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sweeter-innocence-fics · 2 years

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Surviving Sokovia - Chapter One

Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Work Summary:

You were a Sokovian orphan living on the streets of Novi Grad, until Strucker offered you a choice.

Now you are a part of his human experimentation programme, trying to survive an entirely different world of horrors. The kind boy with the beautiful eyes is the only thing that keeps you going.

IMPORTANT NOTES:

This fic has been bouncing around in my brain for a while so I needed to get it out. There will be dark themes in this one by the nature of it being set in Hydra's Sokovian compound. Each chapter will have its own warnings but these are the general ones: graphic violence, human experimentation, attempted rape, forced breeding (forced by Hydra, not by Pietro, he is also a victim), poverty, smut in later chapters. Reader is 16 and Pietro is 17 at the start of the fic but they will both be adults by the time anything sexual happens.

Also as reader is a native Sokovian speaker, I'm putting all Sokovian dialogue in {these brackets} rather than having them speak English or attempting to translate.

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2676

Read on AO3.

Masterlists.

Taglist: @mcximffs @xlucyintheskywithdiamondsx @lanemarvels @marrigold-2002 @kathrinchek @mrs-kai-anderson @ang3l1te @missryerye

Taglist info.

“You have the incredible privilege of standing on the precipice of a brave new world. Much work has gone into bringing you here.” The smile that spread across Strucker’s face had an uncanny quality. You tried not to let him see that your hair was standing on end. “Let’s hope this isn’t all a waste.”

Waste. That was a good word for it. Your life so far had been characterised by waste. You were a waste of space, not worth the resources it would take to sustain you. At least as far as the government was concerned. A waste of energy. You weren’t worth the trouble. A waste of life. Or at the very least, your parents had wasted theirs to protect you. They’d still be alive if it weren’t for you.

“The objective of this programme,” Strucker continued, “is to push your capabilities to beyond human limits. We know that enhanced individuals are out there. Why should the Americans have all the fun?”

Your eyes flickered down the line of recruits. Most were just like you – young, malnourished and desperate – but a couple of them caught your eye.

They were twins. The Maximoffs. You’d heard a little about them. Both had an ethereal look about them, with pale skin, soft brown hair and striking eyes. Startlingly beautiful. There was something else behind those eyes, though. They were hungry in an entirely different way. You understood the desperation to survive. You also understood the desperation to be something more.

It was as though someone had burned a hole right through your stomach. There was never enough food to keep you going. Right now, you felt so empty that you were trembling. You hated stealing from food stalls – the vendors had families to feed too – but you’d seen far too many armed guards hanging around the local supermarkets to risk it.

You really had tried to be subtle. You waited until the vendor had turned away before slipping a small loaf of bread off his stand, but you fumbled while trying to hide it into your coat, and he saw you.

“{STOP! THIEF!}”

You ran. It was all you knew how to do.

Strucker continued to drone on about his brave new world. As repulsive as the man was, you had to admit that the idea of superpowers excited you. You wanted to be able to walk the streets of Novi Grad without the fear that someone would put a bullet in you. Just like they did to your parents.

Not that you had much love for America, but you had watched news footage of Steve Rogers fighting to protect people – innocent people – and you envied that. The power, that is. And the innocence.

The bread was stuffed into the pocket of your jacket as you ran up the fire escape. The cops had chased you three blocks, and your legs were shaking from the effort. You were good at running, at least. You’d been doing it since your parents died.

You’d put distance between you and the cops now. There was a rickety, makeshift bridge between this building and the next, and all you’d need to do is give it a kick once you were on the other side of it and the cops wouldn’t be able to follow you. You could slip into the crowd below unnoticed, and find somewhere safe to eat your bread.

That’s how it should’ve gone down. It’s how it would’ve gone down if it hadn’t been for the kid.

He was standing far too close to the edge. His shriek of terror as you ran past him still haunts you.

You don’t know how it happened, but as you turned, you saw that he was hanging from the edge of the roof, clinging on by his fingertips.

Strucker was walking down the line of recruits, examining each person intently as he did so. It was as though the entire room was holding their breath. “I’ve heard that someone here thinks themselves a bit of a hero.” He came to a stop right in front of you. “What do you have to say for yourself, recruit?”

Startled, you realised that he was talking to you. “I don’t know what you mean.”

It hadn’t been heroism. You just couldn’t let another person die to save yourself. You grabbed that boy’s hand and pulled him bodily back onto the roof. Being a malnourished 16-year-old, it took all of your strength.

The boy was thanking you profusely, but you knew it was all over. The cops were all around. You surrendered quietly.

“Acts of heroism won’t get you far here, girl.” He stepped into your personal space, staring down at you. “You are not Captain America. You are nothing. So don’t get any big ideas.”

Anger ripped its way through your chest. You had never tried to be a hero, but if you had the chance to do the right thing, why wouldn’t you? What was the point of being enhanced if you didn’t use it to help people?

“And if I do?”

Strucker paused. He hadn’t been expecting you to respond. “If you do what?”

“If I do get big ideas?”

He pursed his lips, considering your words. Then he nodded to the soldier standing by the door. The soldier crossed the room to you in two strides and you didn’t even have a chance to put your hands up before the butt of his gun was slamming into your face.

You hit the ground hard. Your hands flew up instinctively to cover your throbbing nose and came away covered in blood.

“{Shit}.” The voice came from above you. The accent was smooth and Sokovian, so unlike Strucker’s. You looked up to see the boy twin standing over you. His hand was extended towards you, as if he was trying to help you up, but he was frozen in place. The soldier who had hit you was standing with his gun pressed against the boy’s temple.

Your eyes met his. He slowly raised both hands in surrender, but he never looked away from you. You understood. He was trying to let you know that he wanted to help you. That was important, even if he couldn��t.

The soldier shoved the boy back to his place beside his sister. You didn’t miss the glare she shot in your direction, before muttering something acidic to her brother. You pushed yourself up on your elbows. No one tried to stop you, so you got to your feet. Blood was still pouring freely from your nose, but you did your best to ignore it.

Strucker was looking at you with curiosity. It made your skin crawl. You squeezed your lips together and glared back at him. His expression was tinged with amusement as he turned to another soldier.

“Escort the recruits back to their cells.”

Rough hands grabbed your wrists and pushed them behind your back. Cold metal encircled your wrists, shackling your hands. None of the other recruits were being handcuffed.

The soldier pushed you, and you had to walk fast to avoid stumbling. You looked over your shoulder as you were marched from the room, hoping for one last glimpse of the blue-eyed boy, but he was staring at the ground.

His sister had her hand on his shoulder, and she was whispering something to him. As if she could sense your gaze, she looked right at you, and the last thing you saw before you were dragged from the room was the coldness in her green eyes.

You knew that the police wouldn’t give you a lawyer even if you asked for one. You were nothing; just another no good street rat who had got herself into trouble. No one would bother with you.

“{Why did you take the bread}?” asked the police officer. You didn’t look at him. You were glaring up at the two-way mirror that filled most of one wall.

“{I bought the bread},” you said sullenly. “{I bought it to feed my family and you took it from me}.”

The officer sighed, exasperated. “{And where is your family}?”

You were saved from answering by the door opening. Several armed men dressed in black stepped into the interrogation room. The chief of police was with them, his lips drawn tight in an unreadable expression.

“We’ll take her from here,” said one of the men in black. He spoke English with an accent you couldn’t identify.

You looked at the officer who was questioning you, but he was looking at the chief of police. “{Chief}?”

The chief just nodded, and the officer stepped back to let the armed men lift you to your feet.

“Uncuff her,” said one of the men. After exchanging another confused look with the chief, the cop stood up and unlocked your handcuffs. It was a relief when the cold weight of them fell away.

“Who are you?” you asked the man in black.

He smiled a creepy, unsettling smile. “I am the person getting you out of here. That’s all that matters.”

The man had lied by omission. Sure, he got you out of the police station. Out of the frying pan into the fire. He instead brought you to a Hydra base. You were given a choice: sign up for Hydra’s human experimentation programme, or be returned to police custody. While you contemplated the contract they’d put before you, they served you a bowl of stew with potatoes. You ate until you felt sick. It wasn’t much of a choice.

After the soldier had bloodied your nose, you were taken back to your cell. It wasn’t much – a bed, a shower, a toilet – but it was more than you had had since your parents died. At least there was a roof over your head.

The next morning, they brought you out for some physical tests. They drew your blood, they tracked your heart as you ran on a treadmill, they measured your lung capacity.

