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drowningbydegrees · 3 years

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This is distinctly less fluffy than most of what I’ve been writing lately, but... it ends well? For the Music Prompt List:

16. Mosso (Italian: moved, agitated) more, with motion or animation~fighting, leaving

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He has a plan.

Okay, admittedly calling it a plan is somewhat of an exaggeration. What Geralt has is an overwhelming sense of grief that floods the empty spaces left behind as his temper ebbs, and the horrifying realization that while it all hurts, it’s Jaskier’s departure that leaves his heart aching. What he has is an urgent need to set things right, and only a nebulous idea of how to do so. For starters though, he needs to catch up to Jaskier. That’s a straightforward task to set his mind to, and Geralt assumes he’ll figure out the rest on the road.

It should be a reasonable assumption to make. It’s a long path down the mountain, and even though he’s moving briskly, trying to catch Jaskier before the bard reaches the bottom, there’s plenty of time to think.

Plenty of time is not enough, apparently, because he finds Jaskier just after dark, sitting miserably in front of a campfire, and… nothing. He stares at the evidence of what a mess he’s made without a single useful thought in his head.

The bard had been idly strumming some song Geralt thinks he’s heard bits and pieces of, but it cuts off in a discordant twang as Jaskier sees him. There’s a distinctly bitter edge to Jaskier’s greeting. “Geralt. Kind of hard for life to bless you with my absence if you’re going to insist on following me.”

“There’s only one way down the mountain,” Geralt points out, even though that has nothing to do with why he stopped. It’s a mistake judging from the stormy expression that settles upon Jaskier’s features.

“Well, no need to stop on my account.” Jaskier doesn’t look at him, but Geralt can hear the slight waver in the bard’s voice. He could go. Jaskier seems to want that, and maybe he even should. But Geralt finds himself quite certain that if he leaves there will be no repairing this, and he has to try.

He doesn’t ask, certain what the answer will be, but Geralt strays from the road, leaving no more room for ambiguity. The words might have come out wrong, but he’s here because he wants to make amends, not because he saw Jaskier in passing. The bard values words in a way Geralt rarely has much use for, but he tries. “What I said… wasn’t fair.”

“No. It wasn’t.” Jaskier scowls at the fire as if it has personally offended him. “But good to know what you really think. You might’ve just told me that, oh, a couple of decades ago and saved us both from this.”

“That’s not-” Geralt doesn’t know how to finish and Jaskier never gives him the chance to decide.

“Not what, Geralt? Because so help me, if you tell me that’s not what you meant I might scream.” Jaskier gets to his feet, seeming to decide being loomed over is an unacceptable state of being.

“I don’t think that. I meant it at the time, a bit, but not… It wasn’t true,” Geralt settles on. “I just wanted to be alone.”

“Right. So, what then? You know what things flay me right down to my bones because I’ve trusted you with my everything. But you fashioned them into a weapon just because my existence was inconvenient to your… your brooding.” Anger is a feeling Geralt recognizes, one he knows how to rise up to meet. But this isn’t anger. There’s agony under all Jaskier’s fury, and Geralt would be hard pressed to think of a time he’s hated himself more than he does in the moment where Jaskier’s voice cracks. “You don’t get to just change your mind and pretend we’re good as new.”

Geralt bows his head “I know that.”

Jaskier holds his lute like a wall between them. “And yet, here you are.”

It’s rare that they’ve ever really argued beyond annoyed squabbling, but Jaskier is no shrinking violet. Geralt doesn’t know what to do in the face of it that won’t make things worse, so he holds his hands up in something like surrender. “Jaskier. Give me a chance to explain. Please.”

By some miracle, Jaskier doesn’t say no. The bard glowers at him, his eyes seeming icy in the moonlight. It’s an unsettling contrast to the fire’s glow across the rest of him. “That might be the first time you’ve said that in twenty years.”

Much as he hates to admit it, that’s probably not far off the mark, and Geralt privately resolves to be better if Jaskier deigns to give him the chance. But later is not right now, and Jaskier looks about two heartbeats away from turning Geralt back out into the dark.

“Jaskier, I…” Geralt sucks in a breath and tries again. “It wasn’t about you.”

“I know.” It’s awful, the way Jaskier smiles. The brittle, mirthless thing pulls at the corners of his mouth, never reaching his eyes. “I know and that’s so much worse. Don’t you realize?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but his expression must give away his confusion, because Jaskier sighs at him and keeps talking. “If you'd run me off on my own merits, I'd deserve that. Well, not deserve it necessarily, because that was entirely uncalled for, but it would be... something.”

There’s some kind of disconnect, and Geralt is relatively sure Jaskier isn’t talking about his choice of words, but he’s equally sure he has no idea what Jaskier actually means. “You want me to have been upset with you?”

“No! I just wanted to matter!” Jaskier shouts at Geralt, but almost immediately deflates, huffing out a miserable, strained laugh. “I just wanted to be something more to you than the collateral damage in someone else's storm.”

Emotion would have Geralt shouting right back, but he quells the urge. He owes Jaskier that much. Only when Jaskier is finished, drawing in ragged breaths does Geralt allow himself to speak. “But you do. You are.”

Jaskier makes a wounded sort of sound and crumples a little where he stands, all the fight gone out of him with his last outburst. The way he lets his head fall forward, Geralt can’t see Jaskier’s expression, but the bard’s words are laced with anguish. “You can’t just say that. You don’t get to do that to me now.”

It comes together, a single rock dislodged only to bring a landslide. Decades, Jaskier has spent at his side, and it’s only now that the why of it all settles in. He’s been so blind and with no way to take it back, there is only forward.

Words aren’t enough. That much is clear, even if it leaves Geralt at a loss. The coast? They should have just gone, but he’d been a fool and it’s entirely out of reach now. Start smaller, he tells himself, and cautiously takes a step closer. Hushed, like Jaskier is a wild thing he’s trying not to spook, Geralt pulls together what he thinks he probably should’ve said from the beginning. “What I said before wasn’t about you, but this is.”

“What?” Jaskier’s head jerks up, but the bard looks like he’s bracing himself for a blow.

“I came here for you. Not a side effect of something or someone else. Just you.” Geralt lifts a hand to reach out, but never actually closes the distance. Jaskier is nothing if not tactile and Geralt had thought… but he has no right. Not when he’s driven such a wedge between them. Curling his fingers against his palm, the witcher forces himself to finish the thought. “I never meant to make you feel incidental.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt with something he can’t quite place, and he doesn’t dare ask for fear of shattering their fragile armistice. The seconds spread out into what feels like eternity, horrible in their silence. Geralt scarcely breathes.

”I really hate you sometimes.” Jaskier sighs like the whole world is resting on his shoulders, but he sets his lute aside in favor of dragging Geralt into a haphazard embrace. “For fuck’s sake.”

It’s really more like Jaskier drags himself to Geralt, who is pretty certain he hasn’t moved at all. Some part of him had been so certain Jaskier was going to turn him away that it takes a moment to parse what it means that the bard’s arms are wrapped around him instead. Little by little, Geralt returns the gesture, gingerly resting one hand between Jaskier’s shoulder blades and the other against the back of the bard’s head. Jaskier tucks his nose against the side of the witcher’s neck, and it’s not an intimacy he’s eared, but Geralt quietly accepts it.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s temple, and truly, he is. He closes his eyes against the night that crowds in around them. “Forgive me.”

“Idiot. Did that before I even left,” Jaskier replies, the words muffled against Geralt’s throat. “Forgiveness was never the problem.”

That only makes the whole thing ache more, that Jaskier was ready to forgive before Geralt even thought to regret what he’d done. It leaves him more than a little unmoored, unable to fathom how Jaskier can so easily let go after Geralt wounded him with his own insecurities. But perhaps that could mend in time. “Then let me prove it.”

“That you’re sorry?” Jaskier lifts his head enough to rest his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. “I don’t doubt that.”

“That you matter to me.” It’s not the confession Jaskier deserves, but it’s the only one Geralt dares give voice to. He fears even that is a step too far when Jaskier’s breath catches. Unable to see his face, Geralt can’t quite tell if that’s a pleased sound or an aggrieved one.

Jaskier doesn’t pull entirely out of Geralt’s arms, but enough to give the witcher a watery smile. “Well, I guess if you must.”

They’re not quite alright. But as Geralt lets himself be herded to sit down beside the dwindling fire, he allows himself to entertain the notion that they will be.

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #my fic #angst with a hopeful ending #fix-it of sorts

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azurevi · 3 years

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hanahaki au (heartslabyul)

Finally it’s here! More parts coming soon!

Riddle

He isn't certain at first as to why his throat's been acting itchy, but then he starts throwing up flowers and petals and he finally understands.

It's the hanahaki disease, the telltale sign of the fact that your lover doesn't love you back.

Riddle tries to mask it at first, anxious that it will interfere with his work as a dorm leader.

And for a short but blissful time, he finds it unnecessary to worry. It only happens so rarely.

But then it worsens. Mid-lesson, during meetings, sometimes even late at night, he finds himself rushing for the washroom.

Trey figures it out easily. How could he not? He's known Riddle since they were kids, afterall.

Trey is calm as ever, asking Riddle his plan. It's out of character for Riddle, but he has yet to make a decision.

It is no foreign knowledge that hanahaki can be cured by removing all the romantic emotions the patient has for the other, but for some reason, Riddle is hesitating.

He isn't sure he wants to lose this feeling, this sensation that blooms in his heart whenever you see him.

With every caring word you bring him comfort and understanding, filling him with delight so profound it cancels out the ache in his heart.

"Are you sure it's unrequited though?"

He finds Trey's question ridiculous. Of course it is, that's the whole point of hanahaki.

"Maybe you haven't been looking hard enough,"

Trey refuses to elaborate, leaving Riddle alone to fathom the meaning behind his words.

But he takes the advice and starts paying attention, and it may be just his desperate mind playing tricks on him, but he can notice subtle differences in how you treat him and the others. Like how you show concern when he's a little too quiet during lunch, how he always seems to meet your eyes, how you're always walking by him in a group.

As hope blossoms he finds himself coughing up fewer and fewer flowers, and he becomes more and more daring.

And after Trey's continuous and almost nagging encouragement, he finally tells you how he feels. He may not show it, but he's so, so elevated to know that you feel just the same.

Ace

Ace finds it ridiculous. It's already been established that he's not a firm believer of love (or at least that's what he thinks). Even when he notices the budding romance he feels for you, he's certain that it's just an insignificant little crush.

But it appears to be more than fondness. He's quite head over heels for you, it turns out. Enough for blood-stained flowers to grow in his lungs.

Ace will try to mask it. It's so lame, and of course he won't tell you about it. After all, he doesn't want to force you into loving him. It wouldn't be true love … no, he isn't a romantic!

No one around him knows about this, that he makes sure. Even when he feels that the pain in his chest is too agonizing for him to go on, he still carries it on his own, all because it was his own problem to face, and partly due to his unwavering ego.

He also acts strangely around you, dubiously avoiding contact and losing the usual cheerfulness he carries whenever he's with you. And of course, everyone else notices. But upon asking, he always waves it off, saying that he's caught a little cold, or that he's simply tired.

The more he tries to ignore his feelings, the more aggressive they get. Soon the flowers mess with his daily life, interrupting his lessons and waking him up in the dead of the night just to feel the seething realization that his love isn't returned.

It hurts because he knows that you'll never love someone like him. It hurts because you're the entire sun, but he's just one of the orbiting planets. It hurts, because he knows that he'll sooner or later die of this unyielding love for you, and yet he still doesn't dare to give it up.

How can he? You're the one giving him courage, and even though you are the cause of all his pain and suffering, you are at the same time his medicine and sanctuary. He can't imagine not ever looking at you with admiration anymore, and he's sure that he'll fall in love with you all over again anyway.

When you approach him about his distant attitude, he becomes as cold and hard as a stone, unable to break even with the strongest axe. The two of you bantered in front of his dorm room until he felt the untimely urge in his chest.

He rushes into the washroom, even though he can hear your haste footsteps trailing behind. The moment he wheezes and throws up dozens of flower petals, you freeze in your spot, unable to make another move.

"Who is it?"

It almost enrages Ace how you still manage to say that, but he's too weak to hold grudges, so he simply closes his eyes and let the fatigue takes over.

When he wakes up again, he's in the infirmary with you napping beside him, looking as serene as ever.

You stir awake not much later, and immediately dives into 'caretaker' mode, bombarding him with questions and complaints.

"Ace… could this person you're in love with be me?"

He once planned to carry this secret to his grave, but he finds it impossible to lie in your face, so he just nods slowly.

You slaps his arm lightly, and Ace's dramatic ass whines at that.

"Ace… can't you tell that I like you too?"

He swears his heart stops the moment he hears it, and something stirs his insides. No, not nausea, but something akin to butterflies. His chest was fluttering.

"You could've told me!" he yells with a pout, already looking sharp again.

"You're one to speak! I can't believe you carried all that by yourself… don't you ever do it again, okay?"

"Yeah, ok, mum," he teases relentlessly, but he's actually overwhelmed deep down.

Deuce

Deuce isn't even aware that he has fallen for your charms until hanahaki strikes like an assassin in the dark.

He coughs up flowers vigorously, which he doesn't understand.

This boy has never heard of hanahaki. So when he searches it up, he's bewildered, and no later realization hits him like a truck.

He's in love with you, after all.

Deuce finds it a great trouble, not his affection for you, but how this disease affects his life. All he wants to do is make his mother proud, and getting a fatal disease is not exactly part of his plan.

Deuce considers removing his loving feelings for you, but somehow he doesn't want to. Perhaps it's something about your gracefulness, or it's just his stubbornness, but he doesn't want to lose his feelings like a coward.

He carries it on by himself, excusing himself from the lunch group to the washroom, suppressing the pain in his throat so he won't skip lessons, making sure he doesn't let anyone in on it.

And it's quite troublesome, because the feelings aren't fading at all. They're growing with every coincidental glance, every brush of fingers, every genuine smile shot his way.

His friends don't fail to note the subtle changes in his behavior, and who better to ask him than you?

But he won't tell, even if his heart yells at him to. He doesn't want to guilt trip you.

And so, everytime he pushes you away, the flowers grow more frequent, the blood stains become more prominent, and unbeknownst to him he becomes more suspicious in your eyes.

So when Ace sneaks into his room and finds scarce, bloody flower petals in his trash can, you immediately deduce that he has hanahaki.

Which stings, because he's supposed to be able to trust you enough to tell you something as pressing as this, but instead he chooses to hide it.

So, both heartbroken and a little hopeful, you approach him about it.

He stutters, not knowing how to answer or how you even knew, but then he supposes that he has nowhere to hide now that you're standing right in front of him demanding an answer.

Finally he tells you, head hung low, scared to see your reaction.

You're quiet for such a long while before he hears sniffles and sees you looking at him teary eyed.

"What-Why are you crying?"

"Because I like you too!"

His brain short circuits. It's hard to wrap his head around the fact that you would see him as more than a friend.

His cheeks are furiously red when you tell him that you've always noticed how he feels.

Just how could he be so blind?

"Please don't ever hide something like that from me, okay?"

He feels guilty for having made you worry, but relieved by knowing that you love him just as much as he does.

Cater

Cater is a good liar. No one ever notices his changes, not even Trey.

He knew from first glance that he was going to fall in love with you, and frankly, that he even gets hanahaki because of it isn't much of a surprise either.

To avoid suspicion, Cater doesn't alter his behaviors. He's still the same － cheery, free-spirited, pouty when he's not treated like a senior. He posts just as regularly on magicam, and smiles just as brightly in front of others.

Alas, he can't ever bring himself to cause pain to others. He'd rather carry the whole world on his shoulders than drag other people into his misery.

It takes you a long time to take note of his differences. He's such a hard one to crack, but you can see that his eyes are a little sunken, lips unnaturally sheet, appetite growing smaller and smaller. You almost brushed it off, but something still feels off to you.

Cater almost falters when you confront him about it. All he wants to do is tell you all his woes and ask for you to love him back.

He ponders whether he should remove these hurtful feelings from time to time, but he can't bring himself to. He knows how this love is the reason he can make your day. If he loses his feelings, wouldn't it mean that he won't care about your happiness anymore?

No.. he can't imagine that. Your happiness is like the most pivotal thing to him. And so, he endures it all.

When it aggravates he decides not to show up at all. That's when his magic comes to good use. He can hole up in his room or hide somewhere else all day while his clones go live his life for him.

But it doesn't last long either. Soon enough you and Trey figured that he's acting a bit … robotic and unversatile. The two of you looked into it and finally discovered that the real Cater hasn't been around for days.

Naturally you feel scared, but also angry at him for disappearing just like that.

It's almost impossible to get his clones to speak up, but once they do, you race to his place like McQueen (sorry bad reference).

Oh boy is he shocked to see you. He seems so different from the Cater you know - the things love does to a lover.

You can see petals around him, overfilling the bins. They are stained with blood, both wet and dry, tainting the innocent flowers.

You know exactly what hanahaki is, and seeing him suffering from such a melancholy disease seems to cause a certain ache in your chest as well.

"Oh? Hi prefect…"

The fact that he still manages a smile only adds to your sorrow. You asks him who causes him all this pain, and all he can do is smile dispiritedly at you.

It was all you need to understand though. Instantly guilt fills you up from head to toe. How could you not notice this? How could you be so blinded and submerged in your own feelings that you failed to notice his feigned smiles?

You decide to tell him the truth, how you love him as he does you and how you hope it's not too late to tell him this. Needless to say he's thankful, happy and really overjoyed.

He apologizes for hiding away like a coward, but you assure him that he needs not mask his worries anymore for he can confide in you and others.

Trey

Trey may think that he is a subtle liar, but his actions often work against his favour.

