before he breaks down and pulls out the shirt. He takes a deep sniff. It smells like him. Only him. He flings it back down in disgust.

He gets up and pauses for a second before stooping down to pick up the shirt and stuff it back in the saddlebag. He ignores Roach’s snorts of displeasure as he gets her ready to move on.

Jaskier walks along the road, trying not to cough as carriages pass him, kicking up dust in their wake. It’s not good for his vocal cords, but he hasn’t been doing much singing at all, these days, so he doesn’t let himself worry about it.

He trudges along, lyrics swirling through his mind, but the urge to stop and write them down doesn’t come to him. His toes throb from where they’re trapped in his shoes, adding to his body’s cacophony of complaints against him. He’s not sure what the next town is, but he’s more than ready to arrive.

Jaskier squints into the distance as he sees a bit of dust somewhere farther down the path. It’s moving towards him, but it’s not big enough for a caravan or even a singular carriage. It’s someone else walking alone, and Jaskier’s immediately put on guard.

His hand slips into his pocket, where he keeps his knife. He keeps his hand on it as he’s just able to make it the outline of a person dressed in all black in the distance. It feels like someone’s turned his knife on himself as it makes him think of Geralt.

The person is leading a horse, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

It can’t be… but as he gets closer, Jaskier can tell it is. He smooths his hands down his clothes uselessly and resists the urge to tame his hair into something that doesn’t look like a squirrel’s den.

He debates what to do. Geralt’s the one who left, so he must not want to see Jaskier, must be upset at this unhappy little coincidence, even if Jaskier is desperate for any sight of Geralt he can get.

Jaskier’s set to walk past him, his eyes on his feet, just a fleeting glimpse up to satisfy his curiosity—it’s plausible to say he didn’t recognize Geralt, right?—when a hand lands on his elbow.

“Why in the fuck are you wearing that shirt?” Geralt asks, and it’s such an odd question that it stops Jaskier in his tracks.

“What?” He looks down at himself.

He’s wearing the shirt he patched, and he huffs in offense. He thought he did a fine repair job. He shoulders Geralt out of the way and keeps walking.

“Wait, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it’s the closest to a plea he’s ever heard Geralt get. He stops.

“How are you?” Geralt breathes.

Jaskier just stares at him in confusion. He’s not sure what Geralt’s aim is. How is he? “How do you think I am?” he snaps.

Geralt looks cowed, and Jaskier feels bad for a fleeting moment before he remembers Geralt is the one who should be contrite. It was Geralt who left him high and dry when he needed him most.

Geralt swallows hard, and Jaskier follows his line of sight to see that Geralt’s focused on where the scar in his side is.

He lifts up his shirt so Geralt can see, forgetting to be angry for a second. “It’s healed up very nicely, if I do say so myself.”

Jaskier looks back at Geralt, but Geralt’s just staring at the scar with a haunted look. “I’m fine, Geralt,” he says in exasperation. “If it wasn’t for you, I would have been dead.”

“If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been in that situation in the first place.”

A realization starts to dawn on Jaskier. “Did you—is that why you left?”

Geralt glances down.

“Geralt, if it wasn’t for you, a cuckolded husband would have most definitely done me in before then.”

“But—”

“I’m serious,” Jaskier says, putting his hands on his hips. “You don’t get to make choices like that for me. We make them together, okay? I’ve been miserable.”

“Me, too,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier’s surprised at the admission.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled, then. You didn’t have to drag it out for so long, you know.”

It seems like Jaskier shouldn’t be letting Geralt off the hook this easily, but he’s been nothing but desolate since Geralt left. He’s sick of waiting.

His magnanimity only extends so far, though, so Jaskier brushes past Geralt to pet Roach, trying to contain his smirk at the look on Geralt’s face. Jaskier pets the soft velvet of Roach’s nose, and she bumps his hand when he stops.

He rustles around in Roach’s saddlebags, looking for a treat for her. His hand brushes past some soft fabric. That’s odd; Geralt doesn’t keep any of his clothes in this saddle bag. He pulls it out, gaping at what’s in his hand. “What’s this?”

Geralt scratches the back of his neck. “I wanted a reminder of you,” he admits in a small voice.

Jaskier’s grin turns smug. Geralt was always saying how impractical his clothing was. “I thought my shirts were foolish?”

If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say there’s a blush on Geralt’s cheeks right now. “I never said that.”

“You absolutely did. Do you take it back?”

Geralt grunts, stepping into Jaskier’s space and wrapping him in a hug. “No.”

Jaskier pouts, and the resulting laughter from Geralt is something that he wants to keep hearing for the rest of his life. He hopes Geralt gives him the chance.

thank you @witcher-and-his-bard for the idea and the read over! <3 it is definitely your fault that this got so angsty, i take no responsibility

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #contemplative writing

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matthewtkachuk · 4 years

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how to be a heartbreaker: rule one - rafe cameron

Rafe Cameron’s privileged upbringing has let him get away with far too much, for far too long. Between his tormenting of the pogues, running his mouth without consequence, and arrogant attitude, it’s time someone knocked him down a peg. Breaking his bones didn’t work, but maybe you can break his heart.

co-authored with my love, freya @rekrappeter

pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader, unrequited!JJ x reader

warnings: angst, starting a relationship under false pretences, drinking and drug use

word count: 2k

a/n: here’s rule one, let us now what you think!! we’re having the time of our lives writing this and we hope it brings you just as much joy :)

series masterlist

“This is a bad, bad idea,” Pope was the first one to comment, eyes staring wide at his blonde friend standing in the corner of the room. JJ stood there, a large cunning grin spread across his face; he stood tall beside a chalkboard with a wooden ruler slapping on the palm of his hand. On the board, written in his chicken scratch writing, were the rules associated with what he calls ‘the most brilliant plan in the world’.

“I have so many questions,” Kiara muttered, “firstly, where did you get that chalkboard, JJ?” she asked confused about the origin of the wheeled chalkboard taking up half the space in the chateau’s living room.

“Unimportant,” JJ snapped back, attention focused on you solely as you stared at the rules in confusion.

“JJ, what is all this?” you questioned, brows furrowed and nibbling hard on your bottom lip as you tried to concentrate on deciphering his writing despite JJ giving you and the pogues an hour presentation. “Can you go through this again?”

“How long did it take you to make them rhyme?” Pope asked, chuckling at the frustrated glare JJ shot at him. Pope gave you a knowing look, you both knew that JJ was probably up all night coming up with these and it looked like he had help from a certain Marina.

JJ heaved a loud sigh, his head falling forward. “Okay, I’m going through this once more, then we begin,” the blonde announced, earning a groan from John B who hoisted himself off the couch and to the kitchen, hollering to see if anyone wanted a soda from the fridge. You watched JJ clear his throat, the words jumbling together. Were you ready to commit to this? The thought of having to get close to Rafe Cameron sent unwanted and nervous shivers down your spine, the taste of fear settling in your mouth. You never cared much for Rafe, if it weren’t for your friends, your paths would probably never cross. He’d keep his distance from you, not bothering you if you were alone. But this plan looked as if you would be alone with him, a lot, and something about that wasn’t settling right with you.

“Okay, here we go. Rule number one: make a lasting impression, start the deception.”

You’d never once been nervous at a boneyard party. Not the first one you went to, not the time you overestimated your drinking ability and blacked out and JJ had to carry you back to the chateau, not even when Rafe and his goons had threatened your friends. Tonight, you were nervous. The plan was for you to catch Rafe’s attention just enough to get him interested in you, but you hadn’t left Pope’s side for the past hour, sitting beside him on a large piece of driftwood near the shore.

You felt JJ’s eyes on you, glancing over to see him gesturing with his head toward the group of kooks standing together, passive-aggressively judging and glaring at the pogues while drinking their free beer. “Do it,” he mouths, causing you to groan in frustration.

Pope followed your gaze, eyes locked on your shared best friend’s antics as he asked you, “are you sure you wanna do this?” He turned his attention back to you when he was met with silence. Looking up at him, you weren’t sure of anything.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” you pouted, glancing back at JJ to find him preoccupied with some pretty blonde touron. Jealousy brewing in the pit of your stomach, you had to look away.

“You always have a choice, y/n,” Pope stated, but you shake your head.

“Not this time”’ you sighed, eyes unable to keep from looking back to where JJ is now placing his hand on the pretty blonde’s waist. She throws her head back in laughter at something he said and your stomach twists further in on itself.

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” You turn back towards Pope at his tone, his eyes are worried, begging you to back out of this.

You stood from the piece of driftwood, scanning the crowd swiftly before downing your drink at a speed that would impress even JJ. JJ, who made your heart beat irregularly. JJ, who made your thoughts cloud over like an overcast day. JJ, who had his tongue down the throat of some stupid touron. You don’t turn back to Pope as you call over your shoulder, “Let’s just have a little fun.”

Two drinks later and you have your back pressed to some idiot touron’s chest, letting him feel you up, you’re feeling the alcohol course through your veins as your eyes scan the crowd around you. Part of you is looking for JJ, secretly hoping he’s abandoned the blonde from earlier. The other part of you stares at Rafe, taking in his tall stature, his broad shoulders, he’s conventionally attractive you realize, when he’s not tormenting your friends. Shaking off your thoughts, you blame the beer for your disordered thinking, but you can’t help but sneak another peak, this time catching his eyes doing the same to you. The blush takes over your face before you can help it, face feeling hot but you push those feelings away, turning on your game face; you flip your hair over to one side, running your tongue along your teeth, smirking at Rafe. You separate yourself from the touron and head to the keg to grab a refill.

Standing to the side of the party on your own, sipping on your beer, you feel his presence looming over you before you even recognize Rafe Cameron has appeared beside you. “What’s a girl like you doing all alone?”

You bit your lip, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, “A girl like me?”

“The hottest girl on this whole damn island,” he smirked at you. Your brows twitch at his words, eying him suspiciously and you start to wonder is this going to be easier than you thought it’d be. “Let me take you home?”

You can’t control the eye roll this time as you shove him away from you. “Nice, Rafe. Very flattering, but I’m not interested in some quick hookup.”

“I’ll take as long as you want,” he stumbled slightly on the sand, following after your retreating figure.

You scoffed in disgust, looking up to find the pogues but you halt in your step when your eyes find JJ’s blue ones staring at you and the kook he despised. Rafe’s chest crashes against your back when you suddenly stopped, muttering a curse as he grabbed your hips to steady himself.

“Change your mind?” he asked, the smug look washing over his face. Your expression contorted to a look of disdain but as you spun around to face him, you replaced the look with feigned desire. Biting your bottom lip, you gripped his bicep, reveling in the way his eyes flickered towards your mouth.

You leaned your face forward, inching toward his lips before swerving your head to whisper in his ear, “Baby, you’re going to have to try harder than that.” You pushed him away again, this time heading in the direction of your friends, sure to let your hips sway exaggeratedly as you walked away from him. You could feel his lingering stare on your ass. Glancing back at him over your shoulder briefly, you shot him a grin and a wink.

Finally reaching the pogues, you ignored Pope’s concerned glaze, focused on JJ’s enthusiastic attitude. His arm was draped across the blonde girl’s shoulder, he reached out a fist for you to bump it. “That was hot,” he sang. You half-heartedly tapped his fist with your own, stomach sick at the sight of the blonde tucked under his arm. For a brief second, you thought about going after Rafe, tugging on his arm, and pressing your lips to his to see if you could get a rise out of JJ. Thinking better of it, you wrapped an arm around Pope’s waist and leaned into him.

Suddenly sick at the combined thoughts of your deception and your hopeless crush on your best friend, you looked up at Pope hoping he would be able to read the emotions on your face. He nodded subtly at you, before turning to the larger group, “we’re gonna head back to the chateau.”

“What?” JJ protested, tightening his grip around the girl, “we have to celebrate, we got the plan in motion.”

You twisted in Pope’s arm to look at JJ, ignoring the ache in your heart that you were so used to by now. “Rule number whatever, JJ, no talking about the plan in front of outsiders,” you snapped. JJ rolled his eyes at your words, loosening the grip on the touron before turning to whisper something into her ear. The girl giggled at what he said, making you raise a brow and cross your arms in front of your chest. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” JJ smirked, taking another chug of his beer.

“It’s clearly not nothing, JJ,’ Pope chimed in, annoyance evident in his voice. JJ resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his friend’s voice.

JJ looked at you intently, leaning back on the driftwood as he popped his tongue on the back of his teeth. “I just told her that you get a little jealous sometimes, to ignore whatever you say.”

“You’re a dick, JJ,” you muttered, taking Pope’s cup from his grasp and chucking it at JJ. The caramel-colored liquid splattered all over his t-shirt causing him to jump up at the sensation, bringing the girl with him but you had already stalked off in the direction of the chateau, ignoring his shouts of protest.

When the remaining pogues relocated to the chateau, you excused yourself from the comfort of Pope’s embrace on the couch in the living room and strolled out to the backyard to get some fresh air. The alcohol was wearing off, the effect that it had on you previously forgotten about as you breathed in the air, raising your arms up and stretching. It was nearing one in the morning, echoes from the chateau could be heard when the backdoor opened and closed, but you were too lost in your thoughts to notice your best friend walking towards you.

It wasn’t until two arms snaked around your waist from behind that you were startled from your thoughts, the familiar smell of his aftershave wafting around you. JJ rested his chin on your shoulder, pouting at you. “You know you’re my best girl,” he mumbled into your ear.

Trying to release his grip and shake him off, you sighed when you failed, resisting the urge to melt your body into his chest. “Where’s barbie?” you snapped halfheartedly.

“That doesn’t matter right now, you’re upset,” he tells you, and you twist to look at him, narrowing your eyes.

“I’m upset because you were a dick.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” JJ sighed, he quickly glances towards the chateau and you roll your eyes.

“She’s waiting inside, isn’t she?” you snapped, and when he doesn’t reply, you scoff and rip his grasp off you, creating a big enough gap between your bodies. You stalk towards the house, stopping when he calls you back. “What, JJ? I’m going to bed, I have to prepare for the next step in your oh so great plan,” you hiss, throwing your arms in the air and letting them fall dramatically.