You didn’t see any of the other recruits until lunchtime. You sat at a table by yourself in the canteen, a tray of bread and cheese and some steamed vegetables in front of you. It wasn’t much, but it was food. You downed it speedily, because you couldn’t trust that no one would try to take it from you.

So focused on the food, you didn’t notice that you weren’t alone until the second bread roll landed on your tray. You jumped almost a foot in the air and turned to see the Maximoff boy standing beside you.

“{What}?” you stammered.

“{The lunch lady gave me an extra roll. I think she likes me.}” He smiled at you then. As his lips parted to reveal his teeth, you were strangely reminded of the sun coming out from behind a cloud. You liked his smile, you decided. “{You looked hungry, so it’s yours}.”

You continued staring up at him, dumbfounded. You were sure you looked ridiculous right now, with your nose still swollen and two black eyes.

“{Why}?” you asked, but at that moment, his sister appeared at his side, grabbing his arm.

“Pietro,” she hissed, “{What are you doing}?”

He ignored her, still looking at you. “{Because I know what it’s like to be hungry}.” With that, he let his sister pull him away. You stared after him, mouth agape.

You couldn’t deny that you were starting to notice Pietro Maximoff. He was just very noticeable. Recruits were usually kept fairly separate, but sometimes you would finish having your blood drawn and he would be next in line. He always smiled at you.

You knew it was stupid, but you liked to think that that smile was something special he reserved for you. Your smile.

Sometimes you would be escorted for more physical tests, and you would run into Pietro just as he was getting off the treadmill. His shirt would stick to his skin with sweat and a deep, primal desire inside you would want to inhale his scent. Instead you would step back and smile a little as he walked past you.

One afternoon, everything changed. You didn’t know what Strucker was planning, but there was a tension in the air that you didn’t like. You were in the middle of eating your lunch when Pietro set his tray down opposite you and sat down.

He didn’t even greet you, he just said, “{Here},” and slid a bread roll onto your tray.

“{What}?” You could feel your face flushing.

Pietro met your eyes. He wasn’t smiling now. “{You need your strength. It’s a big day.}”

“{Is it}?”

He shrugged. “{I don’t know. It feels like it. And the lunch lady gave me an extra roll again.}”

“{But why give it to me}?”

Pietro shrugged again. “{I don’t know. Because I like you.}” Your mouth fell open. Before you had a chance to stutter out a response, he continued, “{You’re brave. You’re the only person in here who ever stood up to Strucker. I admire that.}”

“{Thank you.}” Your face was hot. Your stomach was twisting itself into a knot so tight that you didn’t feel like eating any more.

He looked up, his gaze fixed on somewhere over your shoulder, and frowned slightly. “{Wanda is calling me. I have to go.}” He stood up and picked up his tray.

“{Right. I’ll see you later}?”

“{Of course}.” Finally, to your great relief, he smiled. This time, it was accompanied by a wink. He was a ridiculous boy. Despite yourself, you smiled too.

The extra bread roll that Pietro had given you was sitting heavy in your stomach. After lunch, you had been sent back to your cell and told to wait to be called.

Called for what, you had no idea. All you knew is that it had been hours and you were going out of your mind.

Your cell was on the end of the row, closest to the exit. You had watched every recruit pass you as they went wherever they were going. None of them had come back. And you hadn’t seen Pietro or Wanda pass you either. That unnerved you even more.

You were starting to think you may throw up when your name was finally called. The soldiers cuffed you – they always cuffed you – as you exited your cell.

“What is going on?” you asked one of the soldiers, but he didn’t acknowledge you. They walked you along poorly lit corridor after corridor. It was strangely cold in this part of the compound. You wished they would let you have a jacket, but instead you were dressed in a thin cotton gown.

When you finally stopped, it was abrupt. The soldier grabbed your arm and unlocked your handcuffs roughly.

“It is through here,” he said, pointing at a door to your left.

“What is?”

He grimaced. “Your next test.”

It was clear you would get nothing else out of him. You straightened your shoulders and held your head up as you pushed through the door.

The room you walked into was dark too: lit only by the dim blue light. Curious, you stepped forward into the light. Across from you, there was a huge mirror, reflecting yourself back at you. It was a stark reminder of how fragile you were.

Your eyes found the source of the blue light. It was a sceptre, embedded into some kind of machine, held out for you enticingly.

“What is this?” you asked the mirror. It came as no surprise when they didn’t respond. You approached the sceptre, tilting your head to one side with curiosity.

You had wondered at first what Strucker wanted from you here, but it was becoming increasingly clear that that didn’t matter. You knew what it wanted. What the sceptre wanted. What the blue light wanted.

Entranced, you reached for it. The air between it and your fingers crackled and sparked. Its raw power was dizzying. The edges of your vision faded and all you could see was that blue light, and then,

Nothing.

Next Chapter

#pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff x you #avengers x you #aaron taylor johnson x reader #pietro maximoff fanfiction

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zalcolm · 7 months

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@lumiidere Sure thing! I decided to do both Víctor and Victor just to make sure I didn't make a mistake.

Akira

he/they, cis male (for the most part; possibly demiboy), bisexual (male lean)

Dating Luca! Before he asked Luca out, he would usually just look at Luca with a deadpan stare with cheeks redder than his glasses. This creeped Luca out at first, but he got used to his awkwardness after realizing Akira was actually in love with him.

Bad at social interaction. Which is why they don't talk that much, due to them being a little bit socially awkward.

Doesn't like showing how he really feels that often. Only to people close to him or in extreme circumstances. Often, people like Misaki or Luca can somewhat tell how Akira truly feels about something even when he's not showing it.

Despite his personality being more catlike than doglike, he actually prefers dogs. In fact, his favorite color is brown because of his pet pomeranian.

TERRIFIED of insects. Akira's not really the type to run around and scream, but when there's a bug in the room they sure as hell will. Do not ask them about what happened to Oscar's late pet tarantula.

Usually wears jackets, except in summer. Doesn't really get hot that easily.

Ian

he/him, cis male, unlabeled sexuality/questioning

Homeless, lives in his car. Doesn't really have a place to live. Sometimes he stays over at his "friend" Víctor's house or his older brother Steve's apartment. Usually the former since Steve doesn't really like Ian that much.

Plus-sized. He's rather tall, so he's only somewhat overweight, but he's big nonetheless.

Snores VERY LOUDLY. Another reason his brother Steve doesn't want him in his apartment. Víctor doesn't really seem to mind this, as they usually go to sleep before Ian does.

Very hairy. Chest hair, arm hair, you name it. He almost never shaves.

He doesn't have any kids himself, but has earned the title of "dad friend" of his friend group despite them all being similar ages. He even makes dad jokes.

Luca

he/him, trans male, gay

29 years old, Birthday is May 17th (Taurus)

Amputee, since birth. Has a prosthetic leg, but usually wears long pants so not many people actually know that about him.

[The rest of these headcanons are copied and pasted from DeviantArt] Was an orphan until he was 10 years old, but adopted into a (mostly) loving family. His younger sister, Elisa, isn't the nicest and they get into a lot of fights but they're still on somewhat good terms.

Pacifist. Doesn't really like hurting other people unless he has to. His pacifism really helps some but sometimes hurts others. Elisa once screamed and asked Luca to kill a spider, but he just scooped it up and put it outside.

Takes a lot of naps during the day. Eepy boy.

His wardrobe is the most diverse array of clothes ether. He has masculine clothing, feminine clothing, unisex clothing, you name it. Most of it is green, but also has outfits of all different colors.

He paints his nails. Usually black or dark green.

Víctor (Wii)

they/he, nonbinary, gay

Has a HUGE crush on Ian. The only thing is, they're way too embarrassed about it to confess to him. He's afraid that he'll be looked down upon by his peers for dating him.

Autistic. Gets sensory overload in noisy places, and you can often see him wearing noise-canceling headphones at places like parties.

Very impulsive. They do a lot of things without thinking twice. They even got into a fight with Shinnosuke once. Víctor won, but still regrets beating him up.

Furry. He tries to hide this, but literally everyone in his friend group knows this. LOL.

Sometimes wears feminine clothing, but usually just sticks to casual clothes.

Loves the smell and taste of cinnamon.

Victor (Wii U)

he/him, trans male, questioning

He doesn't go outside very often. Usually he just stays at home unless he needs to be somewhere. He has a job, but his job doesn't require him to go in person.

OBSESSED with robots. Fictional or real ones. However, he's not very skilled in engineering.