After getting hanahaki he always indulges in deep thoughts about how to deal with it and other things, which are all too obvious not to be noticed.

You know, Riddle knows and ADeuce know. It's just that no one is sure whether to pry or not.

Trey seems to have fallen in love with you since first glance. It's just something about your aura, he guesses. You're so comfortable, like a current that Trey's happy to be pulled in. Little mindless touches are enough to send shock through his entire body, and it only takes a smile from you to lighten his day up.

For once, he feels like he can rely on someone too.

Before he realizes, he has fallen too deep. It is only when he coughs up petals that he understands the severity of his affection.

He doesn't wish to give it up, simply because it is like memories of you, innocent and warm, and despite the pain it causes him, it's still his powerhouse.

So he pretends not to be suffering. He pretends that his throat doesn't sting, and continues racing towards the sun that will one day burn him to ashes.

"Trey, are you okay?"

You ask out of concern. He has been falling out of conversations quite often and seems to be neglecting baking too.

It seems to bring all his pain away how you worry about him, and he wishes he can lean on your shoulder and sigh all his troubles to you, but he can't. Trey can't bear to be selfish.

And so he smiles. He shrugs it off, and it pains you because you can see how fake it is. You don't press on the topic though, not wanting to be too nosy.

Trey feels like a young kid who doesn't have any concept of self control. He continues lingering around you, making you smile with all his might and reassuring your recurring concerns.

But good days don't last long, and his situation aggravates at a quickening pace. He can no longer smile it off and sometimes has to befriend his dorm for the entire lunch break. He can feel energy slipping away from him everyday, little by little as he looks up at you. The bright, brilliant sun, out of reach and yet so close.

"Trey?"

His sobs are cut short in his throat, forming small hiccups. You're standing right outside his dorm room and he's a mess.

"We need to talk,"

You're talking in a serious tone. Can't be a good sign. Trey messily cleans his face before opening the door.

You look stricken, disheveled, having been in deep thoughts. He's about to ask you what's wrong when you shut him down with one question.

"Do you have Hanahaki?"

No, impossible. How do you know? He's made sure that his acts are flawless, impossible to see through. And yet here you are, standing here, almost teary-eyed.

There's no point to lie to you anymore. He admits defeat.

It pains him even more seeing you break down because of it. He thinks it's all his fault, all his wrongdoings.

"Trey… I've always liked you too, can't you tell?"

He almost thinks it's out of pity, because just how much of a coincidence is it? But he can tell that you're being genuine -- that's who you are. Honest, a bit docky, and always close to his heart.

You tell him that you've been taking note of his bizarre behaviours, and it's just so easy to deduce. With the assistance of others, you are able to stick together pieces.

"Just don't ever hide something so big from us again, okay?"

How he feels like the luckiest man in the world, loved by the loveliest person ever. He promises not to be secretive again, and he swears that he'll never forget this moment of relief and pure joy.

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #heartslabyul #twisted wonderland imagines #Tags pls dont die on me?#sie writes

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tobiosmilktea · 4 years

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a simple romance — tsukishima kei

1.5k words | genre/s: fluff, 80s!au | warning/s: — | pairing: tsukishima x fem!reader

↪︎ in which you and tsukishima celebrate a simple anniversary for your simple romance

a/n: kinda plotless and just mindless word throw up because im a homeless romantic who’s whipped for tsukishima, plus it’s my 500 follower special ✋🏻😌

you and tsukishima always had quite the simple romance. the only factor that was not exactly simple was that it was tsukishima who confessed first one september day. it was early in the morning the moment the sky bled its onyx night sky into an orangey-dawn.

you had barely left the safe confines of your home when the tall blond that waited outside your door in the crisp autumn air had nonchalantly confessed. usually it was him and yamaguchi waiting for you, but you figured he made his best friend walk ahead in order to be alone with you.

it was quite surprising, really. you assumed that all you were to tsukishima was nothing but a friend, someone so annoyingly bearable that he only let you stick around because you made him bentos once in a while. and in a surprising turn of events, you accepted his feelings and the two of you have been dating primarily on the low.

having your relationship known wasn’t exactly your main priority and neither was tsukishima’s. especially considering that if his volleyball team found out, they wouldn’t leave you alone for a second without bombarding you about why you would end up with someone as salty as him. the funny thing was that you often asked yourself that as well, but with how simple your romance was, there was nothing more to answer that question besides the fact you liked being with him. so you digress.

granted, since your relationship was more or less a secret besides only yamaguchi being aware of this fact, you and tsukishima often had to see each other in away from the sight of others. most of the time is was behind closed doors, but sometimes, sometimes, very early in the mornings you two would have a sweet rendezvous somewhere behind the gym before spending the rest of the hours before school starts on the field.

with you being a member of the track team and tsukishima being in the volleyball club, the field seemed like the only plausible reason why the two of you would be there. every friday morning you two would come early just to run around the track with the cool morning breeze and the tweets of songbirds tweeted among the peaceful silence.

you and tsukishima walked upon school grounds with water bottles in hand and your walkmans in the other. you had recently gotten a new one for your birthday, the latest 1984 Sony Walkman that was progressively better in sound quality than your boyfriend’s old 1982 model, to which he stated, “how much better can it be when your music taste is trash?”

you rolled your eyes and ran ahead of him. he gets quite annoyed when you do that as he isn’t necessarily the fastest runner. the only reasons why he does these morning runs is to be with you, so you ditching made him put on that cute pout you can’t resist. besides, you would reward him with a heated make out session behind the gym or the storage closet in return.

ten laps around the track was all you two ran, occasionally making small talk on the most existential topics on whether or not aliens exist or the stupid hypothetical questions about a zombie apocalypse—to which tsukishima would tease you and say he would feed you to the zombies. but it wasn’t to say that sometimes waves of comfortable silence wouldn’t fall upon you two. you concluded that no matter what, you would always find yourself in this type of tranquil silence with tsukishima. you had even forgotten your boyfriend’s stares of admiration, rather, you didn’t actually know if his gazes were of malice, indifference, or adoration, but whatever it was you hoped it was something good.

despite dating for a year now, you still couldn’t tell the difference, but you knew deep inside your gut that was accompanied by the same butterflies that all he means is nothing but love. and you wished to show that love as today was your anniversary.

and to which tsukishima thought you couldn’t get more breathtaking than the last time you had been at each other’s companies just yesterday, it seemed he had been proven wrong. you were teeth stark against the moonlight, divulged in night torn howls of winds and slick with honor. even at your worst, with skin frayed with abrasions and scrapped knees, tsukishima still found light within your fondness. and right now, you were filled with ichor of charming homemade raptures. your boyfriend couldn’t fathom how beguiled he was for a girl he hadn’t thought of more than an add on to his friendship with yamaguchi.

after your run, you two found yourselves resting upon the bleachers near the baseball field. you rested your legs atop tsukishima’s as he fiddled with your walkman. your headphones were now rested over your boyfriend’s ears as he listened to your curated mixtape of songs you specifically listened to on your runs with tsukishima. the songs that you burned on it were special to you and him and to you and him only. the songs that reminded you two of your first date during the night when you breathed out against the late night’s mist, inhaling the stars as you and tsukishima walked hand in hand through the city—of his quips of banter, his wisecracks of pleasantries, even his annoyingly amiable witticisms that would often put you in your place of not being as clever as your boyfriend—had a special place in your heart.

your gaze, warm in admiration as you looked upon his handsome features, took him in like a breath of fresh air. he was bobbing his head lightly to the music. it made a smile melt upon your face as your thoughts were scattered by the wind (a mere light breeze) as you exhaled your silk promises. your bare knuckles grazed over his as your hand lifted to his face, running your hand through his messy blond hair.

within seconds, the mixtape clicked to an end to which tskushima kissed your palm messing at his hair as he sat up. “this is actually good,” he mutters. “perhaps your music taste isn’t as bad as i remembered.”

“that’s funny considering most of my past music taste was from you.” you jested with a smirk on your lips.

he scoffs playfully, pecking your lips quickly. “yeah right, the majority of your mixtapes were nothing but queen and abba.”

“please tell me you’re not trashing queen and abba,” you rolled your eyes and feigning offense, “they’re literally iconic.”

“if you added some mötley crüe or tears of fears, maybe it would be better.” tsukishima smirks, making you huff. “but it’s fine as since it is our anniversary today, i figured i would be nice.”

“do you want to give our gifts now?”

tsukishima nods as he smiles, “so i can listen to it throughout the day.”

your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, “how’d you know i was going to give you a mixtape?”

“mere intuition,” your boyfriend jokes, causing you to shake your head as you reached into your backpack’s front pocket. “i actually burned you one too.” tsukishima did the same as the two of you faced each other once more with mixtapes in both your hands.

your fingers brushed each others briefly as you two traded gifts. and despite contact between the two of you hadn’t been scarce, there was still that same spark and radiating warmth that would consume you two.

both had cute notes attached to it as you had both read it.

FOR MY LOVE: the first mixtape of yours that isn’t complete rubbish and the first mixtape given to you for your new 1984 Sony Walkman that you won’t stop talking about. i don’t have to worry about you liking these songs because i know you will since i know you so well. i’ve also come to notice that you like to mix severely opposite genres on one tape i.e fleetwood mac and metallica like an absolute monster. so i did that on this tape for your sake. i love you, idiot. —tsukishima kei

FOR MY BLONDIE: even though you hate listening to mainstream music, i couldn’t help but put on the latest from michael jackson, madonna, and some city pop because who else would i scream these songs until my throat is raw with? but besides that, i added some more of your favorites like twisted sister. i can’t wait for you to make fun of this mixtape because i know deep down it’s going to be one of your favorites because it came from me. i love you, dickhead. — l/n y/n

you two sit in silence for bit, doing nothing more but being in each other’s presence and embrace. letting the world before you continue to move as you looked at the tape’s songs. you were immediately struck with the feeling of the nostalgic nights with tsukishima, laughing in the dark at two in the morning of messing around and reassuring pats on the back. you two were quilted blankets and moonless nights, of warm sunspots on a cloudy day, and cherry blossom petals falling upon your hair without noticing. you were tsukishima’s cure to boredom and lack of sleep. you two were each other’s everything.

it was your simple romance.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu imagines #tsukishima kei #tsukishima scenarios #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima imagine #tsukishima fluff #haikyuu oneshot #tsukishima oneshot #hq tsukishima

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oureuphoria · 4 years

Text

Worst of You - JJK 08

You meet him under horrible circumstances but everything feels perfect when you’re with him. Too bad you have a bitch of a best friend, anxiety and an inability to learn from your mistakes which cripples your chances to be with the man of your literal dreams. He, however, is a police officer with years worth of built-up turmoil and an inability to make attachments. Or “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.” “Cool, I’ll let everyone know you’re moving in then.”

Genre: fluff, angst, comedy

Pairing: officer!jungkook X collegestudent!reader

Word count: 2,304

Note: Things get sad in this chapter and :(

| 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 |

Jungkook was confused. He was confused about how you had gotten in, who you were with and more importantly, why you were here when this seemed to be the last place you’d want to be. In spite of his confusion Jungkook knew that to his knowledge you were still 20 and definitely underage, so it was his legal obligation to check up on you. It was definitely not because he wanted to talk to you, just following procedure.

“What are you doing here?” You hadn’t noticed Jungkook sit next to you until he spoke but you refused to spare him a glance. You were worried that was all it would take, one look at his wide brown eyes that seemingly held the universe and you’d be putty in his hands. “None of your business.“ “When you’re underage it is.” “It’s my birthday, officer.” You threw your ID card to him which he checked meticulously. You snatched the card out of his hands after he’d had a good look and hopped off the stool.

“If you don’t mind, I have to go back to Jimin.” Just as you are about to walk away from him, Jungkook lightly grabs your hand. “Wait.” You turned back around to face him but expertly avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t much but it was all Jungkook could fathom and yet both of you knew, it wasn’t enough. You gave him a small smile before you replied, one that seemed more sad than polite. “Yeah, me too.” And with that, you walked away, shoving Jungkook and his ridiculously beautiful face to the back of your mind.

“Jimin!” You had finally found your friend who hadn’t been even half as happy to see you as you were him. “Y/N, I know it’s your birthday and I promised I’d be with you but the most gorgeous boy is here and I really need a hook-up. If you’re not okay with it I understand but-” “Go! At least one of us has to get lucky tonight.” You waved him off and he retaliated with a bone-crushing hug. “I love you so much. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Whether that promise was empty or not, you were going to hold him to it because letting him abandon you in this club all alone is definitely a sizeable sacrifice.

You walked back to the bar where you were relieved to see that Jungkook had left. Against your better judgement, your eyes subconsciously scanned around for him and when you saw him, dancing and having the time of his life while you were there following in self-pity, you realised you definitely needed another drink.

Perhaps it was your lack of experience or your Jungkook-induced sadness or even your empty stomach but you were drunk. Only 2 drinks in and you had completely lost all sense of rationality. Unfortunately, the bartender was unaware of just how much of a lightweight you were and proceeded to provide you with the tequila shots you weren’t sure why you asked for.

They tasted horrible and after downing two, you realised you never wanted to drink one again but for the first time in a long time, you had felt entirely carefree. It was nice, for the blissful moment it lasted but when your eyes had landed on Jungkook again, this time sitting at a bar next to some girl who was definitely prettier than you, carefree had turned into careless and you were making your way over there before you could process it.

“Hi, I’m sorry but I really need to speak to him.” Giving the poor girl no time to reply, you had dragged Jungkook towards the end of the bar where there were far less people and the music was softer. “You, sir, are an asshole.” In between your words, you had made the honourable decision to jab Jungkook in the chest continuously. Drunk you believed you were emphasising your point, sober you would’ve cowered at the mere mention of such an action.

“Are you drunk, Y/N? Where’s your friend?” “He left me for someone prettier, everyone keeps doing that to me these days…” You pouted as you strayed completely off topic and tears began welling in your eyes. You were an emotional drunk, you found that out the hard way. “I’m taking you home.” “No! I still haven’t finished.” Jungkook sighed in frustration and motioned for you to continue, the girl at the bar was long forgotten and Jungkook didn’t even care.

“Why are you such a liar?” The waterworks had begun and while it was obvious you weren’t entirely competent, Jungkook felt the sting in his heart all the same. “Please, baby don’t cry.” “Don’t call me that. Stop making me think you care when you clearly don’t and next time grow the balls to say you don’t like me you jerk!” Your words were slurred and your delivery was a little off but Jungkook heard you loud and clear. He wanted to explain, he wanted to wipe your tears away and reassure you that he was enamoured by you, he adored you and wanted nothing more than to be by your side. But you were probably too drunk to remember and it was too late to try.

“I’m sorry, just stop crying, please.” You tried and you weren’t sure why. The pain in Jungkook’s voice had hurt you and even while drunk, you’d do anything to make that pain go away. So you stifled your tears to the best of your ability, the only thing left behind were tear stains and your quiet hiccups. “Good job, now let me take you home.”

Jungkook didn’t expect you to fall asleep in his car, but then again he also didn’t expect you to berate him at a club. “Y/N, baby, wake up.” You were a light sleeper, he knew that much, which was why he was shaking you softly. You fidgeted in his seat a little before opening your eyes ever so slightly. “I’m sleeping, go away.” Drunk, sleepy Y/N was a challenge Jungkook didn’t know how to face. He also didn’t know how he was going to get you inside or whether or not you had your keys and going through your bag felt like a violation of your privacy so Jungkook decided to take you to his apartment instead.

When you woke up the next morning, something felt off. Your bed was never silk and you never remembered it being this big. You flailed your hand around for your plushie and when you had opened your eyes, you jolted upright in shock. That action was instantly regretful because of the pounding headache you had suddenly gotten and your wincing had captured Jungkook’s attention.

He was dressed in grey sweatpants and a tight grey t-shirt that left scarcely anything to the imagination. If you weren’t dying from a migraine you might’ve appreciated the view but all you could think about was this numbing pain. “There’s aspirin on the table and a glass of water.” You nodded, reaching for your knight in shining armour as you consumed the medication.

“Do you remember anything?” You remembered everything but you wanted to spare yourself the shame so you kept silent. “I tried to take you to your apartment but you fell asleep so I-” “I understand. Thank you, I hope I didn’t cause too much of an inconvenience.” You had began wandering around the room, collecting your belongings so you could leave as quickly as possible but Jungkook didn’t want that. “Y/N, slow down. I’ll give you something to change into, that dress can’t be comfortable.” He was right, it wasn’t. But neither was this predicament and every second you spent there was a second spent remembering the night you’d rather forget. You never drinking, ever again.

Jungkook had come back from raiding his closet with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. “You can change in the bathroom. Come down and eat breakfast and then I promise I’ll take you home.” “I don’t need to eat.” You shook your head, even tried rejecting the clothing but Jungkook had dropped it into your arms. “Unless you want to puke for 3 hours I suggest you get changed and come down to eat.” You rolled your eyes but complied nonetheless.

You looked up at your reflection and you were a mess, your makeup was inconsistent, you were assuming it was because of the tears. Luckily, you didn’t wear mascara and after washing your face and tying up your hair, you started to look like yourself again. Jungkook’s clothing, which seemed to engulf your figure, had smelt nice and felt soft. You didn’t want to get used to it so you pushed those thoughts to the back of your mind and left the room.

You could see the stairs clearly from where you were standing so finding the kitchen was straightforward enough. Jungkook was seated on the island, phone in hand with two plates of what looked like omelettes. Jungkook had looked up at the soft patter of your feet and smiled. “You look good in my clothes.” You mumbled a quiet thank you and hopped onto the high chair that was surprisingly comfortable. “You want coffee?” You shook your head and poked around your omelette, you were never a big fan of eggs but you’d never complain.