“y/n-”

“Oh, and you can fuck barbie on the futon. Pope and I are taking the spare bedroom.” JJ’s face falls at your words, the anger simmering from your pores. You watch him bite his tongue, waiting for him to say something, pushing him to argue with this but when he doesn’t respond with a remark, you smirk at the fact you won this argument. “Goodnight, Ken.”

Tag list:

htbah taglist:

@solllaris @drewswannabegirl @starrystarkey93 @httpstarkey @sweetlysilent @drewstarkey @dontjinx-it @ultranikilove @spencereidbasis @meaganjm @starlightstarkey @thortheestallion @jiaraendgame @idocarealot @tempestuousjj @pink-meringues @dpaccione @arianabrashierstuff @softstarkey @loveylangdon @xenagzb @teenwaywardasgardian @prejudic3 @nxsmss @canibeoneofthepogues @nqbmf @outerbanksbro @obx-direction-sos @digniteas @annedub @colorful-queen-of-the-roses @yesp0ny @loveniallandharryonedirection @fantasticpsychicfanfish @girls-breaking-hearts @beautyandthebleh @casper17

rodeo rafe babies who said they were interested:

@royalmerchant @outerbankslut @honeyycheek @jellyfishbeansontoast @ilovejjmaybank @kindahavefeelingskindaheartless @girlsru1eboysdroo1 @https-luna @butgilinsky @rae131415

diverdcwn everything taglist:

@velyssaraptor @danicarosaline @copper-boom @x-lulu @prejudic3 @downbytheouterbanks @ilovejjmaybank @bricksatanakinswindow @sunwardsss @rudyypankow @im-a-stranger-thing @alexa-playafricabytoto @maybankfullkook @sortagaysortahigh @socialwriter @bluesiderudy @anxietyandtacos

#rafe obx #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe imagine #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron series #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron #rafe cameron angst #freyby writes #diverdcwn writes

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missjanjie · 3 years

Text

Better Than Revenge | (2/?)

Title: Better Than Revenge Summary: Karma Inc.’s business structure is simple - clients hire them when they’ve been grievously wronged and they send one of their revenge mercenaries to right them. As painstaking as their efforts to remain ethical may be, that may be tested when former detective, Rosé, enlists the squad to pick up where she couldn’t on a much higher scale, with potentially greater consequences. Word Count: ~2.6k (this chapter) | ~5.3k (total) Relationship(s): Rosnali (Rosé/Denali Foxx), Jankie (Jackie Cox/Jan Sport), Halldoll (Nicky Doll/Jaida Essence Hall), Gimone (Gigi Goode/Symone), Gottlux (Gottmik/Olivia Lux) Rating: T

TW for this chapter: implied domestic abuse, attempted sexual coercion of a minor, deadnaming/transphobia

Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi

Chapter Summary: Rosé learns Nicky, Jan, and Mik's revenge origin stories

Milwaukee, WI - 2007

“I think my parents are starting to get suspicious,” Jaida quietly confessed, her gaze downcast to the floor while Nicky sat behind her, braiding her hair.

Nicky frowned, her brows furrowed as she tied off the braid she’d put Jaida’s hair in with a hair elastic. “What is making you say that?” she asked, moving so she was facing the other girl and taking her hands into her own.

She shrugged, fumbling with the hem of her shirt until Nicky’s grasp stilled them. “Just feels like they’re snooping around more, suddenly real interested in my life. And you know they’re always acting weird whenever we’re at my house together. Last time they made us keep the door open, remember?”

“I had assumed that was an American thing,” she confessed. She had only moved to the states a couple of months ago, at the start of her and Jaida’s junior year of high school, and she was still learning how to differentiate cultural differences from people behaving unusually to her specifically.

“You think everything you don’t understand is an American thing,” Jaida rolled her eyes with a fond smile, “though I guess you’re right most of the time,” she conceded.

Nicky shrugged it off, redirecting back to the topic at hand. “But you’re worried they’re going to find out about us and poop will hit the ceiling.”

“Shit will hit the fan,” she corrected, then sighed. “I mean, think about it — my mom’s a Sunday school teacher and my dad’s the son of a preacher, they take ‘traditional family values’ very seriously. And I don’t know how things are in France but there’s nothing traditional about this,” she explained, gesturing between the two of them.

She frowned, her brows knitting together. “But we are happy together, surely once we graduate, we can—”

“It’s not that simple, Nicky!” Jaida tossed her head back and groaned. “I love you, but in a place like this, sometimes love just ain’t enough.”

And maybe it was denial, or maybe it was blind optimism, but Nicky had refused to take that answer lying down. She fought for Jaida and fought even harder to keep the relationship away from her disapproving parents. For a while, it seemed to be working, they had their beautiful, fleeting moments that let them believe that everything would be okay.

It was the first day back after spring break and Nicky immediately noticed a change in her girlfriend. It was like the life and light had been drained from her like she was only present physically. And despite the warm weather, she was dressed for late fall. She rushed towards her, taking her hand. “Ma chérie, what’s wrong? You look so unwell.”

Jaida hesitated before pulling her hand away. “I can’t hang around you anymore,” she replied. “Though I’m not gonna see anyone around here for a while starting real soon,” she mumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents found out, Nicky,” she choked out, forcing back a sob, “and they were mad, I ain’t never seen them so mad. They’re sending me to military school… well, they gave me a choice between that and conversion therapy… seemed like the better option.”

Nicky bit down on her quivering lip. “But you can find me when you are done, right?” She reached out to her again, but Jaida backed away to step out of her grasp.

“I can’t. Besides, you won’t want me anyway, I won’t be the same person.”

She tried to grab for her once more, desperate to keep her, looking at her with watery, pleading eyes. “Jaida, I can’t—”

“Please,” she sniffled, “don’t make this harder than it’s already gonna be.”

And perhaps Nicky should have let it go, accepted losing her first love, and moving on with her life. Sure, she would eventually. She would move around for school, for work, meeting many beautiful women along the way, but none of that happened until she made sure Jaida’s parents experienced at least a fraction of the hurt they had caused the both of them.

Her plan had been elaborate and convoluted and would require a heavy amount of stealth work and computer literacy to pull off. But as it turned out, her plan of convincing the two parents that the other was cheating on them was quite easy when her snooping unearthed the fact that both of them already were. All she needed to do was bring it to light.

Present Day

“When you think about it,” Nicky mused, “I did them a favor. There are worse ways they could’ve found out than having an envelope full of proof dropped off at your workplace. At least no one made a scene… as far as I know, at least.”

“Does Jaida know?” Rosé asked. “Now that you guys have reconnected, have you caught her up to speed? Because it seems like something you should tell her.”

Nicky winced and looked away. “It… has not come up yet,” she murmured. “There is no easy way to inform someone that you were the catalyst in their parent’s divorce. Unless you have a way, in which case, feel free to share with the class.”

She shrugged, putting her hands up in surrender. “I got nothing, but my point remains. It’s gonna bite you in the ass badly if you wait too long to say anything.” When Nicky shrugged it off, she decided to move on. “What about you, Bubbles?” she asked, looking towards Jan, “what sort of scathing revenge does someone as bouncy as you come up with?”

Jan pressed her lips into a fine line, holding back what was either a smile or a grimace. “Well, this also happened in high school, an all-girl Catholic school, of course…”

Old Bridge, NJ - 2009

Jan was nothing if not brave. Coming out in tenth grade, especially considering the environment she was in, was a choice that couldn’t be taken lightly. While she had the support of her family and closest friends, the school environment had been a different story.

“Janice, could you stay back for a moment?” her math teacher, a conventionally attractive man in his early thirties, prompted as the final bell rang.

With math being her weakest subject, Jan was instantly concerned and nodded. “Of course, sir. Is something wrong?” she asked as she walked over to his desk.

“I think something is very wrong,” he replied as he got up. “Janice, I am highly concerned with your mental wellbeing.” He stopped in front of her, cupping her face with both hands. “You’re such a bright, beautiful girl. It would be such a shame for you to throw that away because you’ve chosen to shun God and live in sin.”

Jan felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach and her throat tighten. This was inevitable, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. She started shaking her head. “N-No, I’m… I’m not, I—”

“Shh…” he pressed his thumb to her lips to quiet her, then swiped it across her bottom lip. “Part of being a good Christian is overcoming temptation. And that’s what you want, isn’t it? Isn’t it what your parents want for you?” His hands move to her shoulders, squeezing them gently. “God gave you this body to lay with a man, you just need to be put in the right direction before it’s too late. I could help you, I could save you.”

Jan felt sick to her stomach. She hated every moment of the interaction; she hated the feeling of his hands on her, the way he was leering at her body, undressing her with his eyes. But at the same time, it was hard to lean into that hate, because he did pick on every insecurity she had in regards to her faith. But her sense of self won out and she was able to free herself of his grasp and run out of the room as fast as her legs would take her.

Any shame or guilt she might have felt was quickly replaced by anger and a desire to stop the man that tried to rob her of her innocence from harming anyone else. But she was still cautious, she knew there was a risk of retaliation if she spoke out alone, that was when her plan formed.

She created a fake Facebook account of a fifteen-year-old girl who was ‘planning on transferring to her school’. That was why she messaged the teacher, and after a few days of exchanging messages, ‘Samantha’ had agreed to meet up with him, the conversation in no uncertain terms making his intent clear.

Now, the obvious path from there would have been to go to the police, but that wasn’t good enough for Jan. Instead, she went to her godfather, who had promised he’d always help her ‘by any means necessary’. So, it was neither the police nor ‘Samantha’ that met the teacher at the park. Instead, it was two burly men who drove home a rough lesson that he was to turn himself in the next day, lest he face even worse consequences. He’d been given a flash drive with a copy of the whole exchange and was told he had exactly twenty-four hours and that the police would be expecting him.

Of course, those details weren’t in the subsequent news story of the teacher’s arrest. The conviction, however, was disappointing to Jan, as it was only two years and a thousand dollar fine, as well as losing his teaching license and having to register as an offender.

Present Day

“But rest assured, people are keeping an eye on him these days. You know, should he ever try and act up,” Jan explained with a shrug.

Rosé’s mouth was hanging open by the time Jan had finished her story. “So, you put a hit out on a pedo. I mean, shit, color me impressed,” she chuckled softly, then quickly followed up with, “I’m so sorry any of that happened to you, though. I’ve had people in my life try to weaponize religion against me after I came out. It’s never an easy pill to swallow.” She then looked at the group curiously. “Are you all…”

“Mik’s pan but yeah, the rest of us are gay,” Gigi confirmed with a nod. “At first, I thought that’d be the only thing we all have in common, but here we are now.”

“Chosen family is super important,” Mik agreed, “you never know who you can’t trust in your bloodline.”

Rosé quirked her brow. “That what happened to you?”

Scottsdale, AZ - 2015

Mik had been sitting across from his parents in dead silence for the past five minutes. There was no easy way to break it, let alone a correct one. On the coffee table in front of them were printed pictures of screenshots from his private Twitter account, where he presented himself as his true identity, but the precautions he took weren’t enough.

“Kady, sweetheart, I’m sure Uncle Joe brought this to our attention with your best interest at heart,” his mother said in as sweet of a voice as she could muster, which only served to sound fake to her son.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please, don’t give me that. If it was ‘concern’ he would’ve told you privately. He sent it to the family group chat then told you that, and I quote, ‘your daughter thinks she’s a tranny’,” he struggled to keep his tone even, but he knew he needed to coddle his parents’ feelings if he wanted a chance of being taken seriously.

“I’m sure it just caught him by surprise,” his father offered.

Mik groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if he did, he wasn’t treating it like a fun piece of gossip, he hunted down my private account and outed me to humiliate me, and it would mean a lot if you guys had my back on this.”

This brought another wave of silence upon his parents. He couldn’t get a clear read on them, but they seemed stressed, confused, and most painfully, they seemed sad. His mother slowly picked her head back up. “Kady, I—”

“My name is Mik.”

“Listen, honey, you’re going to have to give us some time to adjust,” his dad tried to ease the tension, “you’re still our child, but this isn’t an easy thing to process, your mother especially is mourning the loss of her daughter.”

Mik felt his chest tighten in anger and hurt. “But I’m not—” he got up, shaking his head. “Right, fine,” he mumbled and escaped to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Left alone with his thoughts, the anger he had towards his parents dissipated and the rage shifted solely onto his uncle. After all, this was his fault. He was the one that robbed him of the opportunity to come out on his terms, and with the active intent to cause harm.

The anger didn’t go away over the following weeks. Instead, it built up, it festered inside of him as the summer after high school began. He had downloaded Grindr out of casual curiosity, and it was only a matter of minutes before a profile caught his eye. “No fucking way,” he grinned.

Of course, it was Joe, Mik realized how much of a cliche it was, but that didn’t change the fact that his bigoted uncle that tried to ruin his familial relationships was soliciting male escorts on a gay dating app. The opportunity for revenge essentially fell into his lap. He made a fake account and exchanged messages with him, just enough to get the evidence he needed.

The last step was simple, he dropped the screenshots into the same group text without any comment and removed himself from the group chat right after. He didn’t need to see the chaos unfold, Uncle Joe’s absence from the next family gathering was all he needed.

Present Day

“Just to be clear,” Mik added as he finished the story, “I’m against outing people, for the most part, obviously it should be something done on your terms. But shit, sometimes it’s gotta be an eye for an eye, you know?”

“Wait, I have a question,” Jan chimed in, “is he out now? Do y’all even talk to him anymore?”

He shook his head. “He moved to Alabama, I guess he wanted to go somewhere to double-down on the bigotry. No idea what happened after that. But, you know, good fucking riddance.”

“Amen to that,” Rosé agreed. “I don’t know how you guys have figured out that line of deciding what’s morally sound and what’s ethical enough. It seems to work, but it seems hard.”