Hiromasa

he/him, cis male, bisexual (slight female lean)

Despite having average proportions in canon, I headcanon him to have a tall and skinny body type. Somewhat frail, but don't underestimate him.

He only gets an average of 5 hours of sleep per night. He's barely making it through the days.

Coffee drinker. His favorite is just...regular black coffee. He'll insist he's not a caffeine addict.

Despite his mischievous grin, he actually takes things seriously...most of the time. However, he does enjoy the occasional mishap.

He plays the piano. In fact, he's more skilled at it than Rin.

#wii sports #cpu mii #cpu miis #akira wii sports #akira wii #ian wii sports #ian wii #luca wii sports #luca wii #víctor wii sports #victor wii sports #víctor wii #victor wii #hiromasa wii sports #hiromasa wii #headcanon #long post

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ny-nymeria · 2 years

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Heaven and Earth: Part 21

Chapter 21: 29.160278, 70.719865

Above the Indus River, somewhere between the India and Pakistan

Icy cold air whipped around your aching body, making visibility almost nonexistent. Your fingers dug into a stone cliff, your palms raw from climbing the basalt cliff. The altitude made the air thin and your breathing was labored and shallow, your jaw was clenched down and tucked into your scarf which wrapped around your neck to shield yourself from the cold. Using every ounce of energy to push yourself up to reach the top.

'Maybe I should've stayed in Kyoto...'

You walked into a dimly lit room that was the Kyoto principal's office. An elderly man with a goatee and multiple piercings sad at a desk. He looked up at you. "Ah, y/n. We are glad that you've returned to us."

You dropped your bag on the floor and walked over to the couch across the desk. You plopped yourself down and crossed your legs, "Let's cut the bullshit, principle Gakuganji."

Gakuganji raised his face, giving you a piercing look, "I see being around Gojo made you almost as disrespectful as he is."

You grit your teeth, pointing to the old man, "You know damn well why I'm mad. I'm here because I was ordered to by the higher ups."

"And yet you're here, following orders." The man looked down, placing his hand to his tea cup and raising it for a drink. "Is it really that bad to be here? We housed you since you were orphaned, you should be grateful." You lowered your hand and stood up, looking at the principal's bookshelf. "If I can't be in Tokyo I won't stay here, either."

The elderly man dropped his tea, a deadly stare across his face.

"And where exactly do you think you'll go?"

***

You shook your head from replaying the scene in your head,

'I can't go back now.'

You finally pushed your body up and over, rolling to the side as you gasped for air. The air pressure had changed once you got to the top, the songs of birds in the distance while the temperature became much more temperate. After catching your breath and getting up into a seated position, you notice there was a jungle looking forrest in the distance.

'How is this possible?' As you walked into the forrest you noticed a familiar curse energy in the distance. You followed the trail until you found a ancient looking temple; the dilapidated entrance had vines growing within the cracks, the fauna living around the area seemed unfamiliar to the altitude. You walked into the temple assuming it was abandoned.

Light peered into the temple from the cracks in the ceiling; something about the energy of the temple felt almost familiar to you. You stepped into the middle of the temple sanctuary and into the light.

Suddenly- you felt gripped by an invisible force; you contorted your body to break free, only feeling your body lift up in the air.

"W-wait!" you choked out, eyes frantically searching for the source. You could sense the cursed energy coming from behind a wall. "I'm a sorcerer too-" you squeezed out those words as the air left your lungs, vision beginning to blur. Suddenly the force lessened it's pressure, you still were levitating, pebbles of stone sticking to your body like magnets. A figure comes forward from behind a wall.

"Why have you come here, Jujutsu sorcerer?"

"T-to search for m-my mother's home!" the force didn't let go, keeping you immobilized but steady above the ground.

The figure walked closer, peering up at you from the shadows, "What is your name?"

Unsure what giving your name would do any good in this situation, your name echoed across the temple walls. The figure stood in silence and you suddenly dropped to the floor like a rag doll. You coughed from the sudden release of pressure from your throat. A woman appearing from the shadows, revealing herself to you: she looked to be in her midlife, with similar hair and eye color as you. Despite her age, she looked ethereal in her age and beauty.

"You look like her."

"Look like who?" You continued to cough, almost unaware of what the woman said to you. You sat up in what appeared to be an interior courtyard, several carvings of ancient asian artwork engraved on the stone walls. A giant tree stood in the middle of the courtyard where the woman returned to sit, looking at you intently,

"You look like my sister."

Your eyes widened. "My mother was a jujutsu sorcerer, my father told me this was the place they met," you then looked down to your feet, "She passed before she taught me anything..."

"So my sister is dead?"

"She died of an illness," you replied, looking down. The woman sighed and frowned at you, "She died of radiation..."

"...I see..."

The woman stood up, walking towards the wall engraved in artwork; carved into the walls were what looked like people encircling a large spiral. "People like us hold an immense energy- when we reach a certain point, it can lead to overall deterioration."

"Your mother left our ancestral grounds after meeting your father; he came here as an archivist to uncover the Buddha's history," she continued, "Despite our family's protest, she decided to leave here to go with him," she looked at you intently, turning to face you. "To think she'd even have a child..."

The woman walked closer to you, revealing her eyes which seemed to almost glow. "Have you ever felt like your energy was not yours?" you nodded quietly.

"That's because it isn't: it's been passed down to you from the ancestors before us. You're energy is an accumulation of your ancestors, engrained in you at birth. You come from a long line of sorcerers that originate all the way to the Buddha's first followers... It's even said that we are the first people born from the earth, herself."

"You speak as if earth is a being," you chimed in, trying to processes all the information the woman was sharing with you.

"That is why our curse energy is unique. The energy passed down to us is as close to natural energy as the energy the earth radiates; western science calls this energy radiation. That is why your mother became sick; she was unable to cope with the energy that grew in her body."

You frowned, then looked at her inquisitively,"If that's true, then why are you still alive?"

"Because I found a way to live."

"What was it?" you eagerly asked.

"Abandon your life- give it up. Reach enlightenment." You sighed, feeling exhaustion in your body. She looked at you, noticing the glazed expression on your face. She knew that you had already experienced great loss in your life by the look in your eyes.

"Lately I've been feeling like I have given up everything," you replied. "My parents are gone, I started a new life and what I called home, I lost my best friend, left home... left Satoru..."

"Who's Satoru?" The woman asked.

"No one." You quickly replied.

"A boy?"

You blushed, feeling embarrassed at your vulnerability. The woman smiled at you, crouching down to your eye level.

"Enlightenment doesn't mean you have to give up on love. Enlightenment means rebirth; it means finding balance. Being at your weakest point can spark growth. And growth is not a gentle slope: it can involve risk, pain, and suffering. I can train you; but it will be difficult. With that being said; I will train you. Question is, are you up for it?"

You looked down at your hands; bloodied and calloused. You blinked a few times, taking deep breaths before looking up to your aunt and committing to your answer:

"Yes. Train me."

#gojo satoru x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen gojo #satoru gojo #satorugojo #gojosatoru #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo angst #gojo fluff #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x y/n

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davidastbury · 2 years

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1955. …

Mothers used to talk to their young sons in their kitchens - TV dominated the living rooms- long, lazy, rambling conversations could only happen in kitchens. Everything was discussed with ease and sublime patience; simple smiles at her son’s opinions and discoveries, of hearing his reasoning, his explanations; offering remarks to keep him going.

Cluttered kitchens. Windows streaming with condensation. Endless talk. She’d hold a mug of milky tea in both hands and stare at the miracle facing her, not knowing - (or perhaps knowing!) - that neither of them would ever find anything to equal the warmth of their kitchen conversations.

A Christmas Carol

She used to have a dream of living a life of intense purity, away from the ‘ways’ of the world, away from the temptations of materialism and vanity. She wanted to go somewhere like Africa, become saintly, work as a missionary, work in hospitals, schools, churches.

All this perplexed and destabilised her boyfriend; he couldn’t stop telling her how much he adored her; that she meant everything to him. He nursed her through her turmoils, made her laugh, told her his own dreams.

But his plans weren’t enough; she left him during Christmas holidays and totally vanished in a way that would be difficult today, but possible then. Enquiries failed - there was no trace of her - and he gradually accepted that she had gone - that he had nothing to hold - that she had become ethereal.

Except … very occasionally, on crowded trains or other public places, he would catch the smell of a familiar hairspray - cheap and strident - and he would close his eyes and meet her.