“Fuck Y/N, I can’t take this, please talk to me.” You wanted to but you’d already said all you wanted to say yesterday (rather harshly) and you didn’t feel like repeating yourself. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He sighed and got up to pour himself a cup of coffee, when he had returned, you had already eaten a third of your omelette. “Can we go now?” “Can you listen to my explanation first?” You nodded timidly, you wanted an explanation desperately but you were also scared of the truth. That he didn’t like you and never did.

“My first ever love was in high school. She was my senior, I was a year younger and infinitely less experienced, but that didn’t stop me.” You both laughed, knowing that Jungkook was stubborn when he wanted to be. “She was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that took time to truly process, she was smart, book smart at least and she was kind to everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it. We dated for just over a year, it was nearing my graduation when she passed away. Car accident, drunk driver. Instead of getting the justice she deserved, her parents who barely had a dollar to their name were forced to settle for the equivalent of a used Toyota. The girl who hit her was old money rich, her family had connections with the best defence attorneys in the world. The lawyers she hired, put a price on a person I loved, they tried to tell me how much her life was worth and it wasn’t generous.”

Jungkook wasn’t crying, but you were. You knew the world was cruel but growing up in a middle-income family in a peaceful neighbourhood truly shielded you from a lot of life’s challenging aspects and knowing this had happened to a girl, just like you, really shattered your heart. You felt even worse trying to imagine how Jungkook had felt and how horrible the situation was in general. “I pursued law enforcement for her. She’s the reason I’m where I am today. I’m not asking for your pity, or excusing my actions but I want you to understand. Every time I start falling in love with someone, I pull away because no matter how tough I look, I can’t deal with loss.”

“I thought pushing you away would protect myself and that was incredibly selfish, and I’m sorry. I thought that I could do this, that’s why I confessed but the moment I was alone with my thoughts again, I realised I couldn’t. But for you, I’m willing to try. I’ll put everything I have into this, all I ask is that you forgive me for the colossal asshole I’ve been lately.” Jungkook held your hands in his and you giggled through the tears after he’d insulted himself and Jungkook felt his heart swell at you.

“Alright but from now on, just give me the worst of you and we’ll deal with it together.” “Deal.” Jungkook inched closer to you, his hands cupped your face as he wiped the remnants of your tears. With your faces barely a centimetre apart, you could really see the pain in his eyes and all you wanted to do was kiss it away. So you did. Dragging his head down by his neck, you gave Jungkook a soft kiss on the lip that barely lasted a second but he needed more.

Jungkook had opted to rest one of his hands on the back of your stool, the other on your cheek as he kissed you deeper. “I’m sorry I ruined your birthday.” Jungkook whispered out in-between kisses. “Nap with me and I’ll forgive you.” Jungkook chuckled before placing one last peck on your lips. He wrapped your legs around his torso and lifted you up smoothly. You squealed in shock but Jungkook ignored it, his mind solely on getting you back in his bed. You really did nap, and you enjoyed it quite a bit, after all his arms were the comfiest pillow.

#jungkook #jungkook imagine #jungkook fic #jungkook smut #jungkook x you #bts #bts fic #bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts smut

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thegoodthebadthesickly · 4 years

Text

Jaskier- Dehydration

Request: Dehydration

Fandom: The Witcher (Netflix)

Requested by: Who even knows at this point? You think I keep accurate records?

TBH I've been looking for an excuse to write about my current hyper fixation, so...

Warnings: Language

@badthingshappenbingo

Stars are complete, Swirls are requests

Jaskier plodded through the forest with the enthusiasm of a child that had just been told it was time to come in from their daily playtime. He licked at his lips, but they were as dry as his mouth. He'd lost track of how long they'd been walking through the same forest, a fortnight, maybe? It'd been at least half that since he and Geralt had come across any kind of suitable water source, and their water skin had run dry three days ago. Jaskier made a face at a plump, green tree as they walked past, mentally shaming it for having the nerve to look so hydrated.

"Jaskier, keep up." Geralt ground out, not bothering to turn around. "The last thing I need is having to save your arse from something in this forest."

Despite the fatigue that had pushed it's way into his bones, Jaskier tried to quicken his step to match Geralt's. The forest looked innocent, if not for it's taunting hydration. Jaskier scarcely longed to know what lurked in the tall limbs of the trees.

"Geralt, can you-" Jaskier took a deep, hitching breath, his lungs protesting at the feeling. "Can you, perhaps, use those amazing Witcher skills of yours to find us some drinking water?" Yes, he was so thirsty it was maddening, but a stream, hell, he'd even take a trickle at this point, would provide a chance to sit and clear his sleep muddled thoughts.

"Jaskier, I've already told you that you will know about a stream as soon as I-" Geralt paused, putting a hand up to signal silence.

"I hear a stream a few miles northeast of here." Geralt huffed, putting his hand down and resuming his quick, loping walk.

"How- nevermind." Jaskier put up his hands in surrender, learning long ago not to question the senses of his Witcher. "Exactly how far is 'a few miles?'" Jaskier asked, knowing that his perception of distance was decidedly less intense than the Witcher's.

"Maybe five." Geralt grunted.

"Maybe? You've gone soft in old age, Geralt." Jaskier wheezed a laugh, his lungs still refusing to cooperate.

"It's actually six, but I wanted to give you a little hope." Geralt smirked, yellow eyes cutting in Jaskier's direction.

"Shove off!" Jaskier pouted, resigning himself to tired silence.

Comfortable silence fell over the duo as they walked on. The only sound being Roach's occasional soft snorts.

"How much-" Jaskier tried to clear his throat. "How much longer?" He asked, swallowing against the raspiness of his voice.

Geralt only grunted.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

Jaskier could only just see dusk start to fall through the thick foliage above him. That's when things got strange.

Lights danced in the corner of Jaskier's eyes, but when he tried to see them head on, they dissapeared. Soon enough, little black dots began to accompany the lights with flitting in and out of Jaskier's vision. Remembering what Geralt had said about things in the forest, Jaskier quickened his pace to match Geralt's, a feat that was not kind to his lungs or heart.

After only a moment of keeping pace with Geralt, Jaskier pulled back, and then stopped all together. Bending over, he put his hands on his knees in an effort to catch his breath and still his rapidly beating heart. The lights were getting closer, the black dots were getting bigger. Fae.

"Geralt, Ger-" Jaskier ran to get in front of Geralt, losing his breath. His heart was at a steady gallop now. "Fae. we've been followed by fae. They thought they could trick us, but I see them. I see they're lights when they think I'm not looking."

Geralt, having learned, on some level, to trust his frie-travel companion long ago, scanned the area for any signs of fae. Fae were nasty creatures, willing to give you anything, but in return, they could take anything. There was nothing. Not a single spark in the darkened forest. Geralt turned 360 degrees just to be sure, but he saw nothing, nor heard the tell-tale twitter of the fae.

"Jaskier, your eyes play tricks. There are no fae in this part of the forest." Geralt explained, surveying his companion. Jaskier's face was wan and his eyes were bloodshot and sunken. "You're tired. We will hike to the stream and make camp for the night." Geralt pushed past Jaskier gently and continued walking.

Jaskier looked around wildly, the starbursts still dancing at the edge of his vision. Geralt was messing with him, he wanted Jaskier to be taken by the fae, be rid of him finally. He'd never wanted a travelling companion. Jaskier shivered, although he remembered it being a warm day before night fell.

"Just going to let me turn my back on the fae? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Finally rid of me, and you didn't even have to make it look like an accident." Jaskier spat, feeling dizzy. Had Geralt drugged him?

"Did-did you drug me?" Jaskier asked, his words slurring together.

"What the hell are you on about?" Geralt turned back around to face Jaskier, but the bard was indeed swaying on the spot.

"No, I didn't drug you. Did you eat anything? Any berries or leaves?" Geralt turned and walked back toward Jaskier, steadying him with a strong hand on his shoulder.

"N-no. Jus' tired. Thirsty." Jaskier batted his eyelashes, looking ready to fall over.

Geralt put a hand to Jaskier's forehead. It was bone dry, but burning to the touch. In fact, Jaskier's entire body was dry, which was odd for both the heat of the forest and the odd fever.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt through what he now saw as dangerously fevered eyes. Geralt needed to get the fever down, but the only supplies readily available were his potions he used for battles, and those were much too potent for any mortal man.

"Get on Roach." Geralt said gruffly, more putting Jaskier into the saddle than waiting for him to climb up.

Jaskier only hummed in response, looking like he'd fallen asleep standing up.

"Jaskier," Geralt grunted, not certain it was a good idea for the bard to sleep just now, "stay awake. Please." He added that last part as a near whisper.

Everything was coming in muddy flashes now, but Jaskier was certain he'd felt himself being lifted. Was he sitting on Roach? Geralt scarcely let him touch the creature, much less ride her. Jaskier was also fairly certain he'd heard Geralt say "please", which was slightly less fathomable than Geralt letting him ride Roach. Feeling something, someone, press up against his back, Jaskier let himself drift.

His dreams were odd, mostly just colors and shapes and Geralt's face creased with worry floating in and out of Jaskier's vision every so often. Then, there was the distinct taste of magic, like someone had been burning wood nearby.

When Jaskier woke, it was to someone holding something cool to his lips. He opened his eyes to see Yennefer's form kneeling over him. "Shh" She hummed. Jaskier just managed to catch Geralt's white mane behind her, his form muddled by the bright sunlight. Then, he was off again.

When Jaskier woke next- for good this time, he hoped- everything felt much more solid, including the feeling that he'd been trampled by Roach.

"Ugh" Jaskier groaned, his voice a hoarse croak.

"Jaskier?" Two voices asked. Geralt and Yennefer. Yennefer? That hadn't been a dream?

Yennefer knelt down beside Jaskier, her long hair tickling the tip of his nose. She opened her mouth to speak, but Geralt beat her to the punch.

"How are you feeling?" Geralt grunted, looking oddly uncomfortable and out of his element as he stood behind Yennefer.

"Like I was trampled by Roach."

"That's to be expected," Yennefer spoke up, cutting Geralt off. "I used magic to heal you and with magic, there's always some kind of give and take. It seems the trade off was your strength. Temporarily." Yennefer added the last part as Jaskier balked.

"What happened?" Jaskier pushed up on his elbow and looked past Yennefer to Geralt.

"Simple dehydration. Your body overheated, resulting in a delirium and fever." Geralt explained, still looking like a child who'd been given a chiding.

"Simple dehydration, Geralt? Really?" Yennefer asked in disbelief. "What your Witcher is trying to say, is that he doesn't understand how human body's work and forgot that you might need a sip of water every few days to continue breathing." She rolled her eyes, helping Jaskier to sit up all the way and handing him a cup (where had the cup come from? Jaskier wondered. Magic?) of cool water.

"Small sips, your stomach still tender." Yennefer instructed softly.

"How did you get here?" Jaskier looked at Yennefer quizzically.

"I have my ways." She said mystically.

"I called to her. Magic." Geralt explained simply.

"Must you always spoil my fun." Yennefer pouted, standing up. "Well boys, it's been fun, but I've really got to be going, there's a gentleman in Essoros that will be getting quite worried about a, erm, perky problem right about now. You better be glad I have a vested interest in both of you living. I was in the middle of something very important when you called." Yennefer smiled, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. She created a portal and was about to step through when she stopped and looked back at the two men over her shoulder.

"Do try to remember that it is dangerous for mortals to have an erection for more than four hours, Geralt. Don't need you calling on me just because your bard's little lute is rotting off from blood loss." Yennefer added cheerily, stepping through the portal.

The portal closed with a hiss, leaving a heavy silence between the two blushing men. Did Yennefer have spies? Jaskier looked around, feeling nonexistent eyes on his back.

"Do you, um, do you need anything?" Geralt asked uncomfortably.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly overly aware he'd been stripped down to his undershirt and pants at some point. "Why are you acting so odd?"

"I'm not." Geralt grunted, shifting from foot to foot.

"You are. You look nervous, like you think I'll break if you come too close." Jaskier huffed a laugh, putting down his cup of water and pushing himself to sit up straight, the muscles in his stomach and arms burned with the effort. Stupid give and take, he thought.

"Well, won't you?" Geralt asked.

"Geralt, what's wrong? Seriously, talk to me." Jaskier lightened his tone, looking at his-the Witcher with soft eyes.

"You're so, so courageous so much of the time that I sometimes forget." Geralt sat down beside the bard, gently pushing the cup of water back into his hand. "Drink." He said softly.

Jaskier did as he was told, shocked at how gentle Geralt was acting.

"Forget what?"

"I forget that you're not like me. You're human. You're fragile. Frankly, it's terrifying." Geralt huffed, looking off into the distance.

"I'm not 'fragile'." Jaskier countered.

"Yes, you are. Almost anything could bring your death. A mild illness, dehydration, lack of food, too much food, the wrong food, weather that's too cold or too hot-" Geralt could have gone on and on, but Jaskier cut him off.

"Geralt, look at me, I'm alright."

"This time."

"Geralt, listen to me, humans spend our entire lives being fragile. I reckon a dragon is fragile by your standards." Jaskier laughed, putting a hand on Geralt's bicep.

"Some species of dragon actually are quite fragile."

"The point is," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm always going to be fragile, but that will never stop me from singing your praises to each town we cross through. I will always be right there by your side." Jaskier promised.

"Are you sure?" Geralt grumbled, a smile playing at his lips.

"Now that's just rude!" Jaskier gasped, fighting his own smile.

Banter between the two floated into the air. In the end, Geralt was the one to insist that they stay an extra day for Jaskier to gain some strength back, despite the latter's half-hearted attempts to get back on the road.

In the future, if Geralt took a little more interest when Jaskier said he was tired or hungry or thirsty, he would just say that it seemed to be a good time for a break, but Jaskier would swear he could hear Geralt mumbled something about remembering that his bard was fragile and had limits.

#bad things happen bingo #prompt fill #prompt: dehydration #fandom: the witcher #netflix #jaskier #geralt #yennefer

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silentexplorer18 · 4 years

Text

2019 Draco/Reader Secret Santa Fic Exchange - Sugar and Spice and Everything Not-So-Nice

Note: This is my fic for @eltanin-malfoy‘s 2019 Secret Santa Fic Exchange. It has been such a pleasure to take part in this exchange, and, hopefully, it will be the first of many more to come! I don’t know who my person is yet, but, to you, lovely person, wherever you are, I hope that you enjoy it! I don’t know if this is the direction you were intending the prompt to go, but I thought it was super fun to write. Merry Christmas! :) And a giant thank you to @eltanin-malfoy for allowing me to take part in this exchange!

Prompt: “Draco baking for the reader.”

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Female Reader

Warnings: Being too sugary sweet (ba dum cha)! :)

Read it here on AO3.

Of all the things that Draco Malfoy had faced in life, the last thing he expected to battle was the kitchen. From facing his father’s scrutiny to tolerating Aunt Bellatrix’s zealous adoration of the Dark Lord to the fall of the Malfoy name and discovering the need to reassimilate himself - albeit quietly and somewhat awkwardly - into functioning normally after the war, nothing compared to the catastrophic events unfolding in his typically pristine kitchen. Baking was not Draco’s forte.

He couldn’t fathom how you’d become quite so excellent at the craft he now discovered to be so ridiculously complex. Always relinquishing the cooking to you, the thought of it being particularly difficult had never crossed his mind. He’d always known you were a remarkably bright witch, so he hadn’t found it odd in the slightest that you brandished a wooden spoon as skillfully as you did a wand.

However, in the hours he’d recently spent coated in ingredients, Draco had realized he’d underestimated you. A lot.

Baking was hard.

Yet the bright wizard was not one to be defeated quite so easily.

Countless times he’d witnessed you in the kitchen, whizzing away across the wooden floors as you produced piles of lovingly made goodies. Those days, he’d always teased you about it, hostility ebbing into his voice as he reminded you that the Weasleys and Potters surely had their fair share of confectionery from the previous week’s escapades. The next morning, he’d be met with a cheeky remark as you bounded out the door, delicately wrapped parcels cradled to your chest.

He secretly adored your generosity. Although he would never admit to it, a few extra red tins would appear in the cupboard after you’d announce your recipe of the week. Even more would appear when you mentioned wanting to mail a package to Mrs. Weasley or Neville. Although the professor could procure ample treats at Hogwarts, nothing quite compared to your creations.

Yet today, on this chilly winter afternoon, the blond had decided he’d bake something for you. On occasion, you’d come home exhausted from work and desperately craving a pastry or cupcake but be too exhausted to put up with making a batch. Rather than bake something for you - cooking had never been a skill Draco had needed nor wanted to practice - he would cuddle you up and delight you with movies and back rubs until you fell into a peaceful slumber in his arms. Spending time with him was something you cherished, and even though sometimes you would’ve enjoyed a delicious treat from your husband, you never pushed him to bake for you. Couples certainly didn’t need to share all their interests, after all.

Your persistence in the kitchen, arguing to use muggle cooking methods rather than leave it all up to magic, was something that both fascinated and exasperated Draco. In an attempt to make you proud, he was opting for the magicless route as well, a choice he now found to be messy and uncoordinated.

With an unamused groan, he scraped the newest batch of deformed cookies from the baking trays, staring in defeat at the items that littered the counters. Charred cookies and raw batter greeted him, blobs of flour smeared across the floor, and a set of poor formed cupcakes stared at him in utter disgust. How you were capable of whipping out madeleines and toffee, cookies and fudge, tarts and pretzels, along with the most glorious cakes, he’d never know.

Glancing at the clock, he knew you’d be coming back from the Weasley’s soon enough. The surprise was meant to be a plate of delectable goodies, not a haphazard kitchen in need of cleaning. With a wave of his wand, the mess began to disappear, bubbles foaming in the sink and water splashing across the dishware as his shameful first attempts were whisked from sight.