“Jackie helped a lot with that,” Jan told her, her face lighting up and her smile broadening as she continued, “she has this pragmatic take on these things while still understanding that there’s so much ambiguity and morally gray areas. She’s honestly the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Rosé nodded as she listened. “I’m glad you guys have someone like that on your team. How long have you two been dating?”

Jan turned bright red, worsened by the way the rest of the group laughed. “Oh, um, we’re not dating. She and I are… very close friends,” she explained.

“Ah,” the corners of her lips tugged into a smirk, “you’re just fucking, got it,” she observed, causing another eruption of laughter from the others, much to Jan’s chagrin. Once it died down, she redirected her attention to the half of the group that had yet to recall their stories. “Alright, who’s next?”

#halldoll #jankie #rpdr rpf

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rainbowwing251 · 3 years

Note

Oh, curious for the headcanons for the Mario Bros!

I haven’t played too many of the games in the Super Mario Franchise, but I think I can do this!

But first, I would like to make this statement: I am very sorry for all of the Mario fans out there. Fire Emblem fans may have lost a localized Shadow Dragon and the Blade of Light, but Mario fans lost Super Mario 3D All-Stars (I have a digital copy of that game, by the way. I want to get back to playing it at some point), Super Mario Bros. 35 (which was a very fun game, in my opinion), the Super Mario Bros. Game & Watch, and the ability to upload your courses in Super Mario Maker on the Wii U (though I guess that was going to happen at some point).

Needless to say, you guys have lost a lot. I hope that these headcanons will make you feel a bit better!

Starting off with Mario, I think he would be a ler-leaning switch who is incredibly ticklish. He isn’t as sensitive as his brother is, but he’ll still break down in laughter if someone were to put their hands on one of his worst spots.

Before I begin the lee!Mario headcanons, I would like to make an announcement: Mario is canonically ticklish! This is shown in Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door, Mario & Luigi: Superstar Saga, and Mario & Luigi: Dream Team. There might be more, but for now, these are the games that Mario can get tickled in!

If you want to know how Mario can be tickled in these games, feel free to ask! I got this information from the Mario Wiki, and I would be more than happy to provide the links to the pages that I found all of this information on!

Now that I have gotten that out of the way, I’m going to list off Mario’s worst spots. Those spots are his sides, his knees, and his neck.

His often gets targeted by Luigi, Princess Peach, and Princess Daisy. All three of them love to sneak up on him and launch a surprise tickle attack. He’ll react as if he had just jumped into a pool of lava, and it’s one of the funniest things that you’ll ever see in your entire life.

He doesn’t squirm around or fight back all that much while he’s being tickled. He may prefer to be the ler, but he won’t get mad at his ler for making him laugh, especially if it’s Luigi. Mario seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy a good laugh every now and then, and tickling would definitely help out with that.

If his ler is Luigi, and if he gets in the mood to fight back against him, he will do so, but not out of anger. He’s not going to discourage his brother from tickling him. If anything, he’ll try to initiate a tickle fight so he can encourage his brother to fight back and turn the tables.

He is weak to teasing, but only if the teasing is coming from someone he knows. Don’t try to tease him if you are a stranger to him, he will hate it. A lot. Don’t tease him if you are anything like Bowser or Bowser Jr., either. He’ll hate it even more.

If he knows who you are, then you are more than welcome to tease him while you tickle him. He is especially weak to Peach and Luigi’s teasing. Something about Peach’s tone and the way that Luigi teases him just kills him on the spot.

Teasing is one of the few things that can make him blush. His blush will be a light pink color when you start tickling him, and it will gradually darken as you keep going. Teasing will speed up the darkening of his blush.

Mario’s lers are Luigi, Peach, and Daisy, as I mentioned earlier. The Toads will occasionally join in on the fun if they think he needs a good laugh. In Smash, the first three people in the previous list will continue to target him, but now, they are joined by Link, Ness, the Villagers, and the Inklings.

Let’s move on to ler!Mario headcanons. To me, Mario seems like the kind of ler that will tickle those who want or need to be cheered up. He will not tickle someone into hysterics (unless he is explicitly told to do so), and he will not overstep any boundaries.

His favorite way to tickle someone who’s has a particularly bad day is to lightly tickle their sides and the bottom of their ribcage to get quiet giggles out of them. He’ll keep it up until one of the following occurs:

His lee tells him to stop. He will always comply with this the request, even if he hasn’t been tickling that person for long.

His lee tells him to increase the intensity of the tickling. He’ll do his best to comply with this request without making it harder for his lee to breathe (unless he is explicitly told to tickle them until they are nearly breathless. He’ll hesitate to go through with this request, but he will eventually fulfill it).

His lee has been cheered up successfully. He’ll retract his hands as soon as his lee tells him that they are in a better mood, but if they tell him to keep going, he will comply.

Unless he is tickling Luigi, Mario will not initiate a tickle fight with anyone. He doesn’t know why, but the idea of getting into a tickle fight with anyone that isn’t his brother sounds unappealing to him (though he will occasionally make an exception).

The idea of teasing anyone who isn’t Luigi also sounds unappealing to him (but once again, he can make an exception), so unless you ask him, he won’t incorporate teasing into his tickling. If Luigi is the lee, then he will let loose a flurry of teases that are meant to make him laugh a little bit more than he already is.

Obviously, Luigi is his main lee, though he will go after Peach and Daisy from time to time. In Smash, Luigi is still his main lee, but he will also target the younger fighters. Out of all of them, Ness and the Inklings are the ones that will be targeted the most.

It’s Luigi time, now! He is definitely a lee in my mind.

I recently made a post about the most ticklish fighter for each Smash game, and how they would get into a tickle fight with one another. In that post, I said that couldn’t come up with an idea as to who the most ticklish fighter of Smash 64 would be. After thinking about it, I decided to give that title to Luigi. I hope the upcoming headcanons will make my reasoning clear.

Luigi is FAR more ticklish than his brother is. He’ll jump at the slightest of touches, regardless of whether or not the touch was intentional. He will squeak if you catch him off guard. He might fall over if you tickle his worst spots. And he secretly loves it all.

He doesn’t like to admit to it, but he enjoys being the lee due to the fact that he is getting attention. It’s not like anyone is intentionally ignoring him, but he definitely lives in his brother’s shadow for the most part. To him, tickling gives him the attention that he secretly craves, and it also gives him the satisfaction of making someone else smile, even if he’s the lee.

His worst spots are his underarms, his stomach, and his ears, but you could tickle him anywhere and he would laugh.

He is VERY squirmy! Seriously, he’s worse than both Pit and Shulk, and those two are even more ticklish than he is! If you pin his arms down to his sides, be careful while you are tickle him, because he could knock you down on accident due to his squirming.

Despite all of this, he won’t try to fight back, unless he’s in a tickle fight. If that’s the case, then he will try to get payback on his ler, even if it ends with him getting tickled to death.

Luigi can easily become overwhelmed by tickling, and he might become scared of you if you go too far with it, even if you didn’t mean to do so. This is another thing that you should take into consideration if you want to tickle him.

I probably should have said this earlier, but I can totally see Mario sending the Polterpup after Luigi if he sees him in a bad mood. I can also see him destroying his brother with tickles as payback for laughing at him at the end of Luigi’s Mansion.

Before I list off the names of his lers, I want to make one final lee!Luigi headcanon. Be warned, this headcanon will contain a spoiler for the plot of Luigi’s Mansion (and a possible spoiler for the plot of Luigi’s Mansion 3).

After the events of Luigi’s Mansion (and possibly Luigi’s Mansion: Dark Moon and Luigi’s Mansion 3), Luigi would therefore suffer from frequent panic attacks due to trauma. He became afraid of people sneaking up on him, and he fears that something will jump out at him at any given moment. He’s especially afraid of paintings after seeing Mario in one during the first Luigi’s Mansion and Luigi’s Mansion 3.

To help him recover from his trauma, Simon and Richter will tickle him after he makes a full recovery from a panic attack. Overtime, his anxiety will decrease as he begins to replace the terrifying thought of someone coming to harm him with a more positive image of being tickled by Simon and Richter. He hasn’t made a complete recovery just yet, but he is on the right path.

In his homeworld, Luigi’s main lers are Mario, Peach, and Daisy. In Smash, Simon and Richter will join those three, and they will all work together to help Luigi recover from his trauma.

As a ler, he is rather nervous. His nervousness can be compared to Pyra’s nervousness when she was getting used to the idea of tickling other people.

He’s always afraid of something going wrong while he tickles someone. He’s worried about his lee passing out, worried about digging his fingers a little too deeply into someone’s skin, and worried about his lee getting angry at him. Needless to say, he has a hard time with tickling other people, and he might leave his lee lying and waiting on the ground.

If this happens to you, you have two choices. You can either wait it out, or try to help him with calming down. You can even encourage him to tickle you. That way, he’ll know that you are comfortable with him, and he will regain the courage to tickle you.

He doesn’t like to tease his lees (even if his lee is Mario), but unlike his brother, it’s not caused by a lack of interest in teasing people who are not related to him. Instead, it’s due to the fact that he will make himself blush if he tries to tease his lee. He knows that people will take advantage of this weakness, so he won’t tease his lees.

Just like his brother, he won’t engage in tickle fights, unless they involve his brother. However, unlike Mario, he’ll stay away from tickle fights because he knows for a fact that he will likely lose the fight.

In his world, Mario and Daisy are his main lees. This is carried over into Smash, where Simon and Richter will join them (though Luigi tends to tickle them far less often).

And that’s that, I suppose. I’m a little nervous about posting this, but I’ll be brave and post it anyway.

P.S Is Luigi canonically ticklish? I have a feeling that he is, but I’m not entirely sure about that.

#tickling #the colorful words of the color gray #tickle tour #I can’t think of a tag for the Mario franchise #I don’t why but I got really nervous during the making of this list #why was I afraid of posting this? I have no idea #I wish that didn’t happen #but it did #by the way this is my 100th post #which doesn’t mean anything to me #but I guess it’s pretty cool

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highordinal · 3 years

Text

When a Man Dies, It All but Fades to Black

“Give me the scythe.”

Kayn raised a brow as Jarvan stepped forward, the emperor’s arm extended outward. Although he didn’t feel threatened, he simply rolled his eyes; what a ludicrous request from the other. Now where had he heard this line before? Ah, yes, with Nakuri when his mind was clouded by Rhaast’s false promises. With the Syndicate that were lured in by the entity’s calls.

He had heard this all before but for someone so pure of heart, someone who cared not for the domination of the galaxy, someone like Jarvan, to demand this wretched steel from him… He must admit, he was taken aback. It was concerning and it left the Ordinal a little miffed. Had Rhaast been gossiping behind his back? Fraternizing with those around him and feeding them lies? It was impossible, with how loud and brash the dark star was, Kayn would have heard it.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, your majesty.�� The Ordinal finally stated with a slight upturn of his lips; his voice shrouded in its usual sarcastic tone.

Rhaast screamed in the back of his mind, threatening him with a fate worse than death if he relinquished him to the emperor. Ah, so the demon wasn’t playing his usual tricks then? So then why was Jarvan so intent on obtaining the scythe? So many possibilities to ponder, but not enough time to narrow down any suspicions. As much as he respected his emperor, there was no way his naïve mind would have picked up on his little escapades throughout the galaxy. His tracks were covered flawlessly, those who dared to spill his secret were dealt with swiftly. He had put precautionary measures in place after every step he took, always making sure he had an alibi or a plan B.

“Kayn.” Jarvan’s tone became darker. “I will not ask again. Give me the scythe.”

Hm? Oh, right, his emperor was demanding something from him. With a dramatic sigh the Ordinal placed his hands on his hips, glancing off to the side. “As much as I would love to indulge your request, my emperor, I’m afraid I simply cannot deliver.”

The brunette’s frown deepened, azure eyes narrowing at his subordinates' defiance. He huffed before taking his polearm and slamming its end onto the metallic floors. A loud clang resonated through the room, afterwards the doors to the chamber were pushed open and a line of soldiers streamed in, cutting off any means of escape. After them a familiar, colorful crew stepped into the chamber, causing a momentary look of shock across the soldier's features.

A smile spread onto the Ordinal’s face, a curt laugh he couldn’t control passing his lips as he turned to look over his shoulder. “You called my own men on me?” He acknowledged in disbelief, golden irises trailing back towards the royal. “And you even sought aid from Demaxia’s wanted fugitives?”

“You left me with little choice.” Jarvan answered, earning a scoff from his friend. “This hurts me more than you would know, Shieda-”

“Oh?” The soldier cut in, turning to gaze at each of his men, “You call me in here under the false pretenses of friendship, demand I hand over my weapons, and then you cage me like a deranged beast using my own soldiers? Oh Jarvan,” He sounded amused, “You truly know how to break a man’s heart.”

“Enough!” The emperor shouted. “You have abused my trust for years, and it all started with that damned scythe. If you do not wish to lose your station, and by extension your reputation, you will hand over that weapon.”

“Reputation.” Shieda echoed, “As if something like that matters to me anymore. I’ve sacrificed everything I’ve worked toward to keep this weapon out of the hands of those that would use it for evil, and frankly I think I’m doing a rather swell job-”

“You think killing innocent people and harvesting their Ora is a swell job!?” Jarvan finally snapped, taking several steps forward. “You have done nothing but commit heinous deeds behind my back, hiding behind the excuse that it was in the name of the royal family! I never permitted such deeds and yet- yet you hid behind my name and tarnished Demaxia’s image!”

The Ordinal twitched, anger swelling in his chest. “Nothing? You say I’ve done nothing? While you sat there looking all pretty on your golden throne I was the only one scouring the galaxy doing your bidding! I conquered for you, negotiated for you, killed for you, and you say I’ve done nothing!?” His throat was hoarse with raw emotion, his shouts straining his vocal cords as he seethed in anger. “That blood is on my hands, not yours.”

“No.” Jarvan hissed through clenched teeth, “You wanted domination. I wanted peace. I’ve had enough of this- guards! Reprimand Ordinal Kayn and strip him of his weapons.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, boys. You know full well what I am capable of.” He laughed wickedly as they stalked towards him, “You’re no match for the one who trained you.”