1972

There was a black cat at the back door, and a coal shed, and an overgrown garden. The cottage was almost hidden by trees. There was a tiny kitchen with a stove and a stone sink with leaky brass taps. And the kitchen table was cluttered - a jug of daffodils, a bowl of fruit, a wine bottle streaked with melted wax, newspapers, cigarettes. Coats hung behind doors, a pile of shoes.

Thick walls holding the secrets of lost time; people who had lived and died; people who never left the village; people who never came back. People who had faced their destinies; who had argued and loved - all forgotten. Totally forgotten and yet the same April sunshine poured into the cottage and my heart was drenched with the happiness of being there.

The following day I made a phone call cancelling a visit to someone. I didn’t give any details - only ‘I’ve met a girl’.

And we’ve been inseparable for forty-nine years.

It was said that Frederic Chopin had only to touch one key on a piano and people listened. He could tap one key repeatedly and the listeners knew that they were hearing a master. Somehow the nature of his feelings were conveyed through a single pulsing pressure, causing the hammer (or whatever it’s called) to strike a wire.

Okay … we are not Chopin, or the violinist Paganini , and whilst we may be deficient in rhythm and timing and fingering and musicality (and I certainly am!) we can actually be equal with the greatest musicians with the single note. With endless practice - ignoring glaring faults - and returning regularly to the single note, we can reach something sublime, where everything that we are and everything we ache for are contained in that beautiful orphaned sound.

From the Window

A young family walking past – going dark - pavement shiny with rain – car lights flashing – but what a grouping! There was no chance of getting the big Nikon cranked up in time - a missed photo opportunity - and then they were gone, out of sight.

Just a man and a woman, arms linked, with a small girl on one side and a smaller boy, trotting to keep up, on the other. The girl was trying to control her pet dog, which had the rubbery legs of a puppy and was pulling his lead across their path, all the time looking up as if he deserved praise. The little boy was carrying a parcel, or a box, nearly as big as himself; perhaps an early Christmas gift. The mother kept reaching to help him but he jerked his shoulders and turned away, hugging the box.

And so they continued up the road. I wonder if they know how happy they are?

At the moment I am trying to write with Mr Haggis on the desk in front of me. He peers over the screen, head and shoulders showing. When I’m struggling to round off a sentence I look up and meet his frank gaze, his unwavering stillness. Of course it’s good to find him placid and not wrecking the place, but, even when motionless and silent he is a powerful presence.

And so I look up, as if shrugging at the mediocrity of my writing, and he meets my eyes square on. Then, slowly, without breaking eye contact, he moves his head slightly to one side. This gesture is fantastically eloquent.

Mr Haggis is saying - “I know your shtick”.

Platform Blues

Cold night and the waiting-room door is locked. Not many of us, shoulders hunched, doing the occasion dance shuffle, peering at the illuminated information sign. Standing further away from the rest of us is a man and a woman, backlit, just a silhouette, looking like an illustration from Anna Karenina. Both totally still, totally immobile, standing close together but apart; just a slight gap, but apart. He’s doing all the talking, I can see his breath swirling, chunks of breath, evaporating sentences; she simply looks up at him.

If only the train would come - if only the night was less cold - if only he would put his arms around her.

Wayne

Always good humoured and smiling. Long and lanky, great hair spilling onto his face, generous to a fault, liked by everyone. Not given to deep thought; he would frown when puzzled and scratch his forearms like a cowboy - in fact he was very much like a hero of the Wild West, he even swallowed his consonants like a Texan.

And his fabulous car! Zephyr Zodiac mark2; red with white top, bright chrome grill, auxiliary lamps, wing-mirrors, bench front seat, column gear change - roaring through town at 18 to the gallon. The only modification was a modern cassette player belting out Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis.

Good old Wayne; divorced and living with a much older woman - not seeing his kids and not letting us see his woman.

Hanging Around

Woke up laughing. I’d been reliving an incident from a few years ago; semi-dreaming but not embellishing; enjoying the weird humour of the memory. We had been invited to a friend’s house to go through some mortgage documents; she was in the process of buying a house and wanted us to give our opinion.

She was Iranian, been in the country about two years; quickly picking up the language and the way we do things - in other words, a clever woman. There was a husband or two vaguely in the picture; it was complicated and it seemed rude to press for enlargement. She was dynamic and forceful and very attractive in a loud overblown way; ‘brassy’ is the word my mother would have used.

On that particular night she was working from home. She used her dining room for ‘treatments’ - offering hairstyling, waxing, make overs for brides, concealment of blemishes etc, a true smorgasbord of procedures, all for ‘ladies’. In fact she was working on a client when we called and didn’t break off or ask us to wait; she chattered away about the mortgage and how she might raise money for a deposit. The clients feet were twitching and I couldn’t see properly what was being done to her, but there was some sort of string being tugged across her eyebrows.

Of course we aren’t knowledgeable on bank loans and the like. We had told her that she should contact a qualified advisor, but I suppose we were okay on the basic common sense stuff. I was mentioning something, trying to catch her eye in the mirror (she had her back to me) when I noticed that there was a man behind me. He was strapped to some sort of tubular steel frame and hanging upside down. I stared down at him and he stared up at me. He didn’t speak a word; we carried on talking about mortgages, house viewings, parking problems, local schools, local shops, we had chocolate digestive biscuits and tea, we said our goodbyes with hugs and kisses and at the door I asked her who the man was, she replied that it was her husband.

And then back to the car and laughed all the way home.

On the train …

Late on Saturday night Pat was on a train back from London. She was sitting next a stranger, a young woman, and they got talking. The girl was anxious that there wouldn’t be any delays - some northbound trains had been cancelled or seriously held up due to bad weather - as she had to make another onwards connection. She said that the following day she was starting a new job - as a newly qualified midwife; and being prepared and on time was important.

She went on to say that she was returning from a couple of days with her mother. Her mother’s cat had just died and she didn’t want her to be alone - she couldn’t let her mother be sad and alone, she had to be with her.

A Winter’s Tale

Andrew was a newly ordained Anglican minister; in the winter of 1960 he was also newly married. They were both from the same village in Devon, neither had a fixed job.

For some reason - I think it was to visit relatives in the run up to Xmas - they were travelling across Dartmoor. Apparently it had been a late start and they should have waited for morning. Instead they set off, Andrew at the wheel, his wife navigating; and occupying the entire back seat their enormous dog, an Irish wolfhound, thick black fur, more like a bear than an actual dog.

It went dark and started to snow, and then came the blizzard. They were lost, couldn’t see the road and the car slid and came to rest against a dry-stone wall. Gradually the car was buried in drifting snow. They survived because the dog lay over them both, giving enough heat to stay alive.

Andrew was allocated a parish in Bury, Lancashire. I don’t think he was ever seen without his gigantic dog - they were inseparable, as if the hound couldn’t trust his master not to get into trouble again. Even when he took services the dog was there, although not fully there; at quiet moments you could hear faint howls from the vestry.

She’s as grumpy as hell but so talented! She’s so easy to offend; so thin skinned; so touchy. Not long ago I looked at her and she glared back - my gaze wasn’t intrusive, I didn’t deserve her scowl.

Fast back a lifetime; and the streets of Manchester, shiny with rain. And how she walked along Market Street into Piccadilly, down Portland Street as far as Princess Street and finally to her college on Whitworth Street. She must have passed hundreds of people; at busy times of day perhaps thousands; half those people would be male and say half of them would be alert to the swing of her walk, the angle of her head - yet she rarely sensed any appreciation or even the weakest response. Only her boyfriend - the one who didn’t stay - the one who should have stayed - he alone looked at her as if facing a Raphael, his eyes drank every detail and the world held nothing that could compare or appease the longing of his gypsy soul.

He still talks about her! It was so long ago yet everything is fresh in his memory. He likes to point out her house to me - her parent’s house in which she grew up - and not wishing to spoil his pleasure I pretend the story is new to me. He’s also written about her, short poems; never included in his published works.

I have a theory that the effect of their relationship (I have no idea how long it lasted, or the level of intimacy) planted an immovable happiness and optimism in his soul. Her influence has shielded him from the sort of sharpness you often find in people his age - I mean things like discontentment at the world, politics, doom and gloom etc; he has stayed loyal to how he was - the young man calling for her at her parent’s house.

I once asked if he ever had news about her - he laughed and said that she lives in Budleigh Salterton, and breeds greyhounds. We went for a slow walk along the river; he told me that he was keeping busy with a new anthology - and waiting for a new hip.