When you arrived home a short while later, the all too familiar sound of rustling parchment greeted you. Draco was perched in his favorite chair by the window, eyes casually skimming over the news. He seemed to glow, cast in the grey evening light with the upholstery, a color one could only describe as that of gillyweed, arching above his back and curving around his sides.

He glanced up from his reading as you rubbed the chill from your hands, wedding ring glinting ever so gently. That sight made him smirk, the way you cherished the delicate piece of silver, an emerald in the shape of a tiny dragon egg perched across your flesh. For a moment, his mind raced back to the day you stood before him at the altar, a mirage of elegance and perfection he could finally touch after the war. You were everything he’d ever hoped to find, filled with intelligence and wit and a level of affection he was scarcely accustomed to receiving.

“Have fun with Weazelbee?” he asked, lips curling into an expression a tad more mischievous. He knew you hated it when he teased the trio. They were civil now, more or less, kind yet cautious, and he knew you enjoyed their company.

Your lashes fluttered with the roll of your eyes. “Ronald is doing quite well. As is Hermione. However, their children are quite boisterous this holiday, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps it was all the madeleines you’ve been taking them.” His comment was a tad wry, but you let it slide. Draco, though mocking in your approach to muggle cooking and baking, always assured you that your results were remarkable. You needn't fear he disliked them.

“I wouldn’t think so. Hermione’s been hiding those for herself,” you smiled, slipping onto the couch comfortably. “Anything noteworthy?” Reaching behind you, your hand grasped for one of your favorite fuzzy blankets. With a sweet smile, you snuggled up with it as Draco scanned the paper.

“The latest quidditch scores are decent, not as good as previous years. A magizoologist is coming to London with a demonstration on proper care of common magical creatures that have been found in densely populated cities as of late.”

“Magical creatures? Here?”

He grimaced up at you. “Nifflers and such. But not around here,” he shuffled the papers. “They’ve been spotted in some business districts causing trouble. There’s been quite a lot of thefts in those jewelry stores near the Ministry.”

“Oh my,” your brow furrowed. “Is Pansy’s business okay?”

After the war, Pansy had obtained a small shop in lower London, resolving to spend her years as a vendor for second hand robes and pawned jewelry. However, as her business grew in popularity, she’d needed to move locations, finding a medium sized shop that would provide ample room for her jewelry counters and increased stock. Quite often, you’d pop by the building with a parcel of goodies she could offer her patrons. Truth be told, most got eaten before the both of you had even finished your teas.

“She owled earlier today,” Draco confirmed with a nonchalant wave to the small stack of mail. “It appears her shop is hectic from the season but doing well. She did encourage you to bring another box of chocolate eclairs, though.”

“Ah, yes. She does adore those,” you sighed. “I hope she can wait a few days,” you met your husband’s quizzical gaze, “I wanted to take Molly a Christmas pudding first.”

He nodded in understanding, eyes traveling back across the morphing photos and blaring holiday advertisements. “Speaking of,” you smiled, rising, “I’m going to start on that. She should be expecting me for tea tomorrow.”

Draco smirked at your stretching figure, adoring the way your fingertips danced through the air. Lashes fluttering and lips curling into the most beautiful of smiles, he couldn’t help the swell in his heart as he watched you recede into the kitchen.

Knowing you would be busy the next day, he reevaluated his plan.

While you were munching away at breakfast the next morning, Draco waltzed into the kitchen and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I’ll see you later, darling. Have a nice time at tea.”

“Where are you going?” you asked, hand muffling your voice as you attempted to hide the food in your mouth.

“I’m just going to run some papers up to the Ministry. Possibly stop by Zabini’s and say hello.”

With a nod of understanding, you waved him off. “Have a nice day! I’m leaving in a bit, too.”

He vanished. The pop echoed through the air in his wake.

Draco spent all day in a muggle library reading information on baking. Although he usually wasn’t one to read in their libraries, muggles had cookbooks galore, and it was precisely the reading material Draco needed.

It seemed so simple on paper.

If only reading about it could solve his problems.

For three more days he tried his hardest to create a delectable creation to no avail. He was halfway to giving up entirely, but the thought of how radiant your smile would be when you came home to a plate of treats drew him to persisting. He just wanted to do something to make you happy, something to remind you that he cherished your love for cooking despite his tendency to jest.

Thinking he’d give it another shot, the blond set the ingredients on the counter, flipping through one of your many recipe books with a dismal face. Muttering the recipe aloud, his voice masked the gentle sound of the floorboards creaking as you came down the stairs.

You paused a moment, watching him with a curious gaze. He seemed frustrated, eyes scanning the various ingredients that you definitely hadn’t left on the counter. Dropping a spatula, he gave an exasperated sigh. Pale hands rubbed against his tensed brow, down his tired face. “Why can’t it just work?”

“Draco, honey?” you called, stepping into the light. “What are you doing?”

He froze. Like a deer in headlights, he stared at you with the most alarmed of gazes, cheeks turning a violent shade of red under his fingertips. He’d thought you’d left already to visit Pansy. Through the distant rumble of the shower water, he was positive he’d heard you slam the door shut. Clearly his ears had heard wrong.

“Draco?” you prompted again, concern ebbing across your features.

“I just-” his voice caught, “I was, well, trying to bake something.” His voice seemed to ring loudly in the air, and he nearly cringed at the unsettling volume of it in the otherwise silent space.

You approached him cautiously, glancing toward the recipe book in confusion. “Trying to bake what?”

“Hallongrotta,” he mumbled.

Your brows arched. “Why? If you wanted some so badly, you could’ve just told me. I would have doubled the batch I made for Neville the other day.”

Sighing, Draco ran a hand through his hair. “They’re for you. I was trying to make them for you.” His voice lowered as his eyes left your face, dropping to the polished floor bashfully. “I remember how much you like them.” As if things couldn’t veer farther from the plan, his face continued to redden at the look of surprised delight that had washed over your features.

Your happiness seeped from your skin, dancing across the countertops and warming every corner of the kitchen in glowing joy. Draco was baking for you! And trying to make it a surprise, no less! It was as if Merlin himself had smiled down upon you. “You’re making cookies for me?”

Your grin was contagious.

“I’ve been trying to for a few days,” he admitted sheepishly. “I can’t seem to get any of them right.”

“What’s been wrong with them?”

He chuckled, glancing back toward the simple yet disastrous ingredients beside him. “What hasn’t been?”

Grasping his hand, you shot him a playful glance, smile adorning your cheeks. “Would you like my help?”

“I’d love it.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! I really loved writing this fic, and I definitely take after Draco and his lack of cooking abilities (but I can boil water, so I’m fine!). Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate, and Happy Holidays to everyone, regardless! I hope everyone is doing well this festive season, and I look forward to continuing writing with all of you in 2020! Have a great day! We’ll probably talk again before the year is out, but this will probably be my last fic of the year, so for everybody that just reads my stories and doesn’t chit chat with me here on the blog, I wish you a lovely end of the year (and decade!), and hopefully I’ll see more of you again in the new year! :)

#christmas fic exchange #secret santa fic exchange #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #draco malfoy imagine

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elenscaie · 4 years

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Vignette: Damian Wayne & Jason Todd

I blame @elloryia. Both for the inspiration and the encouragement. However, quite frankly, I’m being wary; just entering into this fandom proper means something is (most-likely) going to mess up. I know for a fact I’ll muck up something pertaining to canon, so feel free to correct me. Still, I won’t get nowhere if I don’t try, and so here I go. I hope it’s enjoyable.

***

Damian sits back straight and tall—as tall as any ten-year-old boy can be without the advent of a growth spurt—regal against the ebony wood, head held high, frown pulling at his features the most miniscule bit. His teeth aren't gritted, not yet, but the way Todd is going, he's well on his way towards such.

"I can't fathom why Father would even abide by this for one minute; you've clearly never done this to another, and I don't want to know how you managed this for yourself."

A hard-sharp bark of laughter is his only response. Tiny pinpricks of pain lace up his scalp and scrape a hiss out of him when the comb turns, twists, trapping him in the most childish tug-of-war when he snaps his neck forward to set his skull straight.

“You think this is bad? Try being born and bred in the Narrows, brat—you’d be lucky to get a damn fingerbone to use for your hair.”

The comment settles sharply between Damian’s ribs; he curses himself for the flippancy and the flagrant ignorance and for whatever remaining faults he can find in the words he just uttered. It gets him to shift and swivel in his seat—plush velvet black—eyes cut to slits, lips set in a stern line. On most children, it would have all the effect of a boy playing at being a man.

Damian isn’t a boy, however. He was born and bred, too, in the heart of shadows and subterfuge and swords and secrecy. Cradled in the blue-black night all the better to shield himself from the dominion of death if and when he strayed from the rules. Brought up to keep his hackles raised and suspicions sharp at words so sweetly spoken they might harbor poisonous barbs near their centers.

Damian Al Ghul understood all too well the power of lies and personas, power plays and personal agendas and playing at defeat when, in truth, your enemy would find themselves struggling beneath the weight of your victories just as their guard slackened the slightest bit.

Damian Wayne understood all that and more. For all he was pared down to something harboring less lethality and more mercy, he was no tamer for it, his nature softened barely.

So when the words tumble like little drifts of ash from Todd’s lips, Damian turns around in his seat and says, confidence absolute, expression flinty, tone brooking no arguement: “The Narrows amount to nothing but your past. You’ll not shame what it means to be a Wayne by speaking as if you’re still in that festering cesspool.” A delicate sniff of displeasure. ”I daresay even Grayson would be embarassed on your behalf if he caught you speaking thusly.”

lt almost distracts from the line riding rigid at his spine and shoulders—he isn’t soft, he isn’t going soft, he merely speaks the truth.

The truth itself being rarely pure and never simple.

But, Damian admits, sometimes there are exceptions.

Exceptions he will not be expanding upon. He can’t afford to. His fellow brothers vigilantes are perfectly capable of cultivating the masks they wear, whether it be to prepare for public speculation or for such things privy to family their group or for nobody’s business save their very own.

Words so carelessly spoken will scarcely leave a mark, much less the bruise Damian nearly flagellated himself oh-so-very neatly over.

Bottom line? Damian has little reason to be soft. This was just a fluke. Nothing more.

Streaming through air, weaving itself inside the wavering hair-thin tension balancing Damian’s shoulders on a knifepoint edge, Todd’s voice falls through a chain of notes betraying cool amusement hidden not at all. “So what you’re getting at is that we’re both the superior model. Thanks, brat, figured you were about to declare Golden Boy our supreme leader.” Fingers felt as sculpted thick through with calluses wind down through his thick mop of night-sky curls and Damian is ill at ease with the notion of leaning into the touch. They ruffle and muss and run all roughshod, for all the damage done. His curls are already a minefield of filth and muck.

“Nice to know you’re on my side.”

That gets him to huff; he abstains from a massive eyeroll and snaps out impatiently, “Some of us have to have enough sense to recognize when Grayson errs.” Laying flat one palm upon his cotton-clad thigh, the fabric so luxurious it may well be silk, he tugs on the hand gripping the comb and instructs, “You’ve picked out a majority of the leaves and most of the dirt I washed out already—just have some sense yourself, Todd, and go slow.”

Calm smooths over him. It settles like the lines of relief easing out from his scalp as the comb gentles through his curls and the rustle and crackle of leaves displaced and disturbed fills the room.

“You know, I never would have figured you for ticklish. So, superior model mutuality or not, you can bet the next time we go up against Ivy, I’m bringing my phone.” The chuckle that paints the air is absolutely brimful with teasing mockery. “Or just nick one of B’s Batcams.”

“For the final time, the vine’s flowers were simply sharp, hence how fiercely I was fighting them off—to break free before they did too much damage. No Robin would sully himself by being ticklish.” Exasperation sets him to folding his arms across his chest and upturning his face and neck to cut down the entirely inappropriate laughter, restrained wrath gleaming off the flats of his eyes. “I won’t humor any more of your misconceptions, petty as they always prove to be.”

That merely earns him another bout of ruffling and mussing, and loathe as he is to admit it, even to himself if no one else, the calluses so characteristic of Todd’s hands tune his tension out, render his shoulders softened, his spine slithering in a relaxed curve. The familiarity grounds him to the present and to this moment in time in particular.

His eyes slide shut as Todd’s voice, dry and fond, floats back into being.

“Yeah, brat, whatever keeps your prim primadonna head in check. Just don’t let me hear you saying I didn’t give you a heads up.”

An answering smirk just shy of a challenge, fangs sheathed but for the barest glimmer of brilliant white. “You wouldn’t come close to victory, Todd. I never lose.”

#my writing #elenscaie vignette #batman #batfam #damian wayne and jason todd

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se7enforse7en · 3 years

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NBTM | Two — Propositions

☾ synopsis : Love and tragedy has always had a way of being connected, that connection usually held by the red string of fate. A red string that destined two soulmates to be bound for eternity. No matter the circumstances, fate would tie two individuals to meet, to not disrupt their long awaited destiny. In the world of more than five billion people, the red string had made it’s mark plenty of times, going back to perhaps the start of it. The folktale disappeared into obscurity & into believer’s hearts. In the lives of fourteen individuals in the 21st century, their lives seem to be an unfinished puzzle. Some strangers, some friends. Some blissful, others tragic. All unaware of the soon-to-be outcome years in the making. They’ll find it to be entrancingly painful. The red string of fate wasn’t just pretty.

☾ pairing : jinyoung x fem!oc

☾ genre : drama, romance, angst ??

☾ warnings : strong language, rambling from an ass author (I had to), very much angst ur honor, kinda ooc jinyoung, e2l

☾ Parts : one / two / three / four / five

JIHYE CONSIDERS HERSELF TO BE AN INSPIRATIONAL PERSON. Or rather, she usually thinks herself to be inspired. Normally, she had no problem coming up with a concept to paint. The canvas would create itself and she’d feel a bit of completeness. She’d be drawn to the brushes and her extravagantly expensive colors. They’d call out to her, urging her to pick them up and begin yet another masterpiece. Their hues should’ve created a clear image in her head, but they didn’t. Nothing’s happening. Not a damn thing.

She stares at the long, white canvas ahead of her. It’s blank nature taunts her in the face. It dares not to move, nor does it help her inability. She’s sure that there’s new wrinkles in her skin just from the blatant staring she’s doing. It sets an infuriating feeling in her. She’s tempted to throw one of the brushes at the canvas, the thought permeating the main centers of her brain. Alas, a doorbell brings her out of her thoughts. Her eyes fly to the door with a sigh. She reluctantly gets up, her body sluggish. She quickly opens up the door, only to be welcomed with the face of the one and only Jong Minji. She rolls her eyes and lets the door swing open. He scoffs as she beelines for her kitchen.

“So great to see you—oh, it really is!” He mocks the lack of interaction as she pulls out a chilled Dr. Pepper. He strides in, setting down a big, brown paper bag on her marble counter. He squints his eyes, noticing something’s off. She’s characterically cold as per usual, with none of the sassy energy in it. It’s something he’s grown accustomed to in the last seven years. She appears out of her element, even in the silent sigh that flows from her mouth, resulting from the promising liquid full of sugar. He takes a seat at her counter, his eyes quickly finding no paint on her wrists. He cocked an eyebrow at the sight. “Finally one of your white shirts isn't ruined,” he comments.

She looks down, realizing not a single stain of color had tainted it, a rarity indeed. “Yeah,” she whispers as she takes another thirst-quenching sip. Her sleeves are rolled up, preparing for an activity she felt like giving up on. Her eyes drift to the paper bag. She raises her eyebrows. She looks between him and the source of her curiosity.

“It’s not a bomb, sheesh.” He reaches for it, rapidly opening it. He pulls out lazily shoved in fries and several wrapped up burgers, ones she knows too well. She instantly groans at the sight of it. Her rolls her eyes yet again, her annoyance a bit more recognizable. She can practically smell the grease and fat oozing just from the sight of it. She gives an agitated look to him. His shoulders become slumped. “It’s been forever since we’ve had a fast food day - “

“Because it’s shitty processed food. I literally got food poisoning last time.” The mere thought of it makes her groan.

“That’s not exclusive to all fast food.” She sighs at his words, resorting to the remainder of her chilled soda. He pushes one of the three burgers in front of you, quickly unwrapping his own. He expects her to do the same. She casts her gaze down, looking with disdain. She thinks on how she’d have to soon be in the obvious limelight due to the inability of escaping any & all promotions as an artist. She lightly pushes it away, much to his dismay. He instantly frowns as he lowers the overly greasy away from his mouth. “Did something happen?” He knows she’s one to care about her health, but something’s up, he’s sure.

She licks her dry lips. She wonders the same as her friend. Being stuck is one thing and not knowing why is another. The unstableness of her hands is not normal, nor is the blank stare she has as she looks at the burger with disgust. Her eyes slowly float to the blank, not forgotten canvas behind the almost oblivious Minji. Even without eyes, it burns through her soul. The void with what had endless possibilities of what it could be struck a nerve in all that made sense in her mind. There’s nothing that evokes that usual fire of creativity. No color that manifests. No image inducing that familiar burst of whatever she’d call her creations. Children? Sometimes. Art? Somewhat. Perfection? She wishes.

She mutters a quiet “fuck” underneath her breath. It’s unnoticed by the younger of them two, Minji’s focus more concentrated on why she seemed out of place. He shakes his head and picks up the burger once more. He finds it near impossible to even fathom a specific reason at the moment. He bites into the excessively oily food. It’s unhealthy contents explode in his mouth with flavor, an experience not akin to the ever so observant Jihye. Her eyes scan his delighted face. Splendid noises of satisfaction spurred on by the heavy contents of In-N-Out Burger. It’s overloaded with onions, tomatoes, and pickles. ‘Horrid combination,’ she thinks to herself. She shakes a head a bit, taking another prolonged sip. Minji looks to her in confusion, breaking away from his captivated state of momentary bliss. She gives a small wave, hoping he just gets back to his sodium death. He shrugs. With another bite into the burger, he lets his mind wander to how great his taste buds feel and whatnot. Whatnot being a bit more complex than what Jihye may think.