Kayn watched as they continued to advance forward, their weapons drawn, beginning to circle him as if he were an animal. And perhaps they were right. A primal urge to kill awakened within, one hand reaching up to draw the scythe sitting snugly against his back. Rhaast hungered for rendered flesh, something the ordinal was all too willing to provide.

“Oh, Rhaast.” He sang sweetly, “It’s time to play.”

“Yeeeess…”

A low rumbling shook the room; frantic eyes darting around the space in confusion and fear. Jarvan yelled over the commotion and readied his weapon, quickly closing the gap between himself and the Ordinal. There was no use in hiding Rhaast’s sentience now, and so he decided to embrace it.

Hearing the clanking of armor behind him, Kayn dropped low just in time to dodge the emperor's spear. He deftly kicked the royal’s feet from under him, watching as the bigger man stumbled to the floor, barely able to catch himself. As the soldiers began closing in all around, the Ordinal jumped back to his feet and raised Rhaast, swinging the neon blade in a wide arc. Those who blocked the attack were pushed back, those who didn’t had a nice new gash across their chest.

It was at this time that he noticed the crew of the Morningstar begin to act, Captain Yasuo unsheathing his blade, the crazy girl pulling out a plethora of guns. He sneered at them before turning his attention back to the fight.

One by one they got up and charged him again, only to be knocked back down into pools of their own blood. A few of them managed to get a few lucky hits in on the Ordinal, but those were nothing but minor scratches that healed up instantaneously due to the Ora running through his veins. He ducked under steel, weaving his way through the men with a grace so deadly they dropped like flies.

As he regained his footing he felt a presence appear beside him, a white blur rushing past. Thinned steel was brought down upon him, giving him mere seconds to react. After dodging the slash, flittering gold locked with the Captain’s hazel irises.

“Lookin’ a little tired there, Ordinal. Might wanna throw in the towel before it's too late.”

Annoyance bubbled within the Ordinal and the Captain smirked, unleashing a flurry of blows before Shieda could put some distance between them. He managed to deflect most of the attacks, however, a well placed strike caught him off guard and he staggered back.

“RAAAAH!”

Kayn’s head shot towards the thundering stomps as Malphite dashed toward him. He cursed under his breath, diving out of the alien’s path. Before he could recover the barrel of a gun was shoved in his face. Looking up he saw the crazy girl tightening her grip around the pistol, an apologetic looking grin on her face as she pulled the trigger.

The Ordinal swiftly evaded the shot, shooting his hand up to grab her wrist. With a tug and a twist she grunted in pain, the gun falling from her fingers. Using his weight he yanked her down, jumping up and spinning around to drive the butt of the scythe hard between her shoulder blades.

“Oh just kill her already!”

Kayn raised Rhaast and readied to strike the ginger and end her pathetic existence.

Seeing his crewmate’s peril, Yasuo maneuvered himself toward the Ordinal and set forth a wall of cyan energy, forcing the man to back off. Kayn ended up being pushed back into a precarious position, yet again surrounded on all sides. He was feeling sluggish, exhaustion starting to lock his limbs into place. He panted heavily, blood and Ora spattered across his uniform. His hair had been cut loose and hung disheveled over his face.

He waited until the foot soldiers pounced before emitting an animalistic snarl and hoisted Rhaast, heavy in his hands, up and tore through his former compatriots. Rhaast reveled in the bloodshed, and for a time Kayn did too, that is, until he saw the faces of his more recognizable men staring in disbelief as their own Ordinal raised his hand against them.

He shook his head, he shouldn’t be thinking of this now, they decided to get in his way so they are to face the consequences. And yet his memories of his time with these soldiers flooded his mind. Images of his senior disciples goofing around during training, taunting their master as they sparred, enjoying the merriment of bonded brothers.

The thought made him hesitate.

Rhaast noticed immediately, “What are you doing, fool!?”

But it was too late, Kayn felt a ripping sensation in his side as Jarvan drove his spear into his flesh. The Ordinal shrieked in pain, twisting partly around and jamming the butt of the scythe against the other’s clavicle. A delightful crunch emitted after it impacted the royal’s body, yet the other stood firm, instead gritting his teeth and leaning all his weight on the Ordinal, driving the spear further in.

“N-No!” He gasped, the searing throb caused one of Kayn’s arms to lose its grip on Rhaast, the weapon clanging against the tile as his now emptied hand came up to try and push Jarvan's off.

Captain Yasuo had strode forward and plunged his blade through the Ordinal’s thigh, rooting him in place, another soldier piercing his other calf. Golden speckled sanguine spilled from his mouth as he watched the soldiers take advantage of this moment of vulnerability. One sprinted forward and slammed his boot against Kayn’s hand, breaking some fingers and knocking Rhaast completely to the floor before they all forced him onto his knees. The others surrounded him, guns aimed directly at his head.

The dark star howled in fury, reverberating on the cold tile as Malphite callously swatted him away from the Ordinal's reach.

Kayn thrashed around as much as he could but the steel only cut further into his skin, drawing more blood which drained his energy further. He was starting to become lightheaded, his breathing becoming ragged and labored, lungs struggling for purchase from the pain.

“Let me go! I’m not done- I’m not-” Fear overtook him as he continued to strain against the emperor's hold, Ora streaming from his eyes and down his cheeks.

“Shieda.” Jarvan pleaded against his ear, “It’s over. It can’t control you anymore-”

“Unhand me! Only I can handle the power that thing wields-!” Kayn protested, his voice shaky as he choked back reddened sobs.

“That thing has killed many of our own and has brainwashed you!”

“No!” Kayn screeched, “With the voice of Ora we can become unstoppable! Finally the Empire will have the strength to carry out what it’s always dreamed of-”

“Listen to yourself Shieda!” Jarvan cut him off, desperation evident in his tone, “It has blinded you with delusions of grandeur- the Empire doesn't need that power, you don’t need that power.”

The emperor freed one of his arms and slowly wrapped it around his old friend, pulling Kayn’s back flush against his chest. “Please… It’s over…”

When a man dies, it all but fades to black. But when someone like him succumbs to fate, why does he see gold? It’s dull, unimpressive and looks worthless, but it’s gold none the less. The excess Ora pulsating through his veins- he watches as it trickles down his skin from open wounds. All that hard work was wasting away, all those souls he’d collected scattering back to the earth. Rhaast had even gone quiet, stewing in his own frustration for having entrusted his life to such a feeble mortal.

“Why did you stop me?” He asks, voice low and raspy. He began to shake, the Ora withdrawing from his system so quickly he body couldn’t keep up. He leaned his head back against Jarvan’s shoulder, lolling his head slightly to look into his eyes. His injuries were numb, head dizzy and vision unfocused. “I finally had the strength to give you everything.”

“Shieda…” The royal’s face twisted in pain, “The day you became Ordinal and stood at my side- that was when I realized I did not need anything more.”

Kayn’s body went slack at his words. The soldiers backed off and watched as their emperor cradled their Ordinal in his arms, slowly removing the spear protruding through his flesh.

“You will live, Shieda,” Jarvan demanded, “We will destroy that scythe and you will live. We will make the Empire prosper through our own means, not that of monsters.”

Live. Prosper. No, not any longer. He had thrown all that away in the pursuit of power, and now he lays incapacitated before his men who have lost all respect for him. Everything he had worked for, his station, his pride, gone in the blink of an eye. It was a risk he took and it backfired. Surely Rhaast blamed him for being unable to fulfill his side of the deal, and surely his emperor held some resentment for his actions. His plans were put to a stop before they ever truly began- how humiliating.

“Live.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue, “And what could I possibly live for now?” His words were hollow, devoid of fire.

Jarvan stayed silent for a moment, hands pressing hard against the gaping wounds in the other’s side. “We will find a reason together, but for now, live for me.”

All the Ordinal could do was scoff before his vision became spotty and he was forced to shut his eyes. The sounds of shuffling feet filled the room as soldiers filtered in and out, medics being called and special units moving to carefully collect the cosmic weapon. At some point he was removed from the emperor's warmth and onto a stretcher, but his body shut down before he could comprehend any more.

His vision faded to black, but it was not the reaper he saw on the other end. No, He was still so stubbornly alive, denied the sweet release of death and forced to live among his sins. He didn’t want that, and yet when an angel bathed in light extended their hand towards him, he foolishly took it.

When their hands touched, his eyes fluttered open and he was greeted by a blindingly white room. He felt a hand clasped over his own, a welcomed warmth contrasting heavily from the plethora of frigid needles piercing his skin, syphoning out the extra Ora in his body.

A muffled voice spoke beside him, although he was unsure if it was addressing him or not. Blurry shapes passed his view, coming closer for a moment before disappearing again. As his eyes adjusted to the light, a figure came into his line of sight, Jarvan, who sat loyally at his bedside with a gentle smile.

“Shieda.” The other said his name so sweetly, so full of relief that his heart throbbed, “Good morning.”

The Ordinal exhaled slowly, careful not to aggravate any of his wounds and reached a bandaged hand up before resting it against Jarvan’s cheek. No more words were said, just tired eyes coming to a silent understanding. He might never be granted the title of Ordinal ever again, but knowing Jarvan's generosity he still may be permitted to advise on the sidelines. Even so, he wouldn’t be permitted to do that so soon.

It would take time to heal, and probably months of therapy and reflection, but it would happen. Slowly but surely it would happen, and as his emperor demanded, he would live. No matter how much he struggled and protested, he would live.

#drabble #tw: blood #tw: fighting #can you imagine not posting for 2 years #and then getting the inspiration to finish a draft #this isnt a comeback or anything i still barely have time for this anymore #i just wanted to write this and share it

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sethrine-writes · 3 years

Text

Daughter of a Devil, Ch. 27

Main Characters: Father!Dante & Daughter!Reader

Words: 1631

Warnings: Mild canon-typical violence, Angst (but definitely some bittersweet happiness)

Story Summary: Being a parent wasn’t easy, nor was there such thing as being perfect at it. Good news for Dante, seeing as how he doesn’t have the slightest idea in hell what to do with a child. Sometimes, he was certain that fighting off a horde of demons was a far better match than keeping up with his own daughter. Well, at least he wasn’t going down without a fight.

A/N: So close to the end of this series! And the end of the Vergil arch is here! Enjoy!

------

Chapter 27 - What He Never Could Have (1 yr.)

For Lady, the battle had just ended.

Lying before her, cold and lifeless to the world thanks to four shots from her own gun, was her father, Arkham. He was an evil man, one that had allowed a demon to corrupt his heart in hopes of obtaining Sparda’s power and becoming an all-powerful entity. He had killed her mother and countless other people just for this one goal, had ruined her life, and for that, he paid the ultimate price by her own hands.

A laugh escaped her lips as she looked up into the sky, the light sound soon turning into relieved sobs and cascading tears.

“Here I thought I wasn’t gonna cry.”

She stayed like that for several minutes, arms resting lethargically against her raised knees as her mismatched eyes stared into the grey sky above. It looked like morning was quickly approaching, but all that could be seen was the gloom of shadows and ashy colors. Still, it was better than the darkness that had taken over some hours ago, a sign of, hopefully, the end to a nightmare years in the making.

Something shifted strangely to the right, catching Lady’s attention almost immediately. Reflexively, she twisted her body until she was on one knee and in a position to attack, aiming her gun at the source of the movement. Instead of a rogue demon coming from the rubble as she had thought there would be, a passageway that had previously been sealed off had suddenly opened. Within, she could see a staircase leading down, and a sound that sounded like gurgling of some sort echoed from the chamber.

Lady stood and followed the path into a well-lit, open area. In the middle of the chamber stood a large bed-like structure with walls that came to her waist. Within, Lady was surprised to find a child lying within, her tiny arms wrapped around a stuffed animal.

“Well, hello. What are you doing here?”

You looked up at the new sound of a voice, eyes wide as you took in the curious face standing above you. You reached up after a moment and began to babble, surprising Lady even more at the ease of which you accepted her presence. With the slightest bit of hesitation, Lady reached forward and took hold of you, carefully lifting you from the makeshift playpen and cradling you in her arms.

From what she could tell, you looked unharmed and taken care of, unbothered by whatever destruction had been occurring all night. You couldn’t have been any more than a year, at most, a darling little girl with a striking feature Lady felt almost familiar with.

“That hair...”

”Oh, one more thing-”

Dante turned to look over his shoulder at Lady, her weapon she had allowed him to borrow, Kalina Ann, resting comfortably on the opposite side. His eyes were set, holding so much more seriousness than any of their previous interactions before, the light, carefree nature hidden within all but vanishing in that one moment of time.

“They took something from me, something I can’t live without. If you find it, keep it safe for me.”

He turned and continued on his way for possibly the final battle that would determine the fate of the world. Though she didn’t quite understand what he meant or what exactly he was talking about, she owed him that much to at least attempt to find whatever it was that had been stolen.

She would have been a fool not to try.

“Could you be what he was looking for?”

---

Dante was in the midst of fighting off Vergil, swords clashing and sparks flying through the air like lightning striking the night sky. He had not wanted things to come to this, yet in the end, he had expected it. Despite the outcome, Vergil was still family, still his brother. It was pointless, however, to make him see reason when he was so hell-bent on his own idea of power.

“Why did you take her away from me when you could have easily gotten my attention?” Dante asked after a brief separation from steel against steel. “Seems a little below you, even for your standards.”

Vergil paused for a moment himself, twisting his sword within his grasp for a few moments before darting forward once more with intent to kill.

“Nothing is below a man seeking power.”

More clashing of swords, even more sparks lighting the darkness around them. Vergil was becoming slower, and it was easy to tell that he wouldn’t be able to hold up much longer. Dante was faring a little better, but he, too, was becoming tired. The next blow would be the final blow.

“You know, you were always the smarter one of us both; you always had that “holier-than-thou” complex that just really pissed me off. Why the hell were you so envious of me? No…why are you still?”