I remember planting our toppled giant monkey-puzzle tree - (cue for a maudlin song) - and how it was but a twig. Standing less than knee high, a stringy little thing at the boggy end of the garden. Its chances of survival were not helped by Butch, our dog, a shaggy-haired black barbarian who favoured it with daily soakings of his urine. Of all the other vertical items in the garden he chose the monkey-puzzle as the recipient of his copious bladder emptying. The poor sapling wilted and actually became a sickly rusty yellow. I watched in dismay; there was no chance of controlling Butch - a rescue dog from death-row who had, understandably, taken all he would take from humans) - but I’d wince as his cocked leg exposed his ‘tackle’ to the amber spikes.

A mad night - stormy, flecked with snow; moonlight and the garden writhing and rippling like a late Van Gogh. A few minutes at the window holding Haggis - his whiskers twitching, his tail bristling like a bottle-brush - leaves swirling, branches splitting, plastic planters spinning over the grass like tumble-weeds.

Not a night for a cat to be alone. A goodnight kiss is not enough. He’s allowed, just for tonight, into the bedroom.

Haggis saw me through the kitchen window. I was raking leaves. He bunched up in confusion, all tensed muscles and huge blue eyes, unable to accept that what he was seeing was me, his steady provider, out there under the trees. How did I get there? How did this indoor human find his way to the mysterious outdoors? What existence does he have when not with me?

And so he ran and jumped onto the window-ledge. I propped my rake against a bush and walked to the window. His mouth was opening and shutting, silent pleas of concern. He pawed the glass - the invisible barrier - making a running action - wanting to reach me.

So … that’s me finished.

I’m in love with a cat again.

Sylvia ... Off to Sea!

Hardly out of school and she immediately signed up to serve in the Royal Navy. None of us knew what to say - we were losing our best friend. Sylvia The Sailor and we lumpen landlubbers were left far behind in the foaming wake of her wash.

Dear Sylvia, matelot to her new mates, hornpipe and hammocks, rum and the lash, loyal to Queen and captain, saluting the ensign and ready to go down with the ship.

Restless …

At eighteen he used to walk from the rail station to the office. He used to walk home when he missed the last bus. So much walking; but everyone seemed to walk a lot in those days, before we all had cars, before they shut down most of the train stations, before we all became richer and poorer.

But he didn’t walk when meeting his girlfriend - he ran. And she loved seeing him a bit wild-eyed and breathless, a bit ‘on edge’, craving her touch, her smell and the consolation only she could give.

Left Behind.

City nights - when he shouldn’t be out; no place for those clearly alone; no place for someone who feels strange and doesn’t understand how to order in takeaways, has never eaten Pizzas or Japanese food, never drank from a bottle, doesn’t even know how to order a taxi.

And he gets lost in familiar streets, stepping back to let youngsters pass, hoping they won’t see him, won’t beat him up. His stubborn persistence could get him into trouble, but he doesn’t care - all that matters is that one day he might be able to say - ‘I looked for you’.

Continuity Assured … 1965

‘It doesn’t matter’ everyone said and I looked back at them and blinked - what a cast of people, what a dramatis personae! The assembly of the wise; a flood of pained, kindly faces; the good the bad and the ugly.

And so well meaning; each true to his/her magnetic north; the knowing smile; the narrowing of one eye; the promiscuous touch; the heavy silence; the gush of love.

And so I was consoled around the time of the Beatles first LP and grudgingly drank in the assurance that it wouldn’t matter much longer ... but I knew deep down that I’d still be writing about it through to the next century.

No other books even remotely tempt me when I’m absorbed in a Russian classic. No other literature is as rich and profound or as messianic in the simple message that we are one family. And despite all that we see happening, Russian art is ever searching and dedicated to its own conscience and the fate of all humanity - it still lives and will live forever.

Dostoyevsky spoke at the grave of Pushkin:-

‘I speak only of the brotherhood of man; for I am convinced that the heart of Russia, more than that of any other country, is dedicated to the world-wide union of all humanity.’

Primavera

At twenty he was as mad as a March hare! You never knew what he’d be like from one day to the next. He used to have heroes - writers and artists, but also boxers and men of action - some only lasted a short time, others much longer. The most enduring was Don Quixote of La Mancha; viewed by the young man as the greatest figure in world literature.

She was his Dulcinea del Toboso - incomparable in grace and loveliness, and although often exasperated by his adoration always melted at the intensity of his voice - always captured by the irresistible idea that the wonderful things he saw in her might be true. And so she laughed in the froth and spray of his life; willingly joining the wild sleigh ride.

And each springtime the buds open and the blossoms transform simple trees into fireworks and the garden is suddenly full of birds. And all this glorious energy; this unreasoning creativity; this overwhelming joy might remind her - even at such a distance - of her madcap lover, her devoted and lost Don Quixote.

Mrs Stern … A Bookshop Tale

It look a certain odd looking man, a regular customer, to bring a smile to the bleak cheeks of Mrs Stern. Mrs Stern, grumpy and unloved. None of us knew the fate of Mr Stern, perhaps ejected from the family home by divorce, or perhaps he ran off with another woman, or perhaps he was murdered. Anyway, it took this certain odd looking man to pluck Mrs Stern from the grip of the Slough of Despond. We could only guess at who and what he was; my recollection is of someone mid fifties, salt-and-pepper moustache and a sardonic eyebrow; could have been a detective or someone with an army pension.

But whatever he was, it was heartwarming to see them billing and cooing at the Enquiries desk and how, as the clock jerked towards closing time, to know that Mrs Stern had finally found love.

Isn’t it strange that we drank so much when we were young - when life was vivid and we didn’t need it all? But now - in our dullness, we need to drink so much, but we hardly touch it.

Or how when we were young, friends would come and go. But now when they go you will never see them again.

And remember how we brushed love off the table - but now we would crawl on the floor for the crumbs.

Childhood

She smoked. He used to watch her and imitate how she sucked, lips puckered; and how she sharply exhaled the smoke which billowed from her nostrils like two swirling tusks. And he would reach out for the smoke and she would smile at him. He had a secret collection of her cigarette stubs, half smoked, with the scarlet smear of her lipstick; all curled like creatures in spasm, arched in agony.

And she drank. He once tried it himself but the glass was taken out of his hands. His mother and her friends laughed and winked at each other. But the liquid was horrid and he couldn’t understand why she drank it; or why she she spent so much time with these friends. They were all the same; smiling uncle types and their thin wives whose smell made him sneeze and who asked silly questions that made him blush. His mother must have preferred their company to his. He had to wait endlessly. He would look up at her and feel her affection surging towards the others - the pleasure was all about being tall and he was small - nothing was directed towards him.

And his father would sometimes drift into view. Genial, apologetic and utterly ineffectual, pouring himself a single-malt before toddling off to the club.

The Dear John Letter. (1965)

He was called John and he had received a ‘Dear John’ letter! Let me explain - a ‘Dear John’ letter jokingly referred to a letter from a girlfriend telling you she was dumping you. Not a phrase much in use these days, having origins in WW2 when a serviceman, stationed abroad, might get a letter from his sweetheart back home, informing him that she had met someone new. The modern equivalent is probably Messenger or Twitter or Tik Tok.

So, there was my bookshop friend John, handing me a sheet of Basildon Bond notepaper. I scanned the childish script, all loops - the Ms like bums - the dots over the i done as circles and so on. I didn’t want to read it but my friend insisted.

It went something like this - ‘Dear John … This is a difficult letter to write … I hope you are not hurt … I want what is best for both of us … you must try to understand … so many happy times … I never thought this would happen … I will always hold you in my heart as someone very special … please don’t hold this against me …. ‘. It continued overleaf.

I handed it back to John. ‘I’m very sorry’ - I said.

‘Sorry!’ he replied. ‘I’m going round tonight to see her. I don’t believe a word of it. It’s all rubbish. I’ll take a bottle of plonk and have it out with her.’

I was facing the great thick wall of male stupidity - such preposterous optimism, such a vacuum of emotional intelligence, such magnificent catastrophic folly!

Bookshop … Lynne

With the softest tread and the lightest touch I gently agitate the fragments of memory that cocoon the image of Lynne - the most distant of my bookshop characters.

I knew absolutely nothing about her; we hardly ever spoke - and she wasn’t with us for long, maybe three months or so. She may have been one of those young people who filled time waiting for university, or who did not want to go to university but hadn’t decided on anything else.

And I would never have remembered her, except for one thing - which meant nothing to me at the time, but now, at such a massive distance, is heavy with significance. She had a sad expression; a settled look; no tension just flat unhappiness. Yet when she spoke her face lit up with a glorious friendliness, an urging for you to share her joy - and then, as she slowly stopped speaking, her smile melted, the sadness reappeared, the cloud blocked the sun.