Elsewhere, in a much more tense space, Park Jinyoung wonders if he makes purchases in his sleep. He sits across from an old-styled book, one with a nicely made leather cover and pages as sharp as a knife. They’re a beige worthy of the sands of Persia. The leather front is adorned with gold ends and little flurries of designs resembling that of strings. It shines in the light of his living room. It catches his eye, a quirked eyebrow in the direction of the blasted mystery. He runs his fingers over the forepart. It’s smooth, incredibly so. He finds it to be like a fairy tale book. He expects it to be full of tales, perhaps starting with Cinderella and ending with the Goblin.

However, he has no recollection of ever ordering such a book. His own little mini-library consists of more popular stories, rather than chronicles that fit a children’s shelf. His hands grip the pointed ends, placing the cover on the left. His eyes widen in surprise, his expectations now shattering as a result. That very first page…

It’s blank. Entirely devoid of any color or words, it stares back at him in a mocking manner. His eyes search the pages for any kind of indentation or mark to see if he’s merely tired. It’s not the case as he’s sure nothing gets past his somewhat worn out eyes. All he can find is a small scripture in the corner of the other side of the cover. It’s ink is a mix of gold and red, it’s shiny luster apparent. He squints his eyes. The scripture is written fancily, like an old tale. He can almost barely make it out. The edges are too fastly written and the ink is scarce in some spots.

“The Prince and...The Princess,” he warily reads outloud. “Opposites do not always attract.” He raises an eyebrow at the text. “For those of the likes of the cold-hearted prince and the ice princess, such was a mantra. One of tragedy and love. One of sacrifice and heartbreak as well.” He scoffs at the text, his doubt seeping through his features. He makes a judging face at the book.

“The hell?” His eyes dart to the right of the book. His eyes catch a glimpse of moving letters. His eyes widen a bit. He shakes his head, only to see the expanding ink once more. He tightens his grip on the book. The words fill up the entire first page, moving onto the second, third, & so forth. His eyes carefully scan the words, his heart about to burst out of his chest. He’s suddenly nervous. Just like most slightly cynical young adults, he was a firm believer of genuine logic. And genuine logic is nowhere present in the mystery Park Jinyoung is faced with. He scans the words, thoughtfully, absorbing whatever fever dream is gracing him at four o’clock sharp. His confusion grows by the second. He finds numerous superfluous words and fantastical details too true for a fairy tale. The beginning is a fated mess, such words coming from the old paper.

His iris’ finally land on two words, two distractions.

Prince Jinyoung.

Hi, if you read or checked this out, tysm !! I’d rlly appreciate it if you could reblog or like this post. I’d love to hear what ppl think so a comment is awesome too. This is a work of fiction and for entertainment purposes.

#got7 #got7 au #jinyoung #jinyoung au #park jinyoung #fanfiction #got7 fanfiction

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tobiomlk · 4 years

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those tsukki fluff hcs? i am LIVING. could i get general dating hcs for tobio? 👉👈 good luck with your blog - 🐸

— kageyama as your boyfriend

LISTEN kageyama has a condition where brain is filled by (2) things: volleyball and food. relationships? that doesn’t exists. you’re gonna need either a miracle or a saint’s patience to get anywhere with this nerd, whichever works best for you.

i hope you’re well aware that your luck is on a negative count from the get-go, since 1) his knowlodge about romance is next to none and 2) he’s dense as fuck. even if he’s the one to develop feelings first, he wouldn’t act on those any sooner because he doesn’t even gets what’s going on. he just goes ( ??? ) whenever you smile at him and there’s this funny feeling around his ribcage and he’s 100% sure it’s hunger. so, unless you have the guts to fess up first… get ready to simp over this boy for the longest time.

that or until his teammates ( namely, suga ) do a divine intervention ‘cause damn, he’s so grossly in love, and if kageyama was already in the dark we fucking lost him, because what does it means to be in love??? that’s not a position or a game tactic as far as he’s concerned.

he even goes as far as to seek the textbook definition on dictionaries and spiel to himself like a damned mantra in the hopes he’ll get it but guess what? he doesn’t. if anything, he just further confused with the poor intent of describing such abstract concept with big words.

the whole process of realization is so agonizing and infuriatingly slow, it has gotten to the point where all da fucking team is up to date with the tragedy and they’re even making bets as to how it’s going to end ( tanaka and noya are putting all their money to kageyama not ever knowing about his feelings, ennoshita and the third-graders still have a bit of hope for their son. the first-graders are just enjoying the shitshow. )

but when it finally hits him… that there’s no better place than the one by your side and he couldn’t possibly have it otherwise… then it’s over for both of you.

once tobio is set his way, there’s no stopping him. hell, he might as well blurt it out as soon as he sees you, for all he cares. “it seems like i’ve fallen in love with you”.

but now you returning his feelings??? the most unrealistic and unlikiest scenario. his monkey brain definitively didn’t think out this far and now he’s in shambles. you’ve to spent half of an hour explaining to him that, all of it apparently means that you can be “a couple or something” and you can literally see his braincells combusting through his eyes.

are you going to clown him for his confession for the rest of his life? yes. do you hold the moment close to your heart regardless? Yes You Do.

needless to say, kageyama as a partner is awfully awkward. the boy’s barely familiar with platonic relationships, dating it’s like walking blindfolded onto unknown territory. he’s going to need you to teach him the ropes !!! ( not that you’re complaining, of course you’re not complaining )

being as unapproachable and volleyball-crazy as he’s known to be, i think many people depict kageyama as someone who doesn’t fully invests himself onto his social relations, especially the non-platonic field; because yes, to kageyama, volleyball comes first and foremost, but he’s just as devoted and earnest when it comes to his teammates and friends, and more importantly, you. once there’s something that means a lot to kageyama, he’ll give everything he has to offer, and you aren’t the exception to the rule.

while volleyball still takes most of his time and that won’t change under no circumstances, you can tell he does his best to spend the scarce time he has to spare with you. juggling between his passion and his loved one is not an easy task, but kageyama knew what he was applying himself for and there’s no way he’ll be half-assing, no sir!

at the very least, he always makes sure to walk you home. even if that means he’ll have to return afterwards to the gym, because he always trains ‘til very late and there’s no way he’s gonna keep you waiting that long for him ( you keep telling him it’s fine, that you don’t mind waiting, but he doesn’t relents “no. im taking you home first, then practice. and that’s final. now come here, dumbass.” )

he also calls you every single night before heading to sleep! he can’t stay long on the phone because he needs to go to bed early for morning practice, but just being able to hear your voice… to know about you and your day… is more than enough for him.

honestly it never fails to melt your heart when he begins talking in this raspy, low voice and you can tell he’s sleepy by the way he mumbles his words so you tell him that it’s ok for him to go to sleep now but he just shakes his head in spite of the fact you can’t see him and goes like “i still have a couple of minutes left. i want to hear your voice.” like honestly GET FUCKED !!!!!! HE’S SO LOVELY I’M-

kageyama understands if you have different interests and things you’re passionated about ( in fact, he’ll even try it out just so he can something to share with you! ), but, truly, nothing would make this blueberry as happier than you showing the tiniest bit of interest into volleyball. sometimes, the topic creeps onto your talk and unavoidably, tobio switchs to full nerd mode and starts geeking out about the matches and stuff and he’s just so giddy about it but then he freezes, and realizes he might be info-dumping you about something you probably don’t even care about, so he kinda cuts himself before going on… but the look of sheer happiness he offers you when you encourage him to go on? how his big, doe-eyes lit up once you ask him to explain you more carefully? can you possibly fathom how joyous it makes him to know he can get the best of his favorite things together?

to be honest, you’d expect him to be less considerate and act more fit of the self-centered, entitled king role he has been granted— not saying that he doesn’t slips and has his bossy moments of no filter, because he does, but the thing is: he’s surprisingly open to your opinions, too. over time, he’s been taught that communication is of utmost importance and the only way to understand others and have them understand you, and he’s firmly sure that applies to every aspect of his life. he wants you to know that, just as he speaks his mind, you’re free to do the same.

it’s ok if you argue, it’s ok if your points of view don’t match, because that means you’re talking to each other, and that’s way better than letting things sink without actual closure. kageyama learnt that the rough way. his speech might not be the most articulated or refinated, but he tries his best to get his points accross without unecessarily hurting your feelings. communication is so crucial to him, please, keep it in mind.

with that being said, kageyama’s prone to be unromantic and even insensitive at times with how he voices his opinions, because he’s no concept of sugar-coating and won’t hesitate to tell you if you suck at something, or flawlessly ignore your efforts to put on a lovey-dovey mood. but if you talk him about it and express that you’d like him to have some more tact, he’ll take the note! “tact? ok, ok. i’ll. try to be as tactful as possible from now on and… read the mood? but i make no promises” ( spoiler alert: he keeps telling you that you suck but now he lets you have a sip of his milk and pets your head to soften the blow. )

and speaking of physical affection… god, kageyama is an utter stranger to pda. i mean, the boy is just a prude, unripe blueberry. he doesn’t know how it works, he’s not used to it, and the last thing he wants is to go and do something that’ll put you on a tough spot. your comfort is one of his main priorities, so you have to let him know what’s ok and whatnot, then he’ll start getting the hang of it. once he does, you’ll find out that kageyama is, as a matter of fact, one of the most touch-starved persons you’ll come accross with.

he just can’t seem to get his hands off of you, in the most literal and non-sensual way possible. be it small gestures like your hands brushing together, shoulders bumping, or your heads resting against each others’, kageyama just craves the feeling of your skin against his. despite how bad he denies it, he’s pretty clingy.

you’ve picked on how much he apparently enjoys holding hands, and petting your head, for that matter. you don’t know why, but his hand would always makes its way atop your head. it has even gotten to the point in where he does it out of habit, and when you ask him what’s wrong he just replies “nothing? why do you ask?”

i think kageyama has two stages while he’s on a relationship. the earlier ones, where he cannot lock eyes with you for more than give seconds before going all blushy and stiff, and the advanced ones, in where physical contact has practically become a must and one of his primary functions as a human being to operate naturally.

kageyama’s hugs are so freaking awkward at first… there’s no guides about this. does he just envelops you with his arms ??? and then stay still like that ??? what if he hurts you by holding you too tight ??? oh my god he’s even holding his breath while he’s at it SOMEONE FREE HIM-

and don’t even get me started on the kisses. LISTEN YOU DEFINITIVELY CLASH YOUR TEETH DURING YOU FIRST KISS AND YOU ABSOLUTELY CANNOT CHANGE MY MIND ON THIS ONE !!!!! knowing him, he needs weeks of mental preparation and advice from his god-send suga-senpai before going for it, and when the moment comes… he goes too hard for literally no reason and right after you’re both on the floor whimpering ‘cause that shit HURTED.

“ow, ow… tobio WHAT the HELL” “oh, PISS OFF”

well, at least he has an excuse for rehearsing!!! don’t worry, he’s a fast-learner ;))))

cuddling is just about the same you guys spend all day squirming in order to find a comfortable position and it’s just a mess™ of limbs and giggles.

“wait… maybe if i put my arm around here…” “wait, tobio, you’re tickling me-” “??? don’t laugh !!! STOP LAUGHING THIS IS NOT FUNNY”

but once you finally manage to settle down, god, it’s so pure… kageyama loves to have you in his beefy, setter arms as much as he loves being hold by you. the crook of your neck? a heavingly place for him to rest his head and which belongs to him and him only !!!

look kageyama is so weak for physical affection i’m not even kidding. all you need to calm him down is to rub his back soothingly and he’ll even forget why he was so mad about to begin with. the amount of power you hold over this boy… it genuinely surprises people to see how tame he’s when it comes to you. everyone can agree that if kageyama has a weakness, that’s you.

tobio is not the one to get particularly cheesy or romantic, everyone knows at least that much. however, he has this thing in where he genuinely voices out how great he considers you to be without batting an eyelash which of course makes you super flustered because “why are you getting so cheeky for?” “??? it’s the truth though” SHUT UP IM SOBBING.

you know how slow and oblivious your boy is, so the last thing you expect is him being able to read you as easily? it takes its sweet time, but within the years, kageyama steadily learns to understand you and how do you operate. your habits, your body language, what makes you happy or upset, he knows all of it. he can tell when something’s off just from a glance, yet he’s so nonchalant about it— like it’s obvious to know what’s on your mind. now, does he know how to act knowing this? not really, but give him props, he tries his best!

with all that has happened to him, it should come as no surprise the fact kageyama can get pretty insecure in the relationship. it’s not like he doesn’t trusts or you ( god, the boy could trust you with his life ), but you can’t blame him for letting his insecurities get the best of him. he’s just so, so afraid… that one day you’ll notice how unlikeable he truly is and you end up leaving him, like most of the people have done to him in his life…

tobio desesperately needs the reasurrance, the words of affirmation, to bask on the feeling of knowing he’s so deeply loved, and that he’s no such thing as an unlovable person. i hope you let him know that, just as he lets you know how grateful he’s for having you in his life.

all in all, kageyama can be a blunt, awkward and more than a bit dense partner, but he’s striving to become a better version of himself day by day, so, he secretely wishes you’ll put up with him a little longer.

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ishgard · 4 years

Text

Title: Gifts & Curses Chapter 1: Nothing if Not Consistent Words: 2,545 Rating: T/PG-13 AO3 Link A/N: I opened one of those RP prompts ages ago that said something like 'Gaius gets cursed and Ahru can heal him', and then at like 4am falling asleep it burst wide open. One day I might go back, tweak it up, and fit it in to the grander story at large, but for now it’s just a stand-alone, for fun, deal.

________

Curses were tricky things, suffice it to say. They didn’t work in the ways one expected, or in ways that were obvious. Other times the cursemaker may not have been practiced in the art of it, bringing forth spite-driven but clumsy results.

As it stood, it was difficult to say one way or the other what Gaius Baelsar’s particular case was, but the effects had been wearing on him for days.

“I’m not sure, it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before…” Yulania frowned, leaning back and folding her arms over her chest. She was still reluctant to help the ex-legatus, but she’d come at Ahru’s behest just the same.

Moving almost in unison with her, Arsh instead leaned forward, tilting his head this and that as he looked Gaius over, scratching his chin.

“That’s because it scarcely resembles anything it ought to. A mess is what it is. Someone slapping together whatever bits of knowledge they could assemble…” He restrained a chuckle -barely- and shrugged. “I’d be surprised if they themselves didn’t suffer for the casting of such a foolish attempt.”

In a small, dim-lit storage room in Ala Mhigo, Gaius sat in silence, gaze cast low to the ground before him, head sunk between his shoulders. He’d always thought himself a decently sensible man - arguable to some, he could reason, when he’d been blinded by grand ideals and the promise of power.

Such was neither here nor there though; whatever this curse, it weighed on him. Hushed whispers and babbling played at the back of his mind, barely audible - only to be crashed by a sudden scream, or angry shouts. Countless voices, all in unison, sometimes dulling to silence, as if to offer him some mild hope of reprieve only, of course, to come barreling over his senses again in a rush.

Sleep was impossible, his performance in battle suffered, and though he held himself together best he could, he could no longer deny the threads were growing thin.

“Can’t say I’m too surprised, there’s no small few who would love to see the Black Wolf hang - or worse.” Yulania sighed and shook her head. While she wasn’t so comfortable with their new ‘ally’, capital punishment didn’t sit right with her either.

“Think you could… I dunno, trace the aetherial patterns or some shit?” Ahru waved a hand at the air. "Track down who might have done it?" She may have been better at the aetherial arts than she’d ever been in her life, but hells if she knew how to deal with any of this. At best she could muddle her way through more basic healing, and instinct had often guided her well, but it had been clear from the moment Gaius had come to her this was well beyond anything she could pull off.

Yulania scrunched up her nose. “You really think the Elementals are going to give me a hand with this?”

“Pff, of course not. I just figured you might have some handy witch-y tricks up your billowing sleeves.” She didn’t give a piss about the Elementals, Yul was one of the most gifted healers she knew, and that wasn’t because of them. Catching her meaning, Yulania’s cheeks gave a faint pink glow, though she hid it with a frown and shake of her head.

“Unfortunately, it’s such a mess, I’d be afraid to apply any of my usual remedies. Fixing one thing could cause something else to worsen.”

Together they both looked to Arshadaya, who was now crouched down in front of Gaius, waving his hand not five ilms from his face. Gaius, however, didn’t seem to notice, his eyes wide and glazed over, mouth agape. The lines of his face were writ in horror, as if he were seeing some fearsome, terrible thing beyond Arsh’s palm and wiggling digits.

Ahru reached over and smacked Arsh’s hand back - even that did not draw the man out of his stupor, however.

“Gaius.” Bodily shoving Arsh out of the way she instead clapped her hands on either of his shoulders, trying to bring his gaze to hers. She’d seen him go like this once before already, and nothing had worked to bring him out of it then, yet still she could not help but try. There was little use in trying to wrap her mind around whatever their relationship was at this point, but she didn’t enjoy the idea of any she counted among her allies suffering.

“Another part of another stitched-together hex,” Arsh shrugged dismissively. “I don’t think wiggling him around will snap him out of it.”

“Your pointless commentary is not why I asked you here,” she grumbled back. He knew that, he knew everything, and she was oh so certain he knew how to fix this, but it was ever his wont to play so frustratingly coy.

“Yet it’s all I’m capable of offering.” Feigning a crestfallen pout, he dramatically shrugged his hands out to either side of him. Now that she knew better, these little gestures of his at times reminded her of Emet-Selch. But she quickly shoved that thought away, as she was becoming accustomed to doing every time the dead Ascian surfaced from the deep to haunt her.