Vergil panted heavily from a distance away, eyes narrowed and casting a venomous glare toward his twin counterpart.

“I never could understand you, Dante. No brains, but always well-liked by many. No need for power, yet stronger than ever. It unnerved me, not understanding how you were possibly better than me. It wasn’t until recently that I finally understood.”

Without warning, he came running forward; Dante had no other choice but to follow along. It was time to end it all.

---

Vergil had been defeated.

Dante’s will was strong enough to overcome the power his brother possessed and still continued to seek, all because he had set out to this place for one purpose. He would protect you and the world he would be raising you in until his final breath, even if it meant defeating his one and only brother.

“You…always had what I never could have. Strength beyond power, awareness beyond knowledge…it seems, in this instance, you were more powerful than I."

The portal was closing from above, the area around them crumbling from the closing of the gates. Vergil clutched at the amulet around his neck, the one their mother had given to each of them so many years ago.

“No one can have this, Dante... It's mine. It belongs to a son of Sparda. Leave me and go, if you don't want to be trapped into the demon world. I'm staying."

He looked around briefly, an air of finality about him set in stone.

"This place was our father's home; your daughter will have no place or sense of purpose with her father here.”

Dante gave a defeated look of his own, knowing he would not be able to convince Vergil otherwise. He couldn’t save his brother from himself; it was something even he had no influence over.

But he could still have his life with you.

---

“I need that back,” Lady stated with the slightest smile, pointing at her weapon, Kalina Ann, while carefully cradling you with her other arm.

Dante leaned against the large weapon resting upright on the ground, a small smile playing at his lips despite his worn appearance.

“Tell you what; I’ll trade you for that bundle of joy you’ve got there.”

Lady looked down at your suddenly gibbering form reaching out for Dante, eyes even brighter than before. She couldn’t stop the slight laugh that escaped her lips.

“Deal.”

Once Dante had you back in his arms, he held you close to him in a semi-tight embrace for several long moments despite your struggling at the end. It surprised him how much he had been affected by your absence, how much he really missed having you there with him, tugging at his hair and reaching for the amulet around his neck and nearly poking his eyes out when you got too excited.

He pulled you away to get a better look at your person, happy to find that you had not been harmed in any way. Vergil could have had anything done to you, could have killed you in the blink of an eye, yet he had kept you safe and sound, away from all the mess he had created.

Maybe there was some part of him that wasn’t so cold-blooded, after all.

“Are you crying?”

“It’s only the rain,” Dante responded, fully aware of the tears falling down his face. He was happy, and he was upset, two conflicting feelings that were wreaking havoc on his emotional state.

Lady looked up and around the area they had found themselves in. It was wet in some areas, if not a bit dusty from the rubble, and water was standing in puddles here and there, but it was no longer storming as it had been.

“But the rain already stopped.”

Dante smiled a bit then, a sad sort of smile that spoke volumes.

“Devils never cry.”

“I see.”

You suddenly gave a loud squeal of excitement as you reached forward to grab at Dante’s hair, taking hold of the strands in the front and trying to pull them back. You then became sidetracked by the shimmering red of the amulet around his neck and preoccupied yourself with the object shortly after. This forced a laugh from both Dante and Lady.

“Maybe somewhere out there even a devil may cry when he loses a loved one, or when he finds another. Don't you think?”

Dante smiled then, holding you steady with one hand under your bottom while the other came to run through your fluffy locks of hair.

This was something Vergil had been talking about, what he could never have. You were what made Dante stronger, what gave him power in his weakest moments, and what made him strive to become a better person and a better father.

There was nothing else Dante could ever ask for than to do right by you.

#devil may cry #dmc #devil may cry dante #dmc dante #reader #reader-insert #female reader #dmc lady #dmc vergil #dmc3 #Daughter of a Devil

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creativia10 · 3 years

Text

Janus in Wickhills Part 1

(Title not certain)

Janus wakes up on a forest floor, having no idea how he got there. He soon learns that apparently he seems to resemble some sort of dead evil faery king, snake scales and all, and he has no idea why. So he finds himself getting wary and suspicious looks from people he doesn’t even know, including the ones who offered to help him. Not to mention, dealing with the confusing nature of the green skinned fae who Janus can’t help but be intrigued by. However, he may come to learn that he is more connected to everything than he was aware.

Warnings : Threats of violence

Notes: So, I decided to go ahead and start posting this story. This is a fanfic au of @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors 's Love and Other Fairytales series. I did not know before that I needed to add in the ‘read more’ link. Since this is a bigger story, I want to do better with that this time. I will probably put specific warnings at the front of each part.

Ok, so here is some setup for the story: This is an au of Laoft where Remus came back several years earlier, and Linda isn’t in the picture yet. With this in mind, setting takes place some time after Logan has become the Seelie court rep.

I do not know yet how long this fic will be, since I am still writing it, or when I will update. So far, I have five chapters written.

Let me know if you have questions about anything, or if I forgot anything.

Chapter 1

Janus stirred, first aware of a dark green surfacing through the little light against his closed eyelids. He slowly blinked his eyes open, not quite aware of everything yet. As his eyes opened he noticed some light coming in through the leaves of the top of the forest. Top of the forest? Wait.

As Janus brought himself to sit up he felt leaves shift below him. He leaned back, thankful there was a tree behind him.

Something…wasn’t right, here. He shouldn’t be waking up on the floor of a forest. He was feeling a great wrongness here. He tried to think back to how he got there, but that only gave him fuzzy images and a dizzying headache. That could not be good. He put his hand against the tree as he stood up. He felt groggy.

How long had he been asleep? That was also concerning.

As he righted himself he looked around. He was definitely in the middle of a forest. How strange. It seemed dark in there though.

He seemed to be in period clothes with a cape, that didn’t feel off at least. He carefully started stepping around, wondering how he should go about this, considering he didn’t know which way was out. Something told him it would probably be a bad idea to call out either, he didn’t know what lurked in these woods. As he started to walk around he tried to find a space between trees that could remotely resemble a path. They didn’t seem consistent though.

He hadn’t gotten far before he heard someone clicking.

“Oh you’ve done it.”

Janus whirled around to face the figure, human-like with an inhuman quality. Fae, his mind supplied him with somehow. Not sure how he knew that.

“Ohh you’ve done it now,” the figure said as they stepped towards Janus. Janus couldn’t help but step away. The fae laughed and then shook their head.

“I don’t know where you got off going around with the dead Serpent King’s face. It’s not going to end well either way.”

Janus narrowed his eyes. What were they talking about? The fae rolled their eyes.

“Oh please, no point in keeping up an act. It’s a pretty stupid thing to do.”

The fae flicked out into their hand a light colored blade.

“We don’t take kindly to mockeries of betraying usurpers around here. You wear his face, you get the same fate.”

Janus gasped and quickly dove away from the blade aimed right towards him. He breathed fast as he quickly tried to get away, not wanting them out of his sight but also wanting to get out of there.

“Help!” He shouted then bit his tongue. That felt like a stupid thing to do. He didn’t know the intentions of any of the creatures around there. An angry snarl came from the fae who attacked him.

“Don’t act so pathetic when you dare to wear that traitor’s face!”

They launched for Janus again. Janus stumbled back, falling backwards when another figure swiftly stood in front of the other fae. Said fae stopped when he did, frowning, but standing down.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Your highness, I didn’t t-“

“This is still close enough to the revel for me to intervene. What is the issue?”

The fae scowled.

“That bastard made a mockery of the executed king by traipsing around with his face! I was only doing us all a favor by putting a stop to it.”

The royal stiffened and looked around to look at Janus. Janus stood up and eyed him cautiously, poised to take off if he had to, not that Janus knew where exactly he could go.

The royal’s face was unreadable.

“I am here now, so I am not allowing personal justice by killing on sight. I will see to it that this matter is addressed.”

“But-“

“Why do you wear my brother’s face?” The Royal asked Janus this time. Janus just looked at him.

“I am afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He lies!” The other fae cried.

“I do not understand your accusation, seeing as we can only consider a fae capable of such a transformation, and in that case, he would be incapable of lying.”

Fae? Him? Janus felt like whether or not he was fae, should be something he should know about himself. So why did he feel so unsure about that?

The royal gave the fae attacker beside him a sharp look.

“You are no longer helpful to this situation. Go on to the revel now.”

The other fae did not seem happy about this but went off without a complaint. The royal looked at Janus again.

“Explain,” He said.

“Explain what?”

“Explain how you look nearly identical to my dead brother.”

“How the hell should I know that? You’re acting like you’ve never seen someone who looks similar to someone else before.”

“Well his snake scales are pretty iconic to him.”

His what?

Janus took notice of an off feeling, as some things were coming back to him slower. He reached his hand to touch the left side of his face and gasped when he felt not smooth skin but the raised circles of reptilian scales. Well, that mas definitely a magical characteristic. The royal was watching him.

“I, along with many others, also saw him brutally murdered in front of our own eyes, so him seeming alive should not make any sense at all.”

Janus eyes widened at that. What the hell?

This was a lot. He clenched his teeth as he felt the start of what could turn into hyperventilating. That was the last thing he needed right there. To go into a vulnerable state in front of a stranger who clearly viewed him suspiciously.

“Perhaps we should start with what you are doing here?”

Janus sucked in a breath.

“I-I don’t know.” Janus looked at him then broke eye contact. “I don’t know how I got here. I just woke up on the forest floor. I know how that sounds-“

“Not as farfetched as you would think.”

Janus looked up at him in bewilderment. The royal’s lips twitched up briefly.

“Do you know who I am?”

Janus shook his head.

“Should I?”

The royal seemed to withhold a laugh again.

“Some call me the lord of the forest.”

Janus slowly nodded at that. Somehow, that seemed to work, considering how the attacking fae earlier had acted around him.

“I am also known as the spider prince. What is the last thing you remember?” the lord of the forest asked.

“Before waking up?”

He nodded.

Janus pursed his lips as he thought. It was a bit fuzzy. He went up to a tree. There was a conversation with someone whose face he couldn’t recall. Something happened. It wasn’t good. He remembered his consciousness fading.

He hissed and winced. It was clearly not a good memory. The prince frowned.

Janus said, “Not much.”

The prince hmmed. Then he turned around.

“Come with me,” he said.

Janus just stood for a moment.

“I may know of some people who can help,” the prince said. He started to walk away.

“You may want to readjust your hat, though,” he said as he nodded to Janus’ snake side and then began to walk again. Janus turned his hat and pulled it down some, not quite covering the side of his face completely, and found himself following. It wasn’t like he had many other choices anyways.

There were whispers around them. Here comes the prince.

Strange. Who follows him?

Who tries to cover part of his face?

Poor coverage indeed.

Wait is that-?

How can it be?

We saw him dead.

Who wears the dead serpent’s face?

Janus drew himself up and sped up his pace some, feeling extremely uncomfortable. They walked into a very big clearing, filled with people dancing about. There was an overall feyness to it. Many stared at them as they went past. This whole thing seemed to scream danger to Janus. He followed the prince wondering what he was thinking. He didn’t know what the prince thought of Janus at all. They made their way to an area along the edge of the clearing in the back, clearly set aside from everything else. There were three others who looked close in age to the prince. Janus noticed a fey knight off to the side as well. She made her way over to them as the two walked forward. The prince gestured.

“Can you explain this?” He asked her. The fey knight looked at Janus in shock, then her hand made its way to the sword at her side. Janus gasped and stepped back. The prince held up a hand before her.

“I already spoke with him, he claims not to know how he got here. If he is fae, as I suspect, then he can’t be lying.”

The knight frowned but she eased up some.

“That doesn’t make him innocent though.” The other three who had been waiting for the prince stood near them. Varying levels of expressions on their faces.

The knight gave him a hard look.

“What is your name?”

Janus opened his mouth, then paused. You weren’t supposed to give your name to the fae, which she clearly was, along with the prince.

“…you may call me Jay,” He almost wished he had thought of a cleverer nickname, not one that was too close to his actual name. She hmmed, still on guard.

“He never gave anyone his real name anyways,” one of the others standing by them spoke up, who was also dressed like a knight. Although he had an iron dagger on his sheath. The prince nodded.

“I also asked him if he knew who I was and he said no,” The prince said. That caused many confused looks around them. The prince looked to another in their group. Another fae. This one, who also appeared fae, yet strangely wore glasses, tilted his head and looked at Janus in consideration.

“Hmm, well he does seem to be fae.”

“I think the snake scales were pretty telling of that. I also don’t know of any witches who can do that.”

“He did act surprised when I mentioned the scales though, as though he didn’t conjure a glamor for himself.”

“I cannot think of why someone would play at this anyways though. After all, we cannot lie and to our knowledge no one else has transformative abilities like the fae do,” Specs said.

“Aren’t there other faeries who look alike though?” The last one, with curly hair and similar glasses, asked.

The glasses clad fae shook his head.

“Not like this at least.”

“My brother was made to be gentry, as we were made to be ruling heirs of this forest. He and I were the only ones who came into being the way we did. There would be no one like us.”

The one dressed as a knight gestured at Janus.

“Well then how would you explain this!?”

The glasses faery pursed his lips.

“I am afraid I am not sure.”

This was all just really weird. He would have left ages ago if he had any idea on where to go.

“Hey everyone! What’s going on?” A voice called out loudly from behind him, getting closer. “What are you all staring at?”

The people in front of him seemed to grow very concerned as the voice approached.

The glasses fae spoke, “R-Duke…”

Janus found he couldn’t help but turn to face the other. This was a green man. He literally had mint green skin. He hung a spiked mace over his shoulder. The green man, Duke as specs called him, just stared at him, face varying in extreme expressions. Janus wasn’t sure what to make of this. He was starting to get used to the bizarre reactions to him which was incredibly infuriating. There was something about the man before him though. Something familiar that was almost on the tip of his tongue. He seemed handsome too, even with the green skin, and somewhat ridiculous mustache. The man seemed to settle on something.

“What..the hell!?”