And we all failed her. I am sure we were superficially friendly but I don’t think anyone gave her what she needed - she left and wasn’t missed.

The Bookshop …. Appearances Matter

Doormen in top hotels always glance at visitor’s shoes; shoes being an indicator of the wearer’s social and financial position. With me, it was trousers. I could tell a lot about a customer by looking at his trousers; before he even spoke.

Trousers reveal nothing when part of a suit; they are just a component of the overall impression. Trousers only come into their own when worn as an individual item, when they express the personality and preferences of the owner.

As always, young people wore jeans, so I’ll get that over and done with first of all. Back in the mid 60s there were two main manufacturers - the two ‘Ls’ - Levi Strauss and Lee Cooper. Both produced jeans as hard as cardboard, almost unwearable, with thick stitching and heavy rivets at the pressure points. The wearer would limp and grimace, and only after multiple washes when there was a diminishing ooze of blue dye did the inflexibility subside and the fabric soften.

Chinos, the modern dads' favourite, hadn’t been invented but there was something very similar on the market, offering a loose fitting ‘casual’; bridging the gap between the full-blooded formality of trousers and the juvenile rebelliousness of jeans. I never owned a pair.

Corduroy was an indication that you were dealing with an intellectual. Metallic yellow for emeritus professors, an attractive shade of bottle-green for maths graduates, dark blue for the upwardly mobile in the English Department. Successful corduroy trousers had to have a velvet sheen, a depth, a sobriety, indicating thought, patience and scholarly research.

There was also a younger brother of corduroy; known as ‘needle cord’. It lacked the ponderous dignity of corduroy and was favoured by men who lacked the self confidence to go all the way. The ribs in the fabric were close together - by skimming a fingernail along the ridges you could create a faint percussive sound - but it was altogether a poor sort of garment.

Experience taught me to be wary of the pinstripes. When I saw pinstriped legs approaching I braced myself for a testing encounter. These men would be barristers or bank managers or surgeons - men who were used to getting their own way - men who demanded their jam-sponge and custard and would admonish the waitress if it wasn’t steaming. I hated the men in pinstriped trousers.

My own choice was the ‘cavalry twill’ - always black or navy blue - I think they are still made, but hardly popular, then or now. They were comfortable and fairly smart without being camp. Their only fault was that they couldn’t hold a crease and you are forever pressing them.

It was rare for a male to be looking good in trousers, the right pullover or jacket helped - or distracting shoes. My only abiding memory of anyone looking remotely good was a lanky teenager in fabulous, brand new charcoal-grey flannels. It was amusing to see the exchange of glances among my female colleagues, and the appreciative eye rolling.

Bookshop 1965

I enjoyed mid-week afternoons. I liked it when the shop was quiet; hardly any customers and the afternoon stretching away into what seemed like eternity. I never wanted noise and activity; I loved the dullness when the students had gone - gone away to smoke their drugs and abuse each other, or whatever they spent their time doing. It was nice to talk to the occasional customer, someone who knew his subject, someone from the University, but best of all was being left in peace.

Of course there was a lot to do; replenishing stock, writing up orders, tidying shelves, processing requests, replying to requests and so on. I loved handling books that were fresh from the packing department - I loved the crack sound when first opened and the voluptuous smell of glue from their spines. They made me think of American academics with their rimless glasses or the low sun shining in Russell Square, and the clacking of heels on the pavement and clever young women getting into black cabs.

Everything was muffled in the shop; we all spoke softly as if the books were asleep. Old Mr Sutton would be wheezing at his desk giving us a glimpse of what we might be like in forty years - scholarly and sleepy, nodding and knowledgeable, leaving the stranger to guess at the passionate heart beating under the double layer of Harris tweed.

And I was happy in this somnambulism. At 3:30 my dream companion Dorothy would pop in from Accounts. Always on time; Dorothy on the dot. Pretty head and mass of curls, long tartan skirt fastened with a pin. And the clock chimed the half-hour and sang the anthem of my glorious shyness.

Saw the frog again today - up in the boggy end of the garden. I said 'hello' and he blinked at me. I am, after all, his landlord. There he was, speckled and resplendent, with that purring self-satisfaction I have seen on the faces of people looking in the mirrors at the gym.

The Big Bookshop …. a drama, 1964

The manager came downstairs to the Technical and Medical department to tell us that we would be having an important visitor sometime later in the morning. He’d had a phone call from the Midland Hotel announcing that a Saudi Prince, very involved in petrochemical science - (understandably) - would be visiting the shop. I listened to all this and being fairly pushy in those days, decided that I would do my best to speak to him.

It was a Thursday and not many customers. A girl came to the desk and asked if we had a copy of ‘Plant and Animal Biology’. I replied that the book was temporarily out of stock, but we would have it next Wednesday. She asked if I’d reserve a copy for her, and I replied that we would be happy to do that. Because it was a stock item, no deposit was required, but I asked for her name.

She then went back to the biology section - a small alcove set back between ‘Mathematics’ and ‘Logic’ - and I saw her stretching to reach a book on the top shelf.

I checked the time, I was due a break and was ready to go through to the back for a cigarette. A few minutes later I noticed she was still there and I drifted across with the pretext of smoothing a line of books. She turned and held out a copy of Bentham and Hooker ‘British Flora’. ‘Do you think there is a new edition coming? - she asked. I flipped through to the reverse of the title-page to check the dates of each revision. There was no predictable pattern and I told her it was impossible to know if a new edition was being prepared - publishers don’t reveal information that might reduce current sales. She knew what I was talking about; she understood.

But did she understand why we were so close together? I don’t know how we had trespassed into what could be called an impolite proximity - yet to sharply step back might have seemed even more inappropriate, perhaps insulting. So, not knowing what to do, or what to say, we just looked at each other for a long moment. We were the same height and the closeness of her face was like seeing myself in a mirror - the way you overlook your imperfections - the way you look neither up nor down, but instead stare back at the blur of your face, caught like a rabbit in headlights, on the brink of every extreme expression. She looked back at me as if in a subfusc gloaming.

And then the basement, normally so peaceful, even silent and sepulchral, exploded with the noise of a nightclub. Several Arabs, in billowing white robes, speaking very loudly all at the same time, came crashing like stallions down the stairs with our little plump manager trotting behind them.

Retirement Party At The Big Bookshop. (1965)

Quite a crowd, the old boss was rather popular; not loved but popular. And with the harrowing perceptiveness of a twenty-year-old I could read in his eyes what he was thinking. We weren’t all that important to him; instead his thoughts were not so much of ‘those who are here with us today’ as ‘those who cannot be here with us today’.

Through the years he’d seen a river of faces pass the doorway of his little office - so many people, so many young people!

It was the young people who mattered, the ones with dreams and treacherous ambitions, who wanted to make something of themselves. The others simply worked their treadmills and held little interest to him. He did his best for the young men and women, he nurtured their careers, took time to talk to them, sponsored their training, gave them promotions, introduced them to influential people, gave them references, had words in the right quarters - and finally wished them well.

If pressed he would have admitted that females made up the larger portion of his protégés - it was perfectly clear to anyone who cared to look. And that these young women were of a type; there was some characteristic they all possessed, a characteristic beyond and deeper than their surface personalities, something impossible to describe, elusive, retreating, intangible. Perhaps they struck an echo of someone he’d known in his youth or perhaps a strong willed member of his family, whom he had loved, once upon a time.

But they all left him, as he knew they would. And here was this medley of people holding up glasses and smiling. A crowd of mixed abilities.

All the real goodbyes had been said years ago.

At The Big Bookshop …. 1964

Her name was Clarice Medlicott - tall, erect, patrician, looking every inch a person of unquestionable and drastic authority; in fact she’d reached high rank in the WRENS and other not-to-be-discussed positions and had served with distinction in WW2. Maybe her experiences during the war had affected her - at some point she must have decided that the world was mad and that the best response was to be also mad.

Everyone was afraid of her. Her job was looking after the subscriptions department which she did with sharp efficiency. Staff entering her office would be treated with a withering and snorting contempt, including the boss who muttered deferentially and retreated. She viewed her colleagues, especially the men, as being very low on the evolution scale. Having no interest in what we might say to her, she developed a technique of talking to herself. She would make a loud remark, like ‘I don’t think much of what the Prime Minister said yesterday!’ and then, in a soft voice, she would answer herself, saying something like ‘Yes, but then he is a very weak man, don’t you think?’ And so the chatter would go. If you were near to all this you’d imagine it was two people.