“Oh, come now, that can’t be true.” Yulania was the first to speak up, as exasperated with the Ascians usual antics as Ahru herself was. No matter how accustomed to it they may have been. “According to Ahru, Emet-Selch could snap his fingers and pluck souls from the lifestream. You’ve practically done the same with her. Surely a tangled up little curse can’t pose such a problem.”

“Ah, but it can. And I’d like to remind you I very nearly died saving our darling Ahru. Emet-Selch was nothing short of prodigious in his abilities to see and understand the movements of the lifestream, and I but a paltry babe suckling at the teet by compare.”

“Imagery I could do without,” Ahru muttered. Her hands remained on Gaius’s shoulders, her eyes on his - still swimming in mute, abject fear. What nightmare of his own making must he have been seeing this time? Unable to scream, same as the dead bodies in his wake. Such was as much as he’d conveyed to her the last time this had occurred. That he’d found himself trapped in the corpses of those who had suffered for his ego, watching with lifeless eyes as even greater atrocities ensued. Their fears and horrors became his, but their anger and resentment wrapped gnarled fists around his throat and strangled him.

“Unfortunately, messy as this curse is, it’s effective. Patchwork bits of one hex and another strewn into his very soul, all twisted and knotted together with one great thread of hatred and murderous spite. Removing one could cause upheaval of another, but worse still is the very potential to unravel his very being.”

It was, at times, difficult to grasp just what Arshadaya really felt on a matter. One sentence or word weighed with amusement and curiosity, another with pity. Such was the case now, but Ahru knew the truth to be simple enough. He was fascinated, but not without sympathy.

“So… it’ll keep going like this…”

“Until it kills him, yes. Perhaps he will go mad and take his own life. Perhaps he will act rashly, or from exhaustion, and get himself killed. Or perhaps the shock will soon grow too much for his withered old heart.”

“Arshadaya, please…” Yulania’s voice was soft and small, the barest rustle of leaves on a spring breeze. “There’s no need to elaborate on what we already know just because you relish the chance to talk more.”

Again, Arshadaya shrugged, but his flippant demeanor slowly began to slip away, like a mask discarded. Instead he watched Ahru’s face in profile, the way it furrowed and stared deep into the Garlean’s gazeless eyes. Her fingers were sunk deep into the folds of his coat, making the subtlest of movements as if she hoped to massage away the tension even while knowing it would do no good.

“It’s not really a problem, is it?” The moment the words were out of his mouth she was snapped back to the present, face an amusing blend somewhere between a ‘glower’ and aghast. This did not dissuade or give him pause. “By the laws of mortals, this is a just fate, is it not? To suffer all he has made others suffer, to bear every fear and scar upon his soul. In fact, I daresay it’s better than what any judicial system might be able to fathom up. Beheadings are much too quick.”

With each word her face scrunched up more and more, but so too did her obvious annoyance. Alas, it would seem he’d become much to predictable to his favorite little mortal.

“Can we please skip the part where I have to justify my desire to help people?”

“Even old enemies who’ve done so very, very, many terrible things?” He spoke as if he were talking to a puppy, the sarcasm dripping. What fool mortal could possibly have had more blood on his hands than an Ascian, after all?

Ahru turned partway to him now, drawing her hands back from Gaius’s shoulders to fold them across her chest. She was good at nailing this particular expression, half pleading pout, half stubborn glare. But then, it did precisely encapsulate two of her most prevalent emotions; long-suffering exhaustion and willful defiance. She was not so gifted in the Echo that they could share thoughts, but he could hear her loud and clear. ’Do not make me work more than is necessary for information you could just as easily provide me freely.’

“Fine, deprive me of my fun,” Arsh pouted right back at her, though his he would argue was far more heartfelt. “I could, possibly, fix him up if you are truly so adamant about it, but it will require ample payment. Sacrifice, you might even say.”

Had the current situation not already been sobering enough, Ahru and Yulania both tensed, listening with rapt attention. ‘Sacrifice’ was no small word to them, who had buried the bodies of countless comrades, and something neither of them took lightly. Arshadaya, however, simply grinned at them both, shaking his head.

“Ahru, my darling, you’ll have to take him home with you. To Hyr’asra, and your mother.”

Immediately Ahru blanched, eyes wide and mouth agape, not looking all too different now from Gaius.

“You… have to be joking.” There was no emotion to her words, she wasn’t processing much in the way of thoughts let alone emotions, and the thoughts that did get by simply came out like some automated recording on old Allag tech.

Yulania arched a brow. While she was well aware Ahru’s relation with her mother and birthplace were not particularly great, she didn’t realize it was quite so bad as to warrant such a flabbergasted response.

“Mm, as I recall, the Hiraeth don’t take too kindly to outsiders…” Instead Yul grappled for the easy, obvious answer - or question, rather, which she posed to Arshadaya. “So, wouldn’t it be difficult taking a Garlean there?”

“Oh, that’s not the problem.” Arsh moved over to Gaius now running a finger over the crease in the mans brow as if he were naught more than a statue to bear his intrigue. “Ahru can, technically get away with almost whatever she wants-” at that, Ahru nearly choked on a sudden, bitter laugh. “…The problem is she’s been avoiding it so long she hasn’t the faintest clue how to face going back.”

“Yeah, and marching in for the sole purpose of healing an ex-legatus isn’t exactly going to sit well with the uma’taja.” Ahru piped in, her words betraying her reluctance. But even as unwilling as she was, the greater reluctance was saying no to the suggestion if it might really help.

“I mean… will they punish you at all?” Yulania muddled over what they were telling her, unable to pick apart what from what. Arshadaya, conveniently, was more than willing now to be silent and pin any answers on Ahru, his golden gaze locked on her. Ahru simply shook her head.

“It… really doesn’t matter one way or the other.”

“Well that doesn’t sound promising.”

“The worst punishment she’ll endure is her mothers disappointment and dissatisfaction,” Arsh offered.

“No, I’m sure they could do a lot worse.” Ahru rolled her eyes, but she was already coming to her decision. Arsh joked of payment and sacrifices, but as far as she could see it was only her own stubborn pride at stake. “Will you really be able to help him if I take him there?” She frowned, squinting at Gaius. “You said… mother could?”

“Maybe. First I’d try the ruins. We may be able to fix him there, where the aether is strong and pure. But if nothing else,” he grinned - vicious and cruel. “They could always sing it out of him.”

Ahru shivered. The phrase, however, was perhaps comically lost on Yulania - and for the better.

“Are they… bad at singing?” She hazarded, voice small and uncertain like a mouse. To that, Arshadaya laughed.

“The worst,” he answered, clapping her on the shoulder in a way that did nothing to alleviate her unease. “But if we’re going to do this, I should go on ahead and prepare.”

This time he did not wait for assurances or firm glares. A dark portal opened for him, and he was gone, leaving the women and nigh-catatonic legatus behind. Yulania sighed, looking to her friend for some sort of assurance that there was not some worser fate awaiting her. As did, unfortunately, seem to often be the case.

Frustratingly, Ahru simply smiled back at her. That same, tired smile she’d seen countless times before when, inevitably, she rallied herself off to some great battle despite however much she needed the rest. The same one she used to ‘jokingly’ breath the words ‘No rest for the weary.’

“Ahru… You really don’t have to do this.”

“Hah, I do too. I’d do the same for you, or Regi. Any of you.”

Face scrunched up, she fixed her friend with a most ungrateful and quizzical look. “I do hope Regi and I place a little higher than Gaius, Ahru.”

She laughed outright at that, genuine and hearty, and it seemed to liven her up. “Without a doubt, but the sentiment remains the same. So I have a painfully awkward family reunion waiting for me? Not much of a price to pay if it means saving someone.”

Sighing, Yul was near to agreeing, but stopped herself short seeing the apologetic grin now unfolding across Ahru’s features. “…What?”

“Besides~” she sang, “you’ll have the much more arduous task here, letting the others know what’s going on. Should probably start with Valdeaulin.”

“Oh, he'll be pissed, don’t you dare saddle me with-”

“You’re a gem, Yul. I couldn’t do this without you!” Before she could utter another word of protest, Ahru had seized her by the shoulders and given her a kiss on the nose. “Look after him a moment while I grab my things!”

And then she was darting out the storeroom door, leaving her blinking and grumbling to herself.

“You’re as bad as the Ascian…”

#ishgard writes #(let us find the answer together)#eventually #ahru hiraeth #gaius baelsar #yulania borael #arshadaya idaeus #-shrugs a lot-#i'm not 100% happy with it but I Made Progress and that's what matters... (???0 #cross-posted to ao3 solely cuz i know what a bitch my tumblr layout is #'yume why don't you change your tumblr layout'#listen.#[crickets chirp]#exactly.#i don't have a good reason #no betas we die like rabid hounds #anyway this was more me hammering out exposition and getting it out of the way in my head #which is a great sales pitch i know X'D

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slashthedice · 5 years

Note

Love the way you write!! Can we maybe get a 3rd part to the Trapper story? Maybe where reader and Evan reconcile and have a sweet and romantic(and nsfw) time? If you can please

I can definitely do this :3c First part here, second part here. Not so sweet at first, you guys gotta work out your problems first. Angst and NSFW below!

When you arrived back at the campfire after that trial, the others had looked at you differently. As always, your wounds were already healed by the time you felt the heat of the fire, but that didn’t make it any less meaningful when Claudette sat down next to you.

“Nea told us what happened,” she said gently. “How’s your ankle?”

They seemed to be under the impression that you had gotten the same treatment as the rest of them. You realized then that Nea had only seen enough to witness David killed and then Evan heading towards you. Of course she would assume that he had killed you too. You had been terrified that he would do exactly that, but then he had treated you with such heartbreaking gentleness.

You thought Evan would seek you out after letting you go. You waited for him in your usual meeting spot when you could sneak away without looking suspicious, but he never showed up. As you waited fruitlessly for him, you turned your last interaction over and over in your mind. You tried to pick out the emotion that had colored his uncharacteristically quiet voice before he had let you go.

His word of choice-- “sorry”-- what had he meant by it? Sorry for hurting you with the trap? It was hardly the first time you had found yourself caught in its steel jaws. Sorry for letting you go? That certainly seemed a silly thing to apologize for. You couldn’t fathom what he had to be sorry for.

Trials came and went. Sometimes you were called to participate, other times you weren’t. Evan was never the killer when you found yourself in one of the many little “arenas” that you had long since become familiar with, surrounded by generators and your fellow survivors. They seemed to be your friends once more, working on generators with you and helping you out in a bind. David had taken a few hits for you, Quentin and Ace shared the things they found with you, and Claudette and Adam were more than happy to heal you when you were injured. It was nice, for a time, but you missed Evan terribly.

You finally had enough after a particularly brutal trial during which you had been on the receiving end of a chainsaw through the chest, courtesy of the Cannibal. You decided that if Evan would not meet you halfway, then you would go to him. You weren’t really sure if it would work, as a survivor the Entity tended to keep you all contained at the campfire and the surrounding woods between trials. Evan had once explained that the killers had their own areas that they stayed between trials, but that they could stalk the woods surrounding the survivors’ campfire too if they got bored. Your plan consisted exclusively of walking in a straight line in the direction Evan always came from when he met you and hoping that the Entity wouldn’t simply loop you back to the campfire or take you to some other killer’s domain. They couldn’t kill you outside of trials, but that didn’t mean you fancied getting up close and personal to some of them on their home turf.

The woods seemed far darker and more foreboding when you wandered them alone. There was a coldness that seeped into your bones and weighed you down. You had never noticed it when you were going to meet Evan, but now that you weren’t warmed by thoughts of your lover a sense of dread had settled over you. The longer you walked, the greater your fear that you were lost in the woods, walking an infinite loop.

Finally, the trees seemed to part and reveal a path to you. In the distance you could see the light of a fire. The trees began to grow scarce, thinning until there was nothing but open space. You looked around with a dawning sense of triumph as you realized that your admittedly lackluster plan had worked. You knew this place.

Your fellow survivors, ever creative, called it the “Ironworks of Misery”. The title was quite the mouthful, so you had taken to referring to it simply as the Foundry, which is what Evan called it. The building itself had begun to fall to ruin. The metal was old and rusted, and the structure moaned and swayed perilously. It seemed like the rotting husk of a once great beast, now abandoned to decompose into obscurity.

“Why here?” You wondered aloud idly, hopeful that the Entity might take pity on you, if it had truly been the one to lead you here.

You received no response, but as you continued to scan the Foundry, you noted something that was decidedly different than when you were here during trials: There was a light on in the upper level, in what you had always assumed to be the foreman’s office. You watched the illumination flicker against the iron walls, too bright to be a candle. It must be one of those barrel fires the Entity was so fond of.

“As good a place to start as any,” you muttered.

You ascended the metal stairs with as much care as was due, not keen on the idea of stepping down wrong and plummeting to the ground below. They creaked with your every step and you couldn’t help but to wonder why you had never noticed how treacherous they were during trials. Still though, if the killers that were so much larger than you could scale them without fear, you supposed that you had nothing to worry about.

You heard the clinking of tools and groaning of metal parts in need of oiling. You knew, of course, that Evan was very proud of his bear traps and did what he could to keep them in proper working order. You also knew that one of your compatriots, Jake, was particularly adept at rendering them unusable. It never occurred to you that Evan might have to repair them after the fact, and that the Entity would not simply restore them to functioning order.

You rounded the corner and entered the door to the room you had run through so many times to escape any number of killers. It looked so much different than it did during trials. Where there were normally crates and boxes, you spotted a mattress and a twisted mess of sheets and blankets. Bear traps in varying states of repair and disrepair sat lined up against the far wall. That same locker you had hidden in so many times was still shoved up against the wall to your left, although you suspected it was full of tools and materials instead of simply acting as an empty hiding space.

Looking straight ahead, you saw him. Evan was hunched over a tool bench that had taken the place of the inoperable foundry controls. He sat upon a stool that was far too small for his bulk, but soldiered on bravely. His mask grinned sadistically at you from where he had placed it on the far left of the work bench. You watched the muscles in his back and shoulders move as he continued to work on the trap, so focused was he that he had somehow not heard you approach.

“Evan,” you said his name quietly, voice barely more than a whisper.

There was no denying that he had heard you, however. His whole body stiffened before you watched the slope of his shoulders slump as he sighed heavily. He wiped the oil from his hands with a cloth as he rotated towards you. His head was downturned, and he didn’t say anything.

“I thought you would come see me,” you admitted. “Why didn’t you come?”

It was clear that you were talking about after the trial, but he said nothing in response.

“Well, say something!” It was quickly becoming apparent that this was not going how you had planned. “Why are you avoiding-”

He spoke suddenly, startling you out of what would have been an accusatory rant. “Tell them I forced you. Tell them you didn’t want it, but I made you.”

He wouldn’t look at you. His gaze was firmly on the dirtied rag in his grasp. You could see the taut lines of tensed muscle in his forearms and briefly thought that it was a miracle that he had not ripped the fabric in half. You knew he was talking about the other survivors.

“I’m not going to tell them that,” you said sharply, furrowing your brow and wrapping your arms defensively around yourself. “You didn’t force me to do anything. I want everything we have.”

You heard him growl under his breath. “Everything we had is getting you fucked over. I’m giving you an out here, just take it.”

It felt like someone had kicked you in the stomach, but you took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. “I can’t accept that.”

For the first time since you had arrived there, his head shot up and he looked at you. His eyes burned, but you could see more than the anger he was forcing to the front. “I don’t care if you ‘accept it’, that’s what’s happening.”

You felt tears well in your eyes despite your most valiant attempts. “Please, Evan, don’t do this.”

He looked back down, no longer able to meet your pleading eyes.

You took a step closer and took his face in your palms. His hands shot up and he grasped your wrists, but he didn’t pull them away. You forced him to look at you.

“Please,” you repeated. Then, taking a deep breath, “I love you.”

His expression remained stoic in the wake of your confession, but you watched a flurry of emotions flit across his irises. You realized distantly that you had never noticed what a deep, rich brown they were.

“Why?” His voice was rough, harsh. When you didn’t respond immediately, he demanded it again, harder this time, “Why?”

“You are the best thing in my life, Evan MacMillan,” you answered firmly. “I’m not just going to let you push me away because you think you’re somehow helping me.”

“Those others-”

“Can go fuck themselves,” you cut him off.

He looked like he wanted to say something else, to argue with you. His eyes searched your face for something, you couldn’t be sure what. He opened his mouth and you thought he was going to contradict you again. What he said instead was so much better.

“Ah, fuck it.”

He grabbed you by the back of the neck and pulled you down hard to meet him. Your eyes widened, but you quickly screwed them shut and threw your arms around his neck, melting into him when his mouth met yours. The stool groaned treacherously under your combined weight as he pulled you into his lap. Your mind was far too scattered by Evan kissing you senseless for you to worry about the possibility of the little wooden seat giving way, but he had apparently taken the potential hazard into account. He stood with you wrapped around him as if you weighed nothing. Turning, he leaned you against the work bench as he cleared the surface with one hand, sending bear traps, tools, and his mask clattering and skidding across the floor.

You pulled him harder against you, as if he would leave if you didn’t hold on tight enough. Your desperation was mirrored in his movements, still holding the back of your neck with one hand while the other was splayed across your lower back to press you against him. You did your best to pour every ounce of emotion you had into the kiss, willing him to understand just how serious you were.

You broke away only when the need to breathe took over. His pupils were blown wide and he was breathing just as heavily as you were, but still he did not release you. You were sure that your face was flushed bright red and you knew your own eyes were hooded with desire. You wanted him, wanted to show him how much you loved him, and you could see that he wanted you just as badly.