( Continues in Janus in Wickhills Part 2)

#laoft fic #sanders sides fanfic #ts janus

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fenheart87 · 4 years

Text

Trading Circle of Hell

@semi-slaughtomatic happy belated birthday doll! I will be cross posting to AO3 later as well but I wanted to get this out there now that its done!

-start-

"Welcome welcome! Females to the left and males to the right! Look for anyone with a purple butterfly mask to make your purchase or ask for more information on our unique invenitory! Rumor has it our esteemed kings shall be here today, make your selection quick for I fear even I wouldn't dare say no to them...."

Viperion scanned the room in disgust, cages with humans, demons, various kinds of fae and more supernaturals were lined and spaced very strategically. Only one or two people could view a 'selection' at a time and there were plenty to choose from.

"This is not what I was expecting." Chat Noir spoke up, teeth bared in rage at what he was seeing. They had been tipped off there was an underground market, an illegal one even by demon standards, and here was the proof right in front of their eyes.

"Easy Plagg, we have time to browse and choose carefully from the... Inventory."

"Yeah yeah Sass, kumbyyah and all. I want one with spirit."

"I want one with some brains, the traps keep killing people." Sass responded, sharing a smirk with his companion and drawing his hood closer to his face. The last thing they needed was for someone to recognize them as they were investigating this horrid black market before they could shut it down. The problem with the recon mission was that they needed to be stealthy and being the Snake and Black Cat made them the best choice, even if they had more favorable morals and senses of justice within them unlike many other demons. It was the secret that made them good rulers and their following loyal to them and them alone.

"Welcome gentleman! Forgive me I have spent too much time topside lately, is there anything specific you happen to be looking for? Someone for manual labor or more physical labor in the place of rest?" The Showrunner as he chose to title himself wisely decided to not touch either of them like he had for many of the other buyers.

"I need someone with a firey spirit and tough enough to withstand the Hell Fires."

"Oh, you must live under our illustrious leader Chat Noir then, pray tell would a dragon suffice good sir?" Beady eyes were shining in glee as Plagg exchanged a glance with Sass.

"Depends on the age and gender, perhaps you can direct me where I could find such one?"

"Of course, in the front row at the very end of the left side. A Longg follower that is quite the spirited miss. And for you fellow good sir?"

"I need someone smart and cunning, quick as a mouse if you will,"

"Ah I wish we could've acquried a Mullo follower but alas not this round... I do however have a special quiet thing that could fit the bill if you're interested?"

"Perhaps, show me your inventory and I may still need to browse, I have other stations that could be filled if I do not find someone to my liking." Sass followed the leader and hid his disgust with all of his being, he wanted nothing more than to poison the man with a quick strike. The cages had various states of captured folk in various stages of distress or anger, the collars adorning their necks were equipped to restrain their unique talents and powers, preventing any type of escape from their cages. Guards and hired demons of lower levels were mingling around the crowd should someone get lucky enough to successfully escape from behind the bars.

"Here we have a pretty little thing but awfully quiet. she does have a voice but her glare usually speaks for her, I have had some issues with one so she is at a discounted price, only 150 thousand."

Sass raised a brow at the price, many of the others were easily going for ten times as much for a starting bid. Either she was too much to handle for the ring leader or she was damaged in some way. Finally looking at the cage, his breath caught. He would know those blue eyes anywhere and was glad that his self control was damn good. Her resemblance to her parents was uncanny, even if they had not been seen by a single eye in over 200 years.

"She's a looker but anyone who dares to get too close suffers, unless that's your type of ah, fun shall we say?"

"I'll take her, she'll make an excellent addition to the baker's guild. If she turns out she can't bake well, I'm sure she could plead to Tikki for help before she became the next meal."

"Very well, as with everyone else I'll collect the payment before the next round and after inventory has been checked and secured, you can take it home with you. If anything else catches your eye, please let me know." With that, the Showman left to prey on other prospective buyers and Sass glanced around, noticing only a few other demons looking at the few cages with interest. It was safe enough he supposed.

"Tell me little one, do you like sweets or cheese?" Pulling carefully on his power, he let flow enough to touch his eyes, making them turn mint green and seeing her eyes flash a pale pink, drawing a gasp from that luscious mouth. "So you are a true Mullo follower then."

"Snake." She murmured and smiled sweetly, eyes flashing once more.

"Black cat is here too, the Longg follower is coming with us and this place is done for." Sass whispered, directing his gaze towards the other side where he could see Plagg was prowling and looking at everything with a calculating gaze, casing the entire space.

"Kagami?" She whispered so softly he nearly missed it, drawing his attention and she flushed pink as she shrunk down.

"Well then, even better. Plagg, if you're ready I am. Nothing else has caught my interest."

"Good, let's find the Showman and collect." The green of his iris was gleaming, a yellow tint coloring them acid and the barely concealed rage shining. Their aura made everyone scurry away from their path as they followed the twists and turns through the cages.

"Ah, is there a problem, good sirs?" The Showman was on guard, eyes narrowed and watching carefully for any signs of aggression.

"Ah, he's a devout follower of Lord Viper himself, very covetous this one is. Terribly sorry but it would be in everyone's best interest if we were to collect and leave the place in one piece." Plagg smiled, fangs fully on display which kicked up the tension a few notches.

"Ah we can certainly make an exception but the prices do change for those in a hurry to get to the breaking in part. Do you have your own collars for your purchases?"

"Now now, it's not nice to insult paying customers, good sir." A black gloved hand produced two simple collars, the scent of ash faintly stirring the air.

"Ah, this way then." With a couple of gestures, two lizard demons who posed at security moved through the crowds and collected the cages, going down a different hallway then the trio did. The lanterns glowed eerily with the Hell Fire flames, Plagg and Sass having to bite back their power to prevent a surge in the flames and revealing themselves to the scum they were forced to follow.

"Alright, very simple to do. I'll deactivate the collars and you can place yours, once secure then I'll remove the standard ones. Precautions you know…"

Sharing a glance they split and stood in front of their chosen. The slimey demon brought over two charged stem crystals and with a small fizz of power the collars were deactivated. Sass noted the little mouse seemed upset but not scared as expected, carefully he stepped closer and leaned down slightly to secure the 'collar', a small whisp of smoke puffed to signal the lock was in place. Taking the other charged stem, the Showman waved it nearby and the slave collars fell off into his hands.

"Thank you for your time and interest gentleman, enjoy your investments!" Waving them to follow one of the guards and the other bringing up the rear, the four made their way out of the illegal catacombs market. Continuing on for a few tense miles until they were sure the guards had indeed returned, they stopped.

"Alright, introductions! I would happen to be Chat Noir, ruler of all the darkness and destruction. For stealth purposes please refer to me as Plagg."

"Viperion, Lord of Time and Incubi. Code name Sass."

"Kagami, a devout Longg follower. I work under the name Ryuoko." The dragon dusted herself off nonchalantly, eyes piercing in their intent to gage how much of a threat the two lords were.

"Multimouse, a converted Mullo follower." Viperion ignored the sly grin and everything that it said from his fellow demon lord.

"So what's the plan?" Ryuoko asked, smirking.

"Well, do what we do best…" Blue eyes turned a shimmering green and emerald green took on an acid yellow green shine.

"Destroy those who break the Seven Hells contract." Each collar shifted into a choker, a reaction to the sudden leak of power from demon lords, this would boost both female demon's powers as well as protect them. The time of reckoning was at hand.

#marinette dupain cheng #luka couffaine #lukanette #miraculous lb #miraculous fanfic #miraculous au #miraculous ladybug #Fen's Plunny Corner

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savethelastdan · 4 years

Text

ain't got no time, just burnin' daylight (still love, it’s still love)

I wrote this while doing prompts for Kagura Week (starts this Sunday!!!) and ended up replacing it, since it didn’t fit Kagura’s perspective enough to really be for her theme week.

Originally written for Day 3 - Lust for Life. Title is from SZA’s Broken Clocks.

Standing up, Sesshomaru tunes out the sputtering old man on the other side of the table. “Please call my secretary to reschedule this meeting. Good night.”

It’s bad enough that he’s spent every night this week with clients--listening to laughably minor problems be blown up into life-or-death mountains of issues, picking at tasteless meals in overpriced restaurants, and squinting at line after line of jargon-filled contracts until his eyes feel ready to pop out--but tonight is a whole new level of disrespect.

What kind of low-brow, uncouth person holds a confidential meeting regarding a serious legal issue in the booth of a fucking sports bar?

Even worse, if the stained printouts of the text messages the client passed him over the table are any indication, the idiot has not only been admitting fault but also in a public forum, using enough details that his use of a throwaway account is completely pointless.

If Sesshomaru’s father wasn’t already in the grave, his heart would give out to see the type of clients now frequenting his law firm. He wonders briefly if he could find a way to blame such a thing on Inuyasha.

Expression grim, he strides across the room with such forceful steps that a tray-carrying waiter in a green jersey practically leaps to get out of his way. The door is nearly in sight, before someone stumbles out from the bathroom hallway right into his path.

He stops short, acknowledging how his shoes stick to the floor with stomach-turning ease. But instead of apologizing and moving aside, the woman blocking his way shifts her weight to one hip, crossing both arms over her chest.

It takes a second before it fully registers that she’s actually looking him up and down.

“Well, you’re definitely not a regular.” She tilts her head, sending a wave of black hair covering her shoulder. Her eyes are deep scarlet, her ears sharpened into points and studded with earrings. Some kind of elemental demon? Ah, but it doesn’t matter.

He opens his mouth to ask her to move, but with a sudden curve of her mouth she beats him to the punch. “Wanna bet on who’s going to win tonight?”

“What?” The synapses of his brain move sluggishly, until he looks to her right to see flashes of color on a broad screen, mounted precariously to the wall. His refined hearing is used to tuning out the banal and unimportant, so it’s not a total surprise that he’s missed it. “I don’t know who is playing.” Or what kind of game it even is.

She shrugs, arms uncrossing, and he realizes she’s wearing a jersey--is she a waitress, or a customer? It seems to be appropriate attire for both. “You don’t have to know. Just pick: white or green?”

Maybe it’s because every other night of his week (his month, his year) has been sucked dry by the demands of his job. Maybe it’s because, since taking over his father’s firm, he’s started dressing and cutting his hair and even speaking like the dead man. Or maybe it’s because, when she tilts her head again, the sleeve of her jersey slips down and he can see a stretch of scarred skin curling like a necklace, and it makes him curious.

“Fine. Green.”

Red eyes burn with glee. “Good choice. White’s been fucking up all season.”

It’s like being under some kind of goddamn spell.

When she says, “Come on, the speakers in the break room are better,” he follows her back down the bathroom hall right through a small door. Sitting on a scarred leather couch with an admittedly impressive television and sound system mounted across from it, he accepts the beer she offers him with a whisper. “On the house. If you don’t tell, I won’t.”

When she cheers and curses so loudly at the game that he thinks someone might come in and shout at them, and waves her bottle towards him, he clinks their drinks together with a high-pitched chime.

When she offers off-handedly that her name is Kagura, that her dad owns the bar but hardly ever visits (“except for special events”, which is said with a bitter grin that sends approximately a thousand red flags pinging in his lawyer brain), he finds himself handing her his business card.

“Wow,” she hums, turning the square of stock paper this way and that so that the gold characters of his name shine. “How much did that cost?”

It’s when the game is going into its second overtime, he finds it in him to ask. “Why did you invite me back here?”

She smirks, twisting a ringlet of hair around her finger. “Why did you come?”

His mind stalls again, but he covers better this time. “It’s dangerous. I’m a stranger. What if I had negative intentions towards you?”

Something flashes in her eyes. “If you attacked me, then you’d regret it.”

“Would I?” There could be a knife tucked into the couch, he guesses. Her jersey looks roomy, maybe she has a taser holstered beneath it. Or perhaps she’s referring to her powers, though not many demons could beat a dog demon of his caliber--

Then she’s right in front of his face. A pleasant warmth fills his stomach, as her nails scrape down the sleeve of his button-down shirt.

“You look like the kind of person who wants what I want,” she says, very quietly.

He swallows, realizing his hand has already settled on her knee. “What is that?”

Kagura inhales slowly, lip drawing in between her teeth. “To just say fuck it, and live already.”

Time pulses between them for one second, two--and then he’s kissing her, with an urgency that he hasn’t felt in what seems like a thousand years.

It isn’t until she’s dragging him off the couch, muttering something about her car and locked doors, when he realizes that the only heartbeat pounding in his hyper-sensitive ears is his own.

Then he’s on his back on leather seats--same fabric as the couch, why the hell is he thinking about that right now--with her settled on top of him. Her car is small and his legs are long, so it takes a moment of figuring out how to fit without banging his head on the door handle. Kagura leans over him, her tongue sliding into his mouth, and he feels the previous warmth in his stomach spiral out to all four limbs. It burns, like the venom in his veins has suddenly turned against him.

“Shit,” she breathes, as his fangs prick her lip. “You are something.”

It’s barely a compliment, but nonetheless it has him kissing her harder. He bunches up the jersey so his claws can find flesh instead, and Kagura sighs.

More scar tissue, rising up to meet his fingers. Her chest is pressed right up against his, but he senses no movement inside it.

But her hands are warm, her eyes are bright, and when he breathes her name, it tastes like a lifeline in his mouth.

#sesskagu #sesshomaru x kagura #shespitsfire #savethelastdan #kagura #kagura of the wind #inuyasha #au #modern au

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spneveryseason · 4 years

Text

A note on Season 3 Sam

I turned 24 today. It’s made me think about where I am in my life, and in doing so I think I can give a little perspective into Sam in season 3, as we are now the same age.

Season 3 is when the show was starting to test the waters with giving Sam a more pronounced dark side, and leaning into Dean’s POV with concern regarding Sam and his changing behavior. Much of how we see him in that season (darker, more pragmatic, desperate) is colored by Dean’s perception of him as well as Dean’s fear with what he will “become”, and if he really isn’t “100% Sam”. However, taking a second look at Sam without these notions gives you a very different picture.