She was a mass of eccentricities - weird fixed habits and compulsions - but because of the force of her personality we excused it - for instance, in the tea-room it was understood that she always required a chair at her side for her handbag, or that she wouldn’t sit at a table with an ashtray, or she would only speak to you when she felt like it.

I always treated her with great, but not exaggerated respect and was occasionally rewarded with a few grudging words of approval, followed by a muttered insult.

Probably the person who knew her best was her assistant Caroline - a sweet natured girl who hardly spoke and had a permanent lovely smile.

My Aunt Helen. (1972)

She was like a character in Proust - coming up to eighty, spending her days looking out at what was happening in the street. Milky tea in an easy-to-grip mug, crocheted cushions, side table with fat bumper edition of Emily Brontë’s novels. Living alone and never married. Nursed the ne’er do well brother through TB and alcoholism, helped her sisters out financially.

She was deaf and had that beseeching expression of the hard-of-hearing. Sometimes she strapped on a heavy black contraption with trailing wires and headphones but it didn’t work. The council supplied her with a special radio but it disturbed next door and they complained. Being alone suited her but she wanted visitors if only to smile at them.

And then she had strokes, each one worse, like a boxer building up for the knockout. Her younger sister took her in and did her best to look after her. She became helpless and was taken ‘into care’.

I used to visit her and it broke my heart. There was nothing I could do. She must have longed for her neat little house and the fireside chair where she watched what was happening. She couldn’t hear or see much but she managed to whisper - her mouth pulled to one side … ‘I hate it here’.

Scenes from Domestic Life...(Fun in the Persian Gulf)

Pat: 'The waiter has just been telling me that he works 14 hour shifts, hardly ever a day off, and that his wage is rubbish.'

Me: 'What did you expect? Do you think it likely that he would say that he can turn in when he feels like it - that the boss makes a fuss of him and loads him with freebies and bonuses? That the job is so brilliant that you have to get your firstborn’s name down at birth so that he can inherit the job? Do you think he would say that he's off to Vegas for the winter, or that he's just put down a deposit on a boat?'

Pat: 'You are too funny.'

The Bookshop In The Strand ... (adventures) 1963

The Law Courts were just down the road and we often got people popping in for something to read during the trials, so I suppose I met a lot of criminals at an early age. We also used to get lawyers too, very easy to recognise - they always looked seedy, complexions like vegetables grown in darkness, their smiles reminded me of mushrooms and cheesy decay. I remember a certain woman, plump faced and authoritative, she used to buy Penguin Classics or Everyman, sometimes repeat copies. I remember her particularly because she had the habit of doing something to my hand as she paid - it was a strange touch, not an actual squeeze but her fingers brushed the back of my knuckles. She was very powerful and formal; flat black shoes and dark clothes as if about to demand the death penalty - (they still did hangings in those days) - and a cool stare, face powder and pale eyes.

It bothered me a bit and it happened a few times. I thought of mentioning it to Roger the manager but he was a bit unapproachable, but the publisher downstairs was a nice man, most of the time. During a lull in customers I went down the ornate spiral staircase to have a word with him. He was hunched over a swivel mirror, applying makeup. He jerked round in surprise - ‘What do you want?’ he snapped - plainly irritated at my intrusion.

I didn’t know what to say - I turned and rushed back up the stairs - I was eighteen and very confused.

Notes from a concert.

A lovely night out; Pat thoroughly enjoyed it. It was my first concert since my hearing failed - I am okay-ish with subdued music at home - but I hadn’t known the force of a live orchestra for years and wasn’t sure how I would cope. I soon found out - up popped Stravinsky, played at full strength, supported by the tiered ranks of a hundred-plus mixed choir.

I sat with a finger pressed against my left ear, (which functions to a limited degree; stone deaf in the right), and decided to find a diversion in transforming the concert into a visual experience. The carved scrollwork on the cellos and basses was beautiful, so reminiscent of Edgar Degas! The nine double basses were walzed onto the stage like obese dancing partners - the men dressed in ‘white tie and tails’, the ladies in prim black, the conductor in neat black pyjamas - the vigour of the fiddlers elbows - the brass section, florid men who will be going for a beer later - the frowning violin leader - the perspiring percussionist - the massed choir rising as a single person, mouths wide open like Koi Carp at feeding time - the straight line of male cellists, each one a Jacob Rees-Mogg lookalike - the glorious organ soaring towards the roof - the gigantic drum, so big that the building must have been built around it.

And so I survived the blizzard of noise - and shuffled out, head ringing with tinnitus, into the blackness of Manchester night.

A Photograph

A friend had once taken several photographs of her in the local park. He fancied himself as a photographer; they were both nineteen. She doesn’t remember much about that day, except that it was very cold and the light was fading. It was a long time ago.

Only one picture has survived - the others lost in house moves and other upheavals - and to her, it wasn’t one of the best.

But it was her! Looking at the photograph now, from such a distance in time, she sees everything but can say nothing; just lost in tenderness for the girl in her long coat and woollen mittens - and the luminous whiteness of her face, the trusting eyes, the expression of curiosity and kindness.

And the girl stares back at her - standing in the grass, a web of leafless twigs behind her, and dark opaque bushes.

‘A great while ago the world begun,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

But that’s all one, our play is done,

And we’ll strive to please you every day.’

(Twelfth Night)

I sometimes wish that I’d been an actor, a classical actor at the Globe or Stratford-upon-Avon. I would quaff pints of foaming ale in ‘The Dirty Duck’ and then tread the boards, following in the footsteps of Burbage and Kemp, Edmund Kean and Herbert Beerbohm-Tree.

I would don my hose and doublet, collar and ruffles, cross-gaiters and an unfastened shirt with baggy sleeves. Ready to strut and fret - manly beard and twinkling eyes, firm thigh and muscled buttock - twitching my calves to set the ladies a-swooning, voice like a tinkling bell.

‘Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.’

Waiting Room ... Manchester Piccadilly Station ... 2018

They sit side by side. The woman is looking sideways and downwards at her daughter. The girl is texting – her thumbs working like tiny pistons - smiling and concentrating.

The mother has a faint smile too as she looks down at the top of the girl’s head. I think she’s marvelling at the perfect symmetry of the shape. It must cross her mind that she got this lovely head from her - or perhaps it was from her father? No - she got it from her!

The Lecture. (1966)

He took a big risk and challenged the core premise of the expert’s analysis - big mistake. Everyone fell silent and the man turned to face him. What followed was a devastating verbal attack where the young man’s reasoning and comments were totally rubbished. It wasn’t fair, he couldn’t hit back because the man had the microphone - it went on, and on.

His friends looked back at him in amazement, mostly enjoying his embarrassment, for them it was a great show, they’d kid him mercilessly afterwards. So he sat squirming, hot and red-faced; not knowing that a girl in the hall - someone he’d never spoken to - had just fallen in love with him.

Manchester Rain. … 1965

He had so many tiny problems at that time; they swarmed like flies. It was good to be out on the streets, walking quickly, pleased with everything he saw. Occasionally people looked at him twice, some even smiled and he felt happy to be alive and free. His timing was perfect; the sky darkened and the first drops of rain started to fall, but by then he’d reached St. Peter’s Street and stopped to shelter under an ornate glass canopy.

All the tiny problems had vanished - he was waiting for his girlfriend - (the love of his life) - happy to be waiting!

Standing and smoking in the doorway of The Institution of Mechanical Engineers.

Sketch of Barbara B. (early 1970s)

She had a great look - tall, fast walking, long coat and leather mini, flat shoes, glasses that slid down her nose. No pretence of prettiness; certainly no pretence of trying to attract the boys in the shop - we didn’t figure at all. But that indifference made us all a bit crazy about her; she was a mystery.

So, twice a day we watched her glide along Chancery Place and into Chancery Lane; haughty and ineffably unreachable. Some said that she was having an affair with a married man, which made her even more attractive.

She was a busy girl, her coat billowing; thoughts elsewhere, other places to be; other fish to fry.

Men Talk … 1966

The publisher leaned towards me - I knew he was going to say something confidential. It always unsettled me because it was his nature to be closed and a bit distant; but after a few drinks all that gave way; he then had a compulsion to talk about his ‘private’ life.

‘Have you ever been treated badly by someone you love?’ I could feel the force of his scrutiny; he was searching my face for reaction.

I replied - ‘Yes’.

He clearly wasn’t convinced; I must have answered too quickly or maybe the look on my face wasn’t congruent with that single word.