You pressed your hands to his chest to create some space, but before he had time to worry that you had changed your mind, you were pulling your shirt up over your head. Your bra followed, and it was only then that Evan stepped in to help you lift your hips to remove your pants and underwear as well. You eagerly reached for the zipper on his overalls, and he was in no hurry to stop you. You were thrilled to find him already hard for you, but you gave him a few quick strokes for good measure, prompting a deep, rumbling groan from him.

You shifted to the edge of the workbench and wrapped your legs around his hips as best you could. He was so much bigger and stronger than you, you didn’t have a chance in hell of moving him if he didn’t want to, but thankfully he was in no mood for teasing. Evan slid his hand between your bodies to cup your sex. You didn’t even try to stifle your moans when he dragged his fingers through your folds. He made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat when he found that you were practically dripping for him. He pressed one thick finger inside you, prompting you to throw you head back and moan. You couldn’t help but to roll your hips into his hand when his thumb found your clit. You were all but panting when a second finger joined the first and he curled them into you. As nice as his fingers felt inside you, and as much as the logical part of your brain knew from experience that you needed him to prepare you like this before you had a prayer of taking his cock without feeling like you were going to be split in half, you were beginning to grow impatient. You really needed him to fuck you.

Either he was just as impatient as you were, or he could read your mind. He withdrew his hand from your heat and smeared your wetness across his length. He pulled your hips down to meet him before lining himself up with you entrance and pushing in. He groaned at the feeling of your walls squeezing around him, the sound vibrating through your smaller form. Your breath caught in your throat at the stretch you felt, quickly reminded of how truly full you always felt when he was between your legs.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “Fuck, I missed you.”

The admission was unexpected, and your chest filled with a pleasant warmth at his words. You wanted to respond, you weren’t sure whether you wanted to tell him how much you had missed him too or to give him a hard time for being so hardheaded and avoiding you, but you didn’t get the chance.

He pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back in, hips colliding with your own and forcing the air from your lungs. He held you in place with one hand on your hip and the other supporting his weight against the tool bench. You cupped his face with your hands, pulling him down to meet you in an ironically chaste kiss as he continued to piston into you. You gasped against his lips, moans filling what little space there was between you.

“Say it again,” he growled.

You were confused for a moment before you realized what he wanted to hear.

“I love you,” you managed between gasps and moans.

He thrust into you harder, causing you to bounce against the surface of the table. “Again,” he demanded, voice husky and strained.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned as he hit something that had you seeing stars. “I love you.”

He didn’t have to tell you a third time, just continued to drill into you as you serenaded him with a chorus consisting entirely of those three little words. As you neared your end, your chant became a jumbled mess of whining and moaning, but to Evan it still sounded just as sweet. Your walls fluttered around him, and you held onto him for dear life, arms wrapped snugly around his neck. His thumb found your clit once more and you wailed. White hot electricity burst from your core and danced through your body, leaving nothing but blissful pleasure in its wake.

You rode out the high, only vaguely registering the way Evan’s thrusts stuttered when you clenched around him. His heavy breathing was like a freight train in your ear, and you loved it. He grunted as he slammed into you one last time, grinding your hips into his own before you felt him spill inside you, seed warm against the walls of your overwrought sex.

You held onto him with all the energy you had left, intent on never letting him go again. He took a moment to catch his breath, both hands now pressed against the workbench to support his weight as he loomed over you. You pressed light, fleeting kisses into the heated skin of his chest and shoulder. You felt him turn his head to leave a lingering kiss against your temple.

“Don’t leave me alone again,” you said quietly.

“I won’t,” he promised.

#evan macmillan #the trapper #evan macmillan x reader #the trapper x reader #DBD #dbd imagines #dbd trapper #smut #asks #anon #slashers x reader #dead by daylight #i was listening to moderation by florence + the machine while writing this

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vicisse · 5 years

Text

on the darkling

listen. i totally understand the mixed opinions on this guy. i’ve pretty much resigned myself the fact that my opinion is and should be mixed. the darkling is the kind of character that is equal parts despicable and almost relatable—relatable and not redeemable.

the man is a walking contradiction, and so is my opinion of him: i love to hate him, and i hate to love him.

this post is meant to take a crack at the utter enigma that is the darkling and really break down his character.

“The Darkling is a manipulative person, so why do so many people like him?”

i can’t speak on behalf of the whole fandom, but for me personality, i like TD in the sense that he is a complex character. does that mean i excuse the atrocious things he did? absolutely not. he is still an abject and detestable character. but i can still analyze and delve into the intricacies and reasoning behind his actions and find it interesting.

(and besides, from a purely leisure-based perspective, TD is an entertaining character! i mean, he’s awful, but he’s also awfully petty. for a supposedly intelligent character with a vast amount of experience, he sure gets tripped up on the words and actions of a mousy teenage girl.)

some people, though, like to reduce TD to the bad boy/asshole who goes “soft” after meeting the girl of his dreams. not only does that trope grate on my nerves, it is also a far cry from the actual dynamics at work.

not only has leigh commented on how she wanted to subvert the trope that a female love interest can make a bad man better (in regards to the relationship between alina and TD, at least), but she has also made it clear that TD would not change for alina.

for all the times he reveals a little bit of truth to alina... well? it’s just that. a little bit of truth. it’s really another manipulative tactic: lies mixed with a little bit of truth, a classic TD move. he knows that alina is lonely and preys on that loneliness, talking on and on about how she isn’t like her friends, how none of them will ever understand her the way he can.

“I’ve seen what you truly are,” said the Darkling, “and I’ve never turned away. I never will. Can he say the same?”

another reason why TD is fascinating to me is because he is so good at what he does that he manages to manipulate readers, too. they think he’s good for alina, or that alina will change him, that she was stupid for turning down a chance to step into power.

(i beg to differ, though that is a whole other meta—on alina. this is about TD.)

TD is a compelling character because his very existence elicits so many questions:

Why is he so obsessed with Alina? Does he actually feel anything for her? If he wants her so badly, why doesn’t he stop his quest for world domination and have a little more compassion for humanity?

Why did he make the Fold?

Why is he—well—Like That?

let’s go backwards, starting with Why is he Like That? well, the answer is easily: Baghra.

her parenting is questionable, to say the least. i don’t doubt that she loves her son and genuinely wants the best for him, but “the best” gets warped with the times. in the early years, “the best” meant heeding her lessons, accumulating fear and power so no one could hurt them—hurt him.

it isn’t until after the whole shadow fold debacle that baghra’s all “maybe the best is seeing my son come home,” because the monster who was peeling away strips of his humanity year after year is no longer her son. i mean, TD spent a good part of his formative years learning at her knee, truly heeding her words:

“I taught him that he had no equal, that he was destined to bow before no man. I wanted him to be hard, to be strong. I taught him the lesson my mother and father taught me: to rely on no one. That love—fragile and fickle and raw—was nothing compared to power.”

at the time, the latter certainly holds true. TD scarcely made friends, as baghra also warned him to be wary of touch (they’re amplifiers, after all), which is a pretty big part of socializing and human interaction. what does he need love for?

in order to make a difference, make the impact he desired, TD would have to climb a lot of rungs to step into a position powerful enough to commit to reality the dream he’s carried: to make a safe haven for grisha.

but now his dreams have since been warped by time.

it’s hard to fathom just how long TD has lived because we don’t know how long he’s been around. still, factoring time into the equation is helpful when it comes to understanding TD’s motivation.

anger is certainly a huge motivator, and something that only festers on and grows with time, twining itself with resentment and bitterness and underneath it all: loneliness. anger, directed at a world that spurned him and people like him. anger, at a world that always, always took from him—because he must have loved someone at some point. he tells alina,

“I have lived a long life, rich in grief. My tears are long since spent. If I still felt as you do, if I ached as you do, I could not have borne this eternity.”

and the loneliness, the burden of immortality, the curse of it. to watch the people you love taken by a world that spurned grisha, or worse: to watch them live long enough to die of old age while you remained unblemished by time, to repeat that cycle over and over again and bear the brunt of loneliness each and every time.

“But wait,” you might be thinking, “doesn’t he have his mom?”

well, yeah. there is baghra, but... you have to understand: she’s the one who taught him to be that way. she was the one who taught him to rely on nothing and no one but himself. and also? who would want to spend eternity with a cold and distant mother?

“Boo hoo, poor immortal character is stuck being lonely. Is that supposed to excuse the horrors he committed? I get lonely, too, but you don’t see me annihilating a whole town.”

no, not at all! this is just providing a reason behind it, not excusing it. understanding does not equal tolerance. TD is despicable, true, but i’m just pointing out:

a life in isolation + immortal life + grand ambition to change the world = disaster

it isn’t enough just to be grisha; TD is also an amplifier, so he was hunted by other grisha. that isolating existence combined with the long stretch of time he can live is already enough to strip you of what little humanity you have. add on the fact that TD once dreamed of changing the world, to make a safe haven for people like him, grisha, and the fact that baghra essentially raised him to rely on power and believe that the world is his birthright... yeah. disaster.

of course, the real disaster here is TD, but apparently, disaster spur more disasters because he also made the shadow fold. so, Why did he make the Fold? honestly, it confuses me, too.

see, when alina asks that, baghra tells her that the fold is no accident, which leads me, the reader, to believe that TD planned on splitting ravka in two in order to sanction fold crossings, which would get the king to rely on his second army, his grisha. buuut, leigh has also said in a couple Q&As that the fold was merzost gone wrong... to be honest, it’s probably both?

like yes, TD tried his hand at merzost and failed on a scale of epic proportions, but leave it to him to figure out a way around his mess. like sure, he wasn’t able to make his own amplifier (though why he would need more amplifiers when he is himself is an amplifier is beyond me), but he probably figures, hey, i can use this, and does. which brings me to the last stretch of questions:

he’s obsessed with alina because she’s literally his answer. to everything.

if he wants to cross the fold? alina. if he takes over ravka for many centuries and the people start to protest? alina, the revered sun saint, will subdue them.

so what if alina isn’t as powerful as he is, won’t live as long as he does? he supposes now is as good a time as any to whip out old grandpa ilya’s journals to get his set of amplifiers on her.

she’s the amalgamation of everything he has ever searched for, ever wanted. and maybe that’s why a lot of people conflate those strong feelings for love, but the thing is... TD? loving someone? feeling anything? i have to laugh.

that’s another thing about TD. when it comes to emotions, he’s not as emotionally stunted as some people make him out to be.

he strikes me as a very introspective character. it doesn’t make sense to me that someone who’s lived so long is so out of touch with their emotions. he is, in a way, but i also think he is aware and merely chooses to ignore, push down, or disguise it as something else entirely. he’s not emotionally stunted, he just thinks some emotions are inconvenient. unpleasant. annoying, even.

the thing is, TD has lived a really loooong life. he doesn’t feel loneliness the same way any of the other non-immortal characters do. no, his kind of loneliness manifests itself without feeling, numb from the centuries of having nothing and no one to depend on but himself.

i’m not saying that TD doesn’t love alina—though honestly, i could never imagine a world where he acknowledges he does. besides, it doesn’t look like what is the ideal definition of love as we see it, but it’s as close as he’s gonna get.

love is a tricky, flexible thing; and it isn’t always good or bad. ideally, love should be good, but. it’s like a friend pointed out to me: a controlling mother can tell her child, “i love you, so you have to do what i say,” but she isn’t necessarily lying. she does love her child, but she uses it as leverage to manipulate—another classic TD move.

now, i never quite answered why, then, if he wants alina so badly, doesn’t he stop his quest for world domination and have a little more compassion for humanity? short answer is: it’s impossible.

i’ve answered an ask before, on TD and the possibility of a redemption arc, but again: it’s impossible. i mean, imagine holding onto a grudge for years. years. at some point, it’s not just a grudge, it’s just you, holding onto your anger, some kind of injustice you feel but can no longer identify.

it’s like that with TD, but x100000000000000000000. i might even be missing a few more zeroes, to be honest.

TD is many things. stubborn, selfish, arrogant. arrogance plays a big role, because his ego is, frankly, the size of the shadow fold. someone who’s as self-righteous as TD isn’t going to readily admit he was wrong this whole time.

the fold is one thing—but that mistake he could rectify, work around. if he were to admit that he was wrong for doing all this grand planning, plans he spent centuries building up to and waiting for, it would all go to waste. it would all be for nothing. at the very least, he has to see some follow through.

and another thing: he’s not about to give up a centuries’ long ambition for one (1) mousy girl who is too stubborn to acknowledge her own potential. forget it!

he might love alina, but he will always love power more.

#text #the grishaverse #the grisha trilogy #tgt #the darkling #and now.... to start on alina's equally (if not moreso) gigantic meta analysis

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modernmisterdarcy · 4 years

Text

Bliss, Goodbye, and Business

“Always…”

Eirene's voice echoed in his mind, and it would, in some strange and distant place, echo there for the rest of his life. Her sweet, breathless whispersaid , “Always…” Always she would be with him, so she said, and so Adrian believed, in that moment, with every fiber of his being.

He had found his beloved. After all these long years of suffering and darkness, his connection with Eirene was like the sun, finally appearing to burn away the fog and the chill, to bring everything within him to life anew. Her hands gently tracing down the front of his body were healing him, knitting together everything which had once been broken, unusable, and discarded.

His heart ached with the force of his love, and when the door slammed open, Adrian's spirit reared up with such protective passion he nearly reached for his saber-- which had not hung at his hip in more than two years.

Terror and relief vied for prominence when Adrian recognized, through the shadows, the face of his dear friend, and Eirene's father.

“I did not mean to intrude,” said the Earl.

Adrian flushed with embarrassment. “That is-- I did not mean to suggest-- an intruder in your own home--” Adrian stammered, relieved, however, that Alexandros's only thought was for Eirene's well-being.

“Eirene, are you alright?” said Alexandros.

“Yes, of course! I wasn’t, but now…” Eirene trailed off, and looked back at Adrian. His heart leapt, and something in him was deeply touched that his attentions could have ameliorated-- in any measure-- the pain his brother had caused that night. “When I left the party, His Grace came to console me.”

Yes, I came to console you, never imagine I should end up professing my adoration at such a strange moment. Yet I cannot say in earnest that I am sorry...

“Is that what you kids call it these days?” the Earl laughed, bringing another flush to Adrian's face.

“Lord King--!” Adrian exclaimed at the same as Eirene said, “Father!”

The Earl's teasing relented, much to Eirene's apparent relief. Adrian was relieved only that the Earl seemed far, far from upset. Adrian had known that his friend approved of the match with his daughter, but to overlook such an impropriety as this? Adrian could scarce fathom it, but he was grateful not to have offended the other man.

As Eirene made her exit, Adrian wished he could kiss her one last time, but he dared not do so in front of her lord father. Instead, he contented himself with their last wistful glance, and offered a tender, meaningful smile.

“Adrian--” she said, “Thank you.”

“Any time, Lady King, you may avail yourself of me... any time.” Nearly overcome with emotion, Adrian bowed to her as she exited, almost having forgotten that Alexandros was there until the man spoke. Adrian smiled, swinging back into his embarrassment at having been caught with Eirene in such a compromising position.

“Alexandros, I-- I--” Adrian stammered, but the Earl seemed not to hear.

“I would advise you to get some sleep, but I have a feeling you will have quite the mess to return to. Call upon me tomorrow; we can discuss this curious evening then.”

Adrian had also nearly forgotten about Toby, but this sobering reminder brought his feet a few inches closer to the ground. This newfound connection between himself and Eirene stoked his ire all the hotter, and his grip on his walking-stick tightened until his knuckles were white and his fingers shaking.

“I shan't rest until the boy is dealt with,” Adrian assured him through clenched teeth. “And it is only this conversation with your daughter which has tempered my fury from reckless to actionable, words cannot express how embarrassed and sorry I am on his behalf. Please, Alexandros, accept my apologies and know I'll do all I can, for as long as I can, to turn this situation around to Eirene's favor.”

Adrian was nearly lost again in his anger over Toby when the Earl clapped him on the back. Adrian smiled uncertainly and took a little stumble to the side.

“I knew there was still some fire in you yet, boy!” exclaimed the older man.

“I hardly knew it myself, Alex, but your daughter is... very special.” Adrian flushed, smiling, looking at the door from whence Eirene had disappeared a moment ago. “I... daresay I feel for her as I've never felt for anyone.”

With that, the Earl and Adrian parted for the night. With the master of the house gone, Adrian availed himself of a nearby bench, taking a seat with a tremendous sigh. He closed his eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose, allowing all that had transpired in the last hour or so to sink in to his mind, body, and soul. Yes, Tobias had committed a colossal mistake; the ramifications would follow the family for years-- perhaps decades-- the scandal would perhaps never be forgotten, and Tobias should have a difficult time showing his face in society for ages to come. Which fact had never bothered his younger brother.

It should have bothered Adrian, but the man was too drunk off of his love for Eirene to care a whit about his brother's social misfortunes. A time would come to deal with it all-- when he stepped beyond the doors of the greenhouse, it would begin-- but Adrian took that moment to sit, and to just be, with the cool humidity of the lush tropical foliage, and the echoes of words and kisses that lingered in his mind and in the air.

He loved her. Ardently. Wholly. Perfectly. She might-- should-- would-- be his wife. He knew it with all his being, and he resolved to propose to her as soon as he rightfully could, after this mess with Tobias was as cleaned-up as it could get. Perhaps he could not erase the scandal, but the Duke was certain that his getting engaged to Eirene so soon afterward was the correct thing to do. It would redeem Eirene's reputation in whosever eyes it might've been lost; and the excitement of the tragic bachelor Duke of Bainton finally being engaged might detract from some of the gossip about Tobias. It was a smart move, and he knew it, but more than that, it felt correct. It was not always the case, the smart thing and the thing which felt good. But this time, the two happened to be one and the same.