This is someone who, for all intents and purposes, only just started being an adult. He’s facing a future where there is a very good chance he will lose his only family before the year is out. This person also happens to be a guardian-figure for him, leaving him without guidance in the future.

So what can he do?

The first option is to accept this to be inevitable and either fall apart or spend as much time with Dean as possible before he dies. Of course, that’s unacceptable to Sam, not only because he doesn’t want to lose Dean, but also because Dean is going to hell and Sam feels responsible for it.

That leaves him with the second option: trying everything he can to get Dean out of his deal. To do so, Sam realizes that he can’t keep relying on Dean and has to step up himself and take charge of the situation. That is, he now has to be a fully realized adult. He doesn’t seem to have developed his own sense of adulthood yet, so he overcorrects by copying his two main influences: his father, and to an greater extent, Dean. Sam admits this openly to Dean in “Fresh Blood”, stating that he had looked up to him his whole life.

To Sam, this means leaning heavily towards pragmatism and reason, as he had historically been the one to express more idealized compassion in the past. So, considering sacrificing one innocent to save many in “Jus In Bello” is an expression of this new mindset, and is his idea of adulthood put into practice. At this stage, being an adult to him means making the hard choices necessary to make sure as few people die as possible, and he tries his best to follow through on this new mindset. It must have surprised him how vehemently Dean pushed back on it!

Seeing this moment through Dean’s eyes makes us suspicious: why is Sam acting so different, could the demon have done something to him? Is there an inner darkness waiting to come out?

Of course, that was all bullshit. There never was anything different. All there was was a guy catapulting himself into what he saw as adulthood in an attempt to save his family and himself. It was that desperation that led him down the path that he did, and it’s sad we never see this acknowledged in the show itself.

#spn #supernatural #sam winchester #spn meta #supernatural meta #season 3 #season 3 sam #spn season 3 #speaks

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thewickling · 4 years

Text

Winding Moonrise - Bedtime Preparation

Wei Wuxian trails behind Lan Wangji. The pristine and reverent halls of the Lan residence form a stark contrast to the noisy and item riddled Jiang residence of his memory. The scrolls that line the walls and handcrafted ceramics that decorate the path combine with the silence to establish a tone like a museum. The kind of museum where breathing too loudly is considered blasphemy and asking if one can take a picture would be tantamount to sin.

Lan Wangji fits right in; Wei Wuxian feels as if he is about to be lectured for walking wrong. He chuckles to himself. So this is where Lan Zhan was raised.

He can just picture it: a tiny A-Zhan, who despite his young age looks every bit as uptight as he does now, sitting at a low table practicing his guqin. His clothes must have been spotless. Even then, he must have looked like polished jade only fresher and whiter.

He covers his mouth. Glancing around, he isn’t surprised not to find pictures on the walls, but he is disappointed he can’t confirm his hypothesis. He ponders if he had ever looked that sweet and innocent even as a child. Even now Lan Wangji looked of jade in his proper posture, his black hair is akin silk, and his skin is white as freshly fallen snow.

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji questions if he has a right to offer Wei Wuxian his room. Isn’t it selfish? Is he not taking advantage of Wei Wuxian?

Yet he can’t ask that without prompting Wei Wuxian’s curiosity. He can’t phrase the question without revealing his motivation for asking. He frowns. He is indeed selfish. What wolf would not want their moon’s scent to spread through their den. He closes his eyes and can’t inhale deeply.

He does anyway.

The salt tickles his throat. The refreshing, nature air winds itself through Lan Wangji’s core. He wonders how it will mingle with his own scent. He pictures as he did a decade of mountains and lakes forming the scent-scape of their home.

By the time he gains enough control to open his eyes, they already stand outside his room. He decides, I will sleep elsewhere.

He gestures.

Wei Wuxian quirks his head. His eyes widen. Tapping his chin, he hums with understanding. “Right, we couldn’t catch up over dinner. Your uncle is so fussy. No discussion? Is this a library?”

Lan Wangji blinks.

“You first.” He gestures as if this was his home not Lan Wangji’s.

He freezes. His ears yearn for more of his moon’s voice. But he has no right to Wei Wuxian’s time when he can’t even spend it without imposing on Wei Wuxian’s kindness. It isn’t Wei Wuxian’s fault. He can’t know how Lan Wangji longs for his scent and touch and lips.

“You are mistaken,” he says, pushing past. “You may rest here tonight.”

“What?” Wei Wuxian glances around for a camera because he couldn’t have heard right. There’s no way a residence like this doesn’t have guest rooms, that his presence would force Lan Wangji out of a bed.

He twirls. Grabbing Lan Wangji’s wrist, he asks, “Where are you going?”

Lan Wangji locks in place. The heat that diffuses from Wei Wuxian’s fingertips through Lan Wangji’s wrist sends his mind reeling. His skin dreams of more. His hands itch to grab and hold. His fingers to drink in the firmness of collar down toward his—

“Ah, is Lan Zhan getting a pillow? Are we having a sleepover?” Wei Wuxian nods to himself. He’s a little old for that but it’s been so long since he’s had a chance to talk to old friends. Sharing a room means he won’t have to stumble to a guest room bleary-eyed later.

Lan Wangji stares at Wei Wuxian. He wonders, How did Wei Ying come to that conclusion? I can barely hold myself from scent-marking him and he wants to share a bed?

He smiles back.

This is the scene that Lan Xichen walks in on. The question he has dies on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t need the conflicted medley of his didi’s scent to tell him that Lan Wangji has absolutely not informed Wei Wuxian that they are mates. He understands the moment he sees Lan Wangji unable to move. Lan Wangji muscles locked in place as the intent to move them conflicts with his desire to remain near his soulmate.

He sighs.

“Xichen-ge,” Wei Wuxian chirps. “Hello. Are we standing in your way?”

Lan Wangji implores his xiong with his eyes. They widen with panic. He pleads for a way out.

“Wei-gongzi,” he says, recalling the words he just overheard. “No. I wanted to check that you had enough to share for the night. Lan Wangji told me how excited he was for the two of you to talk.”

A tiny part of him feels terrible about the betrayal that shines in Lan Wangji’s eyes. He rationalizes, Even if Wei-gongzi may reject him, if didi never tells him that they are fated, then he will never find happiness.

“He was just about to get them!” Wei Wuxian tugs Lan Wangji’s arm.

Gesturing, Lan Xichen offers, “I am heading this way. I’ll send some your way. You should catch up.”

“Great! Thanks!”

Wei Wuxian drags Lan Wangji, who can’t bring himself to properly be reluctant, into the room.

“Inside or outside?” Wei Wuxian asks, appraising the bed. It’s a little tight for two grown men but it isn’t like they will be packed like sardines. The bed isn’t a twin after all.

Staring at his bed and Wei Wuxian’s curious gaze, he swallows. Boyhood dreams of boxing Wei Wuxian in flit up his memory. Lan Wangji at last says, “You take the bed.”

“I can’t steal your bed.” He scratches his neck. “I’ll take the floor. I’m used to roughing it.”

“No.” What kind of mate would Lan Wangji be if he allowed that?

“No? Should I find a g—”

“Stay here.” His mouth moves before his brain. His instincts scream, Wei Ying is in our den. We have to keep him here.

Wei Wuxian steps back, giving Lan Wangji a once-over. Did he misunderstand? Lan Wangji has always been concise but did he misunderstand something. He repeats, “Inside or outside?”

Lan Wangji knows this is selfish but Wei Wuxian isn’t leaving him much choice. If he changes his word, that will create suspicion. He can endure a night though it will be a test of his will. He doubts he will sleep much. “Outside.”

“So! Anything interesting gossip?” Wei Wuxian flops down, making a mess of the neatly tucked sheets. The dark wash of his clothes contrast with the white of Lan Wangji’s sheets. He haphazardly spread limbs expose a few centimeters of belly.

Tearing his gaze away Wei Wuxian’s happy trail, he shakes his head. “The pack prohibits gossip.”

“The pack or Lan Qiren-laoshi,” he mutters but it makes sense. If you pry into other people’s business, they are bound to pry into yours. He asks, “Any interesting news? That doesn’t break your finicky rules does it?”

Lan Wangji thinks, turning over the last decade or so. His memory is filled with many events but he doubts most would interest Wei Wuxian. Events such as weddings, deaths, and births would have already reached Wei Wuxian’s ears.

Wei Wuxian smiles, leaning forward. Resting his weight on his knees, he says, “You don’t have to take it so seriously. Just say something.”

“You likely have more news than me.”

He stretches. His clothes crinkle. Flakes of brown and red drift off him. The color is a shock of color on the sheets.

A whiff of earth and copper scratch Lan Wangji’s nose. The scent is too old for him to place but that he suspects at all that it is blood makes his wolf pace. He instinctively steps forward.

“Sorry. Sorry.” He claps his hands together and bows. Suddenly it hits him, he rubs his nose. “Ah, Lan Zhan, can I borrow your clothes?”

Lan Wangji turns from stone to plasma. The words he hates claw his ears, followed by something his brain can’t quite process. He thinks, Wei Ying in my clothes, wrapped in my scent.

It isn’t as good as scent-marking him but it is the closest action Lan Wangji has any right to do. He blinks.

“Ah, if that’s weird I can just—” He wonders if Lan Wangji is myopic. The Lans have always been excessively neat but did he offend Lan Wangji by shedding cinnabar, blood, and paste onto his sheets.

“No. If you don’t mind it, I can lend them to you.” He walks over to his dresser. He removes two pairs of matching pajamas.

Wei Wuxian is somehow both surprised and underwhelmed. Of course Lan Wangji wears pajama sets instead of a random assortment of shorts, sweats, pants, and t-shirts. It fits Lan Wangji to a tee.

“We should shower.”

Together? Lan Wangji exclaims in his heart, but his face remains expressionless.

He glances over Lan Wangji. “What’s that look? Ah, are you a morning shower person?”

“But you just ran through the woods.” He wrinkles his nose. “Or does the transformation just magick away the dirt?”

Before he can begin to understand how Wei Wuxian reached that conclusion, a shallow knock at the door tells Lan Wangji how distracted he was. His ears should have noticed the footsteps long before the knock.

“Enter.”

“Father,” Lan Sizhui says, closing the door behind him. “Xi-bo sent me.”

He carries in two pillows. Crossing the room, he peers at Wei Wuxian. He questions, Why is bobo acting weird and father and granduncle?

A second later, he realizes there’s only one bed and there’s nothing to form a second bed with. Lan Sizhui would never describe Lan Wangji as distant but of all their pack he rarely sees Lan Wangji sharing skin contact with other pack members of his generation or older. If he hadn’t crawled into Lan Wangji’s bed as a child, he suspects he would be among those who consider his father cold. He notes this. Pieces of a puzzle line up in front of him and he’s short of full work.

He stops short of Lan Wangji who stares at his hands pointedly.

“Is something wrong?” He hands over the pillows.

Lan Wangji shakes his head. Nothing of Lan Sizhui’s scent or heart beat suggests ulterior motives. He wonders if xiong intentionally picked the only person in their pack who could not tell if he was hiding something. He pushes down his complaints and gives his thanks.

“Oh! A-Zhui can show me the bathroom.” Wei Wuxian hops up. Throwing his arm over Lan Sizhui’s neck, he gestures.

Lan Sizhui furrows his brow. “Is that father’s clothes?”

Waving them, Wei Wuxian jokes, “Hm… Did you want me to share a bed with your baba in the—”

“Wei Ying!” Lan Wangji scolds and tries to ignore the fantasy those words conjure up and how he itches to make them more than a reality.

Lan Sizhui flushes.

“My bad. My bad. Lead the way A-Zhui.” Wei Wuxian waves. “I’ll be back soon. So think up a good story.”

When both leave his sight, Lan Wangji finds a clear patch of wall. He flips onto his hands. Gravity forces all the blood that flowed south to return north. A part of him dreams of entering the shower after—

Keeping an ear out for Wei Wuxian, he recites the packs’ thousands of rules. He mustn’t impose himself on his moon. His mind still manages to wonder.

It conjures images of Wei Wuxian slick with water. Steam masks the parts of Lan Wangji never seen in detail. The happy trail he only glimpsed tempts him to picture what is lower.

He rocks. Shifting his weight to one arm, he increases the difficulty of his exercise. If shifting skins wouldn’t scare Wei Wuxian, he would pace his room. Even in wolf form, he knows that no part of him would dare leave this room when he knows his moon plans to return here.

He layers on the difficulty. He recalls the rules in a second tongue. He mustn’t allow his body another moment to consider how Wei Wuxian’s fresh scent will infuse his clothes or how Wei Wuxian will smell of the shampoo he uses. He lifts a foot from the wall.

#MDZS #Winding Moonrise #Wangxian #No Sads #I tried to write a happy college years flashback but my brain refused so you get some silliness of two idiots negotiating bed arrangments #Somehow I have accidentally managed to write continuously rather than jumping from sad to sad so yay?#I was also going to write LWJ mooning over WWX but that could very easily get weird and pining sad so I stopped in the middle of the silly #LSZ isn't dumb he's just a kid who can't compute that his dad is in love yet #okay I am far enough in my notes no one is probably reading #Since JZX is alive in this world that means we have a dippled dhampire MY out in the world who was never recognized #wick writes

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cyphertrip · 4 years

Text

pairing: yoongixreader genre: multi-chapter romance word count: 3,330 warnings: increasing sexual themes as chapters go on, vague mentions of violence note: this is a reuploaded story from my original blog. I will continue to reupload the chapters every day or two to avoid flooding the tags. if you remember this story and would like others of mine reuploaded let me know.

... He won’t kiss you. You don’t know why it is. He so often teases you with the notion that you could cry for all the near misses. His mouth comes so close only to leave your own aching at his absence. He doesn’t kiss you anywhere, barely touches you. The suggestion of touch is always present, a ghost of fingers in your hair, a hand at your back when you traverse stairs. Yoongi reaches for you only to snatch his hand away at the very last second with carefully guarded consideration in his eyes. He has his reasons, reasons he’d share if you dared ask; reasons that would sound like the sonnets of a heart so wasted in love he’s too afraid to offer them on his own. But you never ask.

You think maybe it’s not to him what it is to you. It’s hard to determine your relationship when the basis is sparse words and looks so intent you can barely assess them without feeling your skin go hot, forcing you to look away from the intensity of it. He looks like its love, or at least a deep infatuation, and your own feelings are hardly secret. You have crooned his name so many times its familiar, a sigh from your lips in the morning, an exasperation at the almost kiss goodbye at night. The fact that you continue to show up on his doorstep should say everything he needs to know but he doesn’t seem to realize. He always looks so surprised to see you, as if one day he expects you’ll not. You can barely help yourself. In spite of the uncertainty your feet traverse the path to his place without you needing to consciously decide it’s your destination. It would be generous to call the space anything more than a room with an adjoining bathroom, it is cluttered and open, littered with papers that have his scrawl all over them and collections of sheet music strewn about the place. There’s an upright in the corner, a mattress on the floor, a rack of clothing and beaten up boots and sneakers thrown about. It is a physical manifestation of what you imagine his mind to look like. He keeps his mouth so very shut, his thoughts so very private that you imagine behind his quiet expression there’s an immense chaos begging to be sifted through. If you could you would pry him open like a book and read, over and over until you had every part of him memorized. As it is you’re the one who opens up. Somehow he knows so much about you and you seem to learn so little of him in return. It’s by his own design. His history is littered with stories he’s ashamed of, brutalities committed by and against him. He’s sure his stories would send you running and for that reason he feels he should tell you but he never does.Eventually he opens up with his hands, for once not sending you away through a gap in the door when he’s injured. There’s a blossoming of purple and blue across his cheekbone, blood on his knuckles. You’re not sure if it’s his or someone else’s. You clean him up, your fingers insensitively taking advantage of the opportunity to touch. You brush through his hair, cleaning cuts and placing bandages though your brows are knitted together in worry. He’s silent the whole time, his eyes following your face as the expressions shift, softening and hardening as your thoughts tick through exasperation and worry. When you ask how, why, Yoongi finally touches you. There are fingers under your jaw, a thumb on your chin as he tilts your head up, catches your gaze. “Let’s not talk about it.” His fingers brush against your jaw and you find yourself conceding to his request. Deep down you know he’s trouble but you feel it’s already too late. You care for him too much to turn back now. Everything you’ve heard about him is so hard to reconcile with the boy you know. He’s so gentle and patient with you that it’s impossible to imagine him capable of laying a violent hand, though you know he is. His hands, when they do begin to regularly come in contact with you are always a combination of soft and calloused. Every touch he lays on you is pedestrian and complete. There is no stroke or linger that he leaves possibility within. It drives you crazy. For the longest time you had craved his touch but to finally have it now is to learn that you’ve surpassed your previous desire. You always seem to be in need of him and it makes you nervous that Yoongi doesn’t appear to be struggling the way you are. Every brush of his fingers makes goosebumps raise on your skin, a noise of yearning tucked away in your throat that sometimes escapes. He memorizes every one of them and lets his mind recite them when he’s alone. He remembers the way your hair had fallen away from your shoulders when he touched your neck, head tilting to the side, or the way your lips had parted when his thumb had run along your mouth. Your body tells him that he’s not alone in wanting but still he restrains himself from mapping your body and claiming it as his own. If eventually you decide he’s not the one he supposes it will be good for you to go as you came to him; untarnished and complete. He has no business stealing both your heart and your virtue if you’re only to fall out from under the spell you seem to be under for now. Surely, he thinks, it can’t last. He doesn’t know what you see in him; you’re so good and sweet, so very fair, and he is… well, he’s not sure. It occurs to him one day that he is the kind of boy you’ll remember fondly in your later life, a wild, torrid, exploit of love before you found someone better, more stable and secure. Months and months pass though and you continue showing up in his doorway. The yearning he has for you has reached the point of mild insanity. He can feel his mind fraying at the edges at the simplest gesture. The exposed measure of your neck has him hungrily baring his teeth before he thinks better of it and your gathered strands fall back into place soon after. When you fall asleep amongst his sheets the swell of your hip makes his fingers fidget, begging to touch, a sliver of your skin peeking out from beneath your shirt threatening to banish his resolve entirely. He wants, wants, wants. He wants so much he’s mad with it and you’d blush down to the tips of your toes and virginal fingers if you even knew.It begins to rain one night when you’re on your way to see him. He’s not expecting you, in the same way that he never is, when you show up. You’re shivering and wet, your clothes sticking, leaving droplets of water across the wooden floorboards beneath your path inside. His door is usually left unlocked in the event that you show up and he peers up at the sound of the door, the storm echoing in around you. He looks in wonder at your sodden finger, your hair curled around your face and shoulders, rising loftily to his feet from his seat at the piano his fingers had paused over. As if he forgets his tact his hands are suddenly everywhere, tucking your hair back, running up and down your shoulders. He looks at you in an admonishing way and sighs in a way that’s both disappointed and fond. He’s pleased to see you, though he questions your choice to travel in such horrid weather. When he wordlessly reaches for the bottom of your shirt and begins to lift it, only thinking better of it and pausing with the soaked fabric between his fingertips, searching your face for assent, your breath catches in your throat. You’re not enough of a fool to think that this will be it and he’ll finally give in, though you lift your arms anyway and let him pull the shirt away. He’s careful not to touch you too intimately though he continues to rid you of your wet clothes, peeling the denim of your jeans carefully from your thighs, crouching as he does so. He’s soon on his knees before you and Yoongi thinks that it’s so fitting, kneeling before you like this. He’s begun to consider you devoutly, an altar to which he obligingly worships. His fingers smooth along the shape of your calf, along your thigh until he rests his hand against your hip and stands again. He looks at you with dark eyes, his shallow breaths a match for your own, pressing keenly into the silence that beats between you. You can feel your heart hammering in your chest, an intoxicating mix of anticipation and nerves rattling around. The entirety of your body absolutely aches with longing, your skin warm beneath the cool layer of wet that makes your skin sheen under the gauzy florescent lamp light of his room. You’re leaning in instinctively, following his lead as he too inches closer. His fingers slip into the hair at the nape of your neck and then his mouth is next to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, the shirt he’s wearing a faint ghost against your chest. He runs you a bath before things have a chance to go any further. You’re simultaneously disappointed and relieved. The hot water is soothing as it envelops you and knowing he’s mere feet away from you while you relax languidly in his tub gives you a thrill you haven’t experienced before. You feel particularly bold when, after softly calling your name, he comes in with some clothes to place them down on the sink. Though you aren’t bold enough to make a move more than baring the uncovered expanse of your back, your breasts loosely concealed by the arms you fold over your knees, a strangled noise escapes him when he sees you. There’s a hint of color in his cheeks and he averts his gaze swiftly, forcing his words to come out smoothly when he excuses himself and retreats to the relative safety of the other room. His mind swirls with thoughts of temptation while he tries to regain his bearings but it’s of little use. He feels reduced to a young boy again, so excited at just the sight of you, that he’s on his feet the moment he hears you call his name. Knowing nothing good can possibly come at this point he has, to some degree, accepted fate when you suggest he join you. You can see the hesitation in his eyes although he chooses to push it aside. He pulls his shirt over his head, carefully unbuttoning his pants and once they’re a discarded heap on the floor, removing his underwear. You’ve never seen quite so much of him before and your eyes drink in his moonlight skin greedily before he steps into the tub. He takes the space at the opposite side, of course, and then impulsively offers to shampoo your hair. It’s all perfectly innocent, his fingers embedded in the soapy tresses of your hair, massaging your scalp in a way that makes your breaths sound out listlessly in the quiet atmosphere. He makes no move to advance things though at this point your reservations are so far gone you know you wouldn’t stop him if he did. You want to do things with him that you’ve never wanted to do with anyone else. You want to do everything with him, only he won’t kiss you and you still don’t know why. A deep breath pulls between your parted lips and you sift your fingertips through the water. “Yoongi?” his name falls from your tongue in a soft and curious lilt. You can feel him sit straighter behind you, an acknowledging hum sounding from his throat in response. A moment passes as you gather your courage, suppressing the innate silliness you feel for even asking. You stare unseeingly ahead of you. “Are you ever going to kiss me?” In response, surprised you’ve finally brought it up, Yoongi laughs quietly, a sweet short harmony echoing around the bathroom. He leans forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the tub as he drops his chin to your shoulder. His answer comes easily; “Yes.” Satisfaction steals its way across your face momentarily before curiosity laps at your fingers and reels you back in, imploring you to press in a bit of a whine, “but when?” Yoongi smiles to himself and reclines against the back of the tub, forcing you to turn enough that you can see his face. There is a lazy contented smile on his lips though he answers solemnly; “When I have laid waste to your heart the same way you have laid waste to mine.” You can feel yourself blushing, your head ducking. In a small voice you admit, “It’s far too late for that.” Yoongi hears the question that you want to ask instead and without prompt he provides you a sentiment you can understand though it doesn’t drive you any less crazy. “I could kiss you now, I could have kissed you a thousand times, but imagine, now, when you want it, and later, when you need it.” The sweet torture of it all isn’t a hardship to endure. His fingers more readily seek out your skin these days and you’re not shy in doing the same. Your fingers are well acquainted with the spaces between his ribs, the underside of his jaw. When you’re feeling particularly brave you chance a soft venture of fingertips over the inside of his hips, satisfied with the way his throat moves with a loud swallow in response. He draws patterns into your back, stomach, arms, legs. He traces the curve of your knee while you watch tv, the slope of your neck whenever you wear your hair up. When you sleep in a tentative tangle of limbs you’re assured of his want when he unwittingly presses hot and hard against you. Before Yoongi had come along you had always worried sex was just another thing you wouldn’t get to experience, a language you would faintly recognize but never be able to understand completely. He wanted to be your dictionary; he wanted to open you up and teach you, pen desire along your thighs, longing inside your mouth. The idea of it all made you listless, a collection of limbs and lust encased in skin that was beginning to feel too tight to contain you. It felt as if, the weeks dripping by, you might burst into flame at any given moment. Your increasing familiarity with one another was, as he’d so hoped, driving you into a state of need, a state you thought might end in take. You didn’t want to push, he seemed so content to traverse the bounds he had set carefully, one at a time, but… He wasn’t playing fair. He was looking at you too earnestly, too intent. His fingers were in your hair or on your neck, his breath warming your skin, but he wasn’t kissing you. He was pulling you astride his lap, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, breathing you in, but he wasn’t kissing you. He was rolling you over in the gauzy morning hours and pinning you beneath him with sleep mussed hair and soft, mischievous eyes, but he wasn’t kissing you. It became all too much when you arrived at his place before he did, letting yourself in with the key he had eventually pressed into your palm. Yoongi wasn’t long behind you, sweet nothing messages keeping you company until he fell through the door. The tension between you was a familiar presence by now, thick and intoxicating, making you feel so strongly that the slightest touch felt electric. Your anticipation was mounting so highly that surely, surely you had to be almost at the peak when his hands were suddenly on your hips, driving you backward, pressing you into the wall, steadfast and sure behind you. Yoongi pressed into you, dark eyes boring into yours as his thumb parted your lips. Feeling your eyelashes flutter you attempted to meet his gaze just as strongly though your eyes fell away with a heavy sigh. “You’re not playing fair,” you complained, a note of irritation in your voice, creasing your brows. Yoongi smiled. “Who ever said there was anything fair about love?” He strokes your jaw, his thumb still brushing your lower lip. “How do you want it?” he asks and you think this could be it, the moment he finally gives in. You suck in a breath, your mind reeling with possibilities as he lays them out for you. “Soft, gentle,” his mouth draws so close it’s a faint whisper against yours as his thumb slips away. Your hands twist together behind his neck, eyes falling shut. “Or rough, demanding?” His hands slide up your arms and untangle your hands, twining your fingers together. He raises them above you, using his leverage to press you back against the wall and fit his body against yours in a way that’s so direct you feel dizzy with it. “I want…” your throat feels dry, your voice strangled as you try again and only succeed the same two words. You don’t know what you want exactly. “I just want you.” Even as he releases your hands you leave them raised above you, shivering while his fingers traverse the bare skin of your arms, dipping over the indents of your elbows, further down to your sides. He comes so close to the edge of your breasts in his descent that you feel yourself pressing forward greedily, needing more, needing something, anything.He obliges your need with a sudden grasp, picking you up only to tumble down onto his beaten mattress. You fall onto him heavily, scrambling to shift your weight, catch your breath, though Yoongi barely gives you a chance. His hand snakes into your hair and then his teeth are on your neck, carefully grazing over the soft skin. His free hand lays pliantly over your hip, keeping you anchored in place. He bites, licks, sucks at your neck until you’re a trembling mess above him, fingers scrambling for purchase. Eventually they sink into his sheets, grasping at the thin cotton helplessly. His name leaves you in a breathless whine that’s so light on your tongue you’re not sure you actually said it until you hear his answering hum, a curiosity intoning the sound yet he makes no effort to extract himself from you and listen like he normally would. The two of you, still tangled together, roll enough that you’re each on your sides, facing one another. Yoongi shifts forward to press his mouth against the hinge of your jaw, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt. He strokes the taut skin of your stomach, making you shiver while his mouth moves along your jaw, his hand along your hip and down your thigh. He takes purchase at the back of your knee, bringing your leg over his waist so he can occupy the space between your legs. The pressure, faint and teasing, against the apex of your thighs makes you sigh and unexpectedly Yoongi swallows the sound, his mouth finally pressing to yours, languid, damp and imploring. His lips glide over yours with an ease that you know hints at the practice he’s had before you. He moves at a measured pace, carefully prying your mouth open to lick his way inside. He kisses you so deeply you’re sure you’ll feel it for days and it is bliss.

#yoongi scenario #suga scenario #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts scenario #my writing #all your lights are red #001

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