It was raining, and cold. Tobias was soaked through, his formal evening wear ruined, and in some measure, he did feel he deserved it.

The cold was sobering, and that was a problem.

After a time of aimless wandering the dark streets of London, searching himself for any shred of remorse or guilt and finding only a little, Toby wound up at one of his usual pubs, patronized by the usual people. While Adrian and his like greeted Tobias with disdain and coldness, this pub greeted Toby with warmth, enthusiasm, and some distant species of love often shared by problem drinkers who are in their cups together.

Toby received the welcome into an aching heart, and he couldn't quite understand why he had no enthusiasm to return. Instead, he sat down at the bar, dripping wet and ignoring all the questions about his ridiculous outfit, feeling very alone despite being surrounded by friends.

All he could think about was Adrian. The look of horror in his brother's eyes. The pallor of his face. The rigidity of his posture under any and all circumstance.

Worst of all was the anticipation: knowing that Tobias's actions would land him firmly in the very lowest of his brother's opinions, and that this evening's incident would earn him nothing but new heights of contempt, coldness, and distance from his brother. And Toby could hardly think of anything worse than that.

How long he sat there, Tobias could hardly reckon. He exchanged but little conversation, and drank far, far too much for his own good, such that even he knew he was too damn drunk.

On jellied legs, Toby got off his barstool, stumbling, and a few nearby patrons caught him. The pub was considerably emptier than when he'd come. Toby asked what time it was; they said nearly one in the morning. Someone less drunk than Toby asked if he wanted a ride home; Tobias declined, preferring to walk. His friends professed their skepticism that Tobias could find his own arse, much less his home, in his current state of inebriation, to which Toby responded, “Fuck off,” before stumbling out of the pub.

He found his way home. He wanted to apologize to Adrian. Toby was prepared to beg forgiveness on his knees. He'd even apologize to Eirene, if Adrian wanted him to, although he wasn't sure what good it would do. But he'd do anything, anything, to repent to his brother. Anything to prevent the rift between them from widening-- as if the damage hadn't already been done.

As if Adrian weren't about to ask him to do the only thing that Tobias couldn't do on his own.

He was too drunk to notice the strange carriage parked in front of their home.

In his wretched drunken, sodden state, somehow Tobias knew where he'd find his brother. How could Adrian sleep before this thing was put to rest?

Yet the parlor was dark, except for a high fire in the grate. Adrian stood before the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece, the contours of his slightly sunken features thrown into sharp relief, with pitch-dark, dancing shadows, and highlights of glowing red and ember orange. He wore a look of deep, brooding anger, the fire in the hearth paling in comparison to the fire in his eyes. To Toby's drunken mind, his brother looked like some kind of demon from a play. The sight shook him to his core.

“You have behaved very badly tonight, Tobias,” said the Duke, his voice silken with his finely-controlled rage. “You have never, ever disappointed me like this.”

“I'm sorry--” Toby started to say, but, as usual, Adrian wanted none of it.

“You have left me with no choice.” At last, Adrian stood straight, and looked Toby dead in the eye with his piercing black gaze. “You understand that, in order to remedy this situation I must do something drastic. And I can only interpret this wretched act of your as a sign for help.”

“What d'you mean?” Toby slurred, stupid and inarticulate, taking a step backward, his stomach heavy with dread. “What are you talking about, brother?”

“Do not call me that,” Adrian said, wincing. “I cannot bear to think we are blood relation on this night.”

Toby fought the urge to weep.

“I am sending you away. Masterson.” Adrian turned, and gestured, and from the corner came a grim-looking fellow whom Toby had never seen in his life-- whom he would, in time, come to both love and despise as much as he loved and despised his brother.

Masterson, the person in question, approached Toby.

“I am from the Finley Sanatorium in Berkshire,” said Masterson, and before he could say any more, Toby cut him off.

“Sanatorium? What the hell do you mean?” He took another step backward, looking at his brother with a mix of betrayal and deepest hurt. “Berkshire? Adrian, explain!”

“You are ruining your health. You are ruining your reputation, degrading it farther than I ever imagined possible, and despite all my efforts, you are beginning to harm my own name. This cannot continue, Toby, and for the love of God--” Adrian's steely surface cracked, and his voice quavered slightly with emotion-- “you are ruining your health. You are destroying your own well-being.”

“I didn't think you gave a damn what I did!” Toby cried, his eyes welling with tears at the first sign of concern Adrian had shown him in some time. “What are you talking about!”

“I'm sending you away.” Adrian steeled again, gesturing at Masterson. “My colleague happens to be in town, he will escort you straight away to the sanatorium. You may go willingly--”

“-- or not,” Masterson finished, holding up a pair of handcuffs. “Your choice.”

“But you will go, or I shall have you put in jail, you besotted git.”

Toby looked between the two of them, and all he could think was, No. To be sent away from Adrian, to be forced to dry out, to be held against his will behind high brick walls away from everything and everyone he knew? To be left wondering whether his brother lived or died? To be left without a girl to fuck for God knew how many months?

No.

Toby whirled, and darted out of the room, too drunk to get far at all. He reached the front door, tripped over the threshold, and fell face-first on the porch, scraping his chin on the concrete, jarring the broken bones in his nose. He scrambled, attempting to get to his feet, before he felt Masterson's leather manacles being strapped about his wrists, and the man hauled him to his feet.

“Tobias, I...” Adrian paused. “It pains me to do this. But it is for the best. For your good as well as everyone's. Especially for Eir--... for Lady King's very dignity. I must do something for her sake. It is this, or it is prison. I cannot send you to prison, cannot bear the thought. They may be able to help you at Finley to recover some of your sanity--”

“I never lost it!” Toby growled, and was unpleasantly surprised at the laugh that elicited from Adrian.

“I should say that tonight's events suggest otherwise-- and your misbelieving it only confirms it.”

“How long am I to be away?” said Toby in a hollow, helpless voice, disbelieving that his brother had just had him clapped in manacles like a common criminal.

“I... I shall let the doctors be the judge of that.” Adrian gave a rueful look to Masterson. “But out of decency, I've asked him to take you for three months at the very least.”

“Likely more like six,” said Masterson.

Toby groaned loudly, and hung his head.

“After all these years, and so many god-awful mishaps, perhaps now you shall learn some sort of lesson,” the Duke sighed, tapping his walking-stick on the ground, as if to punctuate the statement. “Goodbye, Tobias.”

“Adrian,” moaned the boy, his heart in a tumult. “Please write me--”

“I cannot promise anything.”

“-- just let me know you are well.” Toby uttered a quiet sob, struggling minutely as Masterson led him to the waiting carriage. “Goodbye, Adrian--” he started to say, but the door shut behind him, so that Adrian did not hear, and Toby was convinced that Adrian did not care.

Adrian cared, in his way, but he did not care in the same peculiar way as Toby. Sending his brother to the sanatorium was how Adrian showed his caring; to Toby's tender heart, it felt like deepest betrayal and rejection.

Having Toby under lock and key, and under competent professional care, took a weight off Adrian's shoulders which he had not realized was there. He stopped worrying about whether Toby would turn up dead in a gutter somewhere; he stopped nervously anticipating the next time Toby would come too drunk to stand straight; he stopped wondering whether Toby would drink his mind away. Toby was not there to hound him about his health, or to incessantly remind him that he could die at any time, or to harangue him about what he ought to do to take care of his own bloody body.

Adrian realized that having Tobias around was its own special kind of exhaustion.

He also missed the little bastard terribly after just a few days.

Still, it was not much in Adrian's nature to ruminate; after spending a day to recover from the events of Eirene's coming-out party, he went back to business. And aside from his duties at Parliament and various pressing social engagements, there was one item of business which Adrian was very eager to attend to.

Three days after Eirene's disastrous party, Adrian returned to the King household on an unexpected call. He first ascertained whether Eirene was in residence. She was, and Adrian was relieved. Then, he asked to see the Earl, alone, preferably in his study. After waiting anxiously in the foyer for a few moments, Adrian materialized in Alexandros's study.

He was dressed a bit more gaily than usual, his severe black suit replaced with a handsome gray one, and a pale blue cravat. Upon seeing his friend, Adrian greeted him with shaking hands and bright red streaks of color on his cheeks.

“I have something of great importance to discuss with you, Alexandros,” he started, pacing in front of the Earl, albeit slowly, due to his leg, “I hope you will forgive my boldness. I hope you will overlook my eagerness and my... my audacity. I have thought this matter over very seriously, and I believe that, all things being equal, the timing is perfect, and my heart is... utterly decided.”

Adrian drew a deep breath, then blew it out, dabbing at a sheen of sweat on his brow with a handkerchief that matched his cravat.

“I have borne affection for your daughter since I met her. Lady King...” He smiled a little to himself. “She may or may not have told you, but I first met Lady King at the Astley's gala for the younger Lady Astley. I was quite ill that night, and your dear daughter tended me in a moment of need. Ever since I have been unable to forget her face, and each time I see her, my affection grows. My regard for her is... the utmost. Oh, Alexandros, I...” Adrian sighed again, unable to look his friend in the eyes. “I daresay I love her. I have loved her since the first moment I saw her. She is beautiful, she is kind, she is spirited and vivacious, and I declare I have never loved another the way I love... Eirene.” Finally, he looked up, and met the Earl's gaze.

“I have come today to ask your permission to propose to her. I know it is very sudden, but you know me well enough, Lord King, to know that I would not commit any impropriety without good reason. Though I have known her but a few weeks, I assure you, my affections are pure, and... if you'd not mind my saying so... I've reason to believe that Lady King has similar feelings for me. Would you permit me the honor of asking your dear daughter's hand in marriage? And be honest with me, Alex, for I'd rather die than marry her without your approval. Your friendship means the world to me.”

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mentalmimosa · 5 years

Text

an inconvenient gift

It happens like this: they fail. It doesn’t matter how; it doesn’t matter why. But they do.

Later, when enough years have passed that Tony can reflect without bitterness, he’ll wonder if the universe was sending them a message, time after fucking time, which was: sit down, shut up, and live.

It wasn’t something either of them were particularly good at. Steve, the man of perpetual motion, and him, a brain with legs and a fifty dollar smile that was wired the same way; it was hard for him to wind down ever, to get his brain to zip it long enough for him to get good solid rest. It’s worst, at first, in the past.

But then, after a couple of years of futility, of tinkering and chasing and fake mustaches, of cursing 70s tech and the Bee Gees on the radio, of hope leaking slowly away, Steve gets a brilliant idea: they’ll tell Peggy. One of the few people in the world they’ve actively had to hide from who just happens to work with Tony’s dad: yeah sure, Rogers, we’ll stroll right into her office and spill the hey we’re time travellers! beans.

“And ask for help,” Steve says, his face placid and serious. “We can’t do this on our own, Tony.”

Tony curls closer and rucks up the sheets, closes his eyes against the warm spread of Steve’s neck. “What if she freaks the fuck out? What if she doesn’t believe us?” He shudders. “Worse, babe, what if she does?”

“Then we’ll have a fighting chance of getting back, that’s what. If anybody in this whole crazy world will have our back, it’s her.” A chuckle, a long, solid squeeze. “Or your dad.”

“Fuck no. I don’t care what anybody said about paradoxes not being a thing; I’m not risking this whole thing going Marty McFly.”

Steve yawns and reaches out, snaps off the bedside lamp, settles the room into darkness. “I missed that one. Is it from a movie?”

“Yeah, remind me. I’ll tell you about it sometime. It’ll come out in about a decade. If we’re still here, I’ll take you.”

“Mmmm,” Steve says. His lips brush Tony’s forehead. “Don’t worry. We won’t be.”

In the end, they decide not to crash Peggy’s office. They’ve spent too much time over the years sneaking on and off that damn base. No, they visit her at home. Ring her doorbell and everything, right there in goddamn New Jersey, and when she opens the door, Walter Cronkite is on the TV behind her and she’s sort of brandishing a gun.

The first few moments are tricky. It gets easier after that.

When she sees Steve, really sees him, first under the porchlight and then inside in her living room, her face is the portrait of absolute heartbreak and joy and then love, thick and shining. Love. Love.

But she doesn’t loosen her grip on the gun. Not until Steve says her name again softly, until he peels off his cap and smiles, this lopsided little thing; a hint, Tony thinks, of the kid he used to be, and then and only then does she lay the pistol on the coffee table without taking her eyes off of him and then Steve’s holding her and she’s holding him and her shoulders are shaking and Steve’s eyes, when they find Tony’s over the top of her head are damp and incredibly bright.

Tony isn’t surprised when Peggy kisses Steve, but he’s surprised when Steve kisses her back.

He makes himself scarce in the kitchen for a while, running his fingers over the neat formica counters, the carefully arranged pots and pans. Not one damn thing there is out of place. Except, he thinks ruefully, with a flair of the old unfamiliar green--except him.

“So you’re Howard’s son?” Peggy says later, when she’s fixed her lipstick and Steve’s dried his eyes. “Really?” She squints at him and smiles, a pretty quirk of her lips. “Well, Anthony, I’m glad to see my godson turned out so well.”

“Huh?” Tony says in the same instant Steve wheezes: “What?”

She looks at them like they’ve both just had a stroke. “I’m your godmother,” she says. “I was there at your christening--unlike your father, but let’s set that aside. I promised before God and everybody to offer you my guidance and counsel, help you make your way through the word.” She frowns. “Hang on, did I not do it then, where you came from? When you came from. Was I not there for you?”

Tony swallows, feels a swoop of old, tired anger. “Ma’am, until today, when I come from, we’ve never met.”

Peggy’s face goes full fury, zero to oh shit just like that, and god help anybody, Tony thinks, who was ever foolish enough to stand in her way. “I,” she says precisely, “am going to do everything in power to help you get back if only so I can tagalong with you and kick Howard Stark’s ass.”

“Oh,” Tony says to Steve later, when they’re crowded together in the shower, “I can see how you could fall in her love with her, babe. So fucking easy.”

“She scared the piss of out most people, back in the day.”

Tony leans back into the soapy hum of Steve’s fingers, tries to forget the way Steve had sighed when their mouths met, the way those big hands had looked spread over the curve of Peggy’s back. “Yeah. Exactly.”

****

Over the coming months, two things become clear to Tony: Peggy’s assistance is invaluable, the best they could have hoped for. It’s also not enough.

Ok, twist his arm; there are three. The third being: the love of his life is in love with the girl he left behind, but she’s not a girl anymore and her reserve of hesitation is minimal, at best.

They don’t hide their relationship from her. How could they? Especially once she makes a wholly logical and completely transparent case for them to move in with her. They cart over their mountains of papers and buckets of electronic knick knacks and she gives them the guest bedroom and shows them where she keeps the laundry soap and the trash bags and the guns. Tony spreads out in the basement, where she’s already got a bit of a lab, and Steve makes his nest in the den, books everywhere, stacked neatly, papers arranged in diligently-labeled boxes that when the curtains are open and the sun shining in, he’s careful to keep out of sight.

It makes sense for them to have a central operating base, as Peggy calls it. Really, it does. But it also does not with a capital D because in the small hours of the night when Steve is inside him, murmuring pretty nonsense against his cheek while shoving in and in and in, Tony can’t forget who’s on the other side of the wall, what she can hear if she’s listening: the grunt of Steve’s breath and the high whine of his own. The steady, unmistakable creak of the bed. In the morning, when they’re sitting at the kitchen table like civilized people talking quantum mechanics and the fluid nature of the time stream, Tony watches Peggy drink coffee, eat grapefruit and toast, and wonders if she’d awakened the night before and heard them moaning and wound her fingers over her breasts and between her thighs and imagined that she was the one Steve was fucking, her body the one that was making him sound like that, her hands braced on his biceps as he tucked their foreheads together and came and came and came.

“Anthony, you’re staring.”

“What?”

He blinks and Peggy’s got an eyebrow raised at him, her knife poised over a new slice of toast. “You went full fathom stare there,” she says. “What, have I got jam on my face?”

He stammers something and hides behind his coffee cup. It’s fine. The conversation moves right along.

But his mind, the bastard that it is, won’t let the idea go once it’s clamped its jaws around it. They kiss sometimes, she and Steve; a little peck in the morning, marmalade-flavored, or a smooch on the cheek goodnight. No more sweet lingering things like the first day they’d come, when they’d found each other, each touch of their lips peeling back one of those long, lost years. But that spark between them hasn’t gone anywhere, oh no, it’s just ticked up into a higher, unrequited key, and the longer Tony lives with them, the more time the three of them spend together, the more the green in him softens, sweetens, like a pint of Ben & Jerry’s (fuck, hurry up and invent yourself, damn it!) left out in the afternoon sun. Steve loves him, he knows that, and when they got tossed here, they’d only just gotten each other back. He remembers that ache, that cherry pit of emptiness; through all their arguments, their stupid separation, he’d missed Steve so goddamn much that some days, he thought he would choke.

He looks at Peggy, cool, beautiful, brilliant Peggy, and mentally compounds his, what, three or four years of angst with by several decades and jesus, he can’t imagine what that must have felt like, what it must feel like, because here she has this man she adored living in her house and smiling at her and not making love to her every goddamn fucking day and how her heart isn’t in ashes on the fucking floor, Tony has no earthly idea.

And they’re gorgeous together. That’s the killer. The silver strands in her hair and the dark blond of his, when they’re closer together. The fight in her eyes, the shine, when she looks at him; the softness--dear fucking god, it kills him--that Steve’s drown in when he looks at her.

They can’t spent all of their time fighting the good fight, the two of them, can they? Can’t spend this extra time, this inconvenient gift from the universe, denying what they feel on Tony’s behalf.

No, he decides one evening while he’s washing the dishes, while they’re in the den watching Cronkite, hell no. He won’t let them mess up this chance, too. All they need is the right kind of push.

#stony #steggy #alt take on endgame #f u marvel

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