‘Treated really badly I mean’. He probed.

I replied - ‘Yes’.

‘Humiliated and rejected?’

I replied - ‘Yes’.

He nodded slowly. He believed me. He smiled and said - ‘Wonderful isn’t it?’

August 1972

An old stone cottage, not quite straight. The front room awash with sunlight - the tiny hall panelled and painted white but yellowed into cream - the back kitchen, mats over a flagged floor, huge sink, brass taps, wheezing water heater, funny wall cabinets with mesh doors, table with iron legs, child’s drawings pinned on wall, cornflakes on shelf, old sash window with crumbling putty, through which you could see tall grass leaning and swaying in the heat.

And she stood at the cooker, yellow hair and blue eyes and cotton dress, and he touched the cat’s bowl with his foot, looked at everything, knowing that he’d never felt so happy in all his life.

Thoughts directed to a young man in a Municipal Art Gallery

‘Please take your beautiful girlfriend away from this place of misery and magnificence. Go away and never come back! Run from these haggard, tormented saints - the crafty bishops and sour-faced Madonnas; from the monarchs and matriarchs - from the bloated burghers and their sly-eyed wives and pudding-faced daughters. Avoid - like the plague! - the wounded fauns - the purblind Jesuses, the swirling velvets, the ruddy cheeked Bacchus and his bulging grapes - the obscene Cupids …

Take your wonderful girlfriend away - do not troop with the dead. Outside is life and joy and happiness.’

Talk … 1964

When alone together she talked - and talked. Talking wasn’t just something she liked to do - it was something she had to do - a meandering, effortless flow of words. She spun a web of thousands of strands; a fabulous mosaic of her life so far. To him it was like reading a novel, he was quick to interrupt when he didn’t understand and she’d flip back a few pages the way you do with a book.

Years later, when they were no longer together, he discovered that women are much better storytellers, much better talkers, than men. And as a twenty-year-old, he had known the best. This girl was the greatest talker he would ever know … and he was probably the best listener she would ever know.

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jackrrabbit · 4 years

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Sleepless /// Tanjiro x f!reader (18+)

Request: Hi!! I'm not entirely sure on how to request since this is my first time EVER requesting something here on tumblr 😳😳 so im not sure if im doing this right,,,but um,,,,could you do a soft dom! tanjiro kamado x reader nsfw??? (he's aged up of course)

A/N: Y’all I’ve been working on this practically since I made this gd blog…idk why it took so long since I LOVE the concept. Reader is a traumatized bby who just needs her kitty licked ✊😔 and honestly same

Tags/warnings: soft dom, daddy vibes but without the ‘daddy’ (onii-chan vibes?), brief mentions of past demon violence & PTSD, fluff?, historical inaccuracies probably, reader is implied to be inexperienced, mild overstimulation, lowkey yandere lowkey romantic who knows, all characters are adults

It starts out with little things. Harmless things. Tanjiro sees you barely ate anything at dinner, and later that night he comes to your bedroom with a plate of food for you. “You should eat,” he tells you.

“I’m not hungry,” you say, almost a little petulantly. The food looks good and you know he’s trying to be nice, but you’re not a child. You can take care of yourself, and even when you can’t it’s not his job to do it for you.

“Eat,” he says again softly. It’s not a command. It’s like he already knows you’re going to eat, and he’s just patiently waiting for you to give in.

You pick up the chopsticks and eat the food he prepared for you. All of it. Tanjiro sits there and watches and then when you’re done, he smiles at you and pats your head and takes the plate away. You think it’s weird, but the next morning you don’t question it. He’s a big brother to everyone—doesn’t it make sense that he would want to make sure you’re eating enough?

He probably can’t help it.

You decide you’re going to let it slide, until a few days later after breakfast with him and the others when Tanjiro pulls you aside and holds your face in his hands and tells you you’re looking a little tired lately—are you getting enough sleep?

The truth is that you aren’t. You want to deny it, but somehow you have a hard time lying to him. “I used to sleep with my siblings in our bed, so it’s hard to fall asleep since…” since the demon who made you an orphan murdered them. “And, you know. Nightmares.”

Tanjiro understands. Of course he understands! He used to have five younger siblings, did you know that? Now Nezuko has her own room and the rest…well, you’ve heard the story. It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re by yourself, isn’t it? He’s been there.

“How many hours are you sleeping every night? On average?”

You’re trying too hard to ignore the brush of his callused fingertips over your cheekbones, so you tell him the truth without meaning to. “Um, like four hours? On a good day?”

His eyes go wide and suddenly both of his hands are wrapped around one of yours and squeezing, maybe a little too tight. “Is that the truth, (Y/N)? Four hours is too little. Sleep deprivation isn’t good for you.”

“I know, but—”

“No. The next time you have trouble getting to sleep, I want you to come to my room.” You open your mouth to mount a denial, but he frowns and cuts you off. “Promise me. Okay? It’s really bad for your health, so promise.”

And once again, you say yes even though you don’t want to.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine, you think. You’ll just pretend you’re sleeping better. Tonight you’ll lay in bed with your eyes open and stare at the ceiling and try to listen to your own breathing, in and out and in and out, and hope it drowns out the memories that stick fast in your head whenever you’re by yourself. Then when you’ve been laying in the dark for a few hours, you’ll finally fall asleep and all your nightmares will play out in technicolor and you’ll do your best to be quiet so you don’t wake anyone else up and in the morning you’ll splash cold water on your face to make your eyes less puffy and pinch your cheeks to get some color in them and it’ll be fine.

You can take care of yourself. You have to, since everyone else is gone. So you’re not sure why, when the sun goes down and you’re looking into the face of another sleepless night, you find yourself knocking on the door of Tanjiro’s bedroom.

Maybe it’s just that he made you promise. You hate breaking your promises.

He lets you in, the half-asleep affect mixing with the same caring, serene look as always (and it’s a little insulting that he’s not surprised at all). Tanjiro sits on the bed first and you can’t help staring at him in the flickering orange lamplight. He’s more muscular than you remembered, and taller than when you first met. He can play the role of a big brother all he likes, but he’s still an adult. A man. And he’s not family.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you say, fidgeting with the sleeve of your shirt.

“It’s okay, (Y/N),” Tanjiro murmurs as he lies down, his voice still scratchy with sleep. Somehow it relaxes you. He just has that way about him—when he says it’s okay, it feels okay.

Tanjiro pats the spot on the bed next to him. It looks really warm, and there’s a winter chill in the air even though it’s only September. It’s a bed made for one person, but Tanjiro—ever considerate—has moved over to one side to make space for you.

“Come on. Come sleep,” he instructs in that soft, non-demanding way of his. So you sit down on the edge of the bed and (carefully, carefully, like you’re making your way into a hot bath) fold your legs and pull the covers over you so you’re lying next to him. The bed is even warmer than you thought it’d be. Tanjiro radiates heat—he’s so warm, you think, how fitting—and then before you know it you’re drifting into the first dreamless sleep you’ve been afforded in a very long time.

That first night, you sleep with a good six inches of space between the two of you. You don’t want to touch him, don’t want to cross that invisible boundary—at first. But it doesn’t matter, because every time you wake up next to him, you’re curled up to his side like a puppy seeking warmth. It’s not like he minds. Judging from the gentle smile on his face when he wakes you up in the morning (and tells you that you should go back to your room before anyone notices you’re not there) he likes it.

Never again, you think. No way. But you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in so long, and it’s nice to be well-rested for once, and the next evening you only lie in your bed for fifteen minutes before you’re knocking on Tanjiro’s door again, silently asking if you can take advantage of his kind nature for just one more night.

He says yes. Of course he does. So you sleep next to Tanjiro again, you keep half a foot of space between you again, and you wake up hugging him. Again. And then you do it the next night, and the next night, sleeping beside Tanjiro over and over until you no longer bother trying to leave room between your body and his.

Is this okay? you wonder sometime around the two-week mark. It’s the longest you’ve gone without having nightmares since the demon came. Sometimes you think you’re betraying your loved ones by trying not to think about their deaths; letting yourself off easy while they suffered. You tell this to Tanjiro while the two of you are lying back to back under his blanket, quietly enough that (you hope) if he’s already sleeping you won’t wake him.

He hears you, and he turns around and lays his arm around your waist. “Don’t be silly…of course they wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”

“But how do you know?”

“I know.” Tanjiro’s voice is half muffled by your hair, but it’s steady. “You believe me, don’t you.”

You do.

“Don’t think about that anymore.” His hold on your waist gets a little bit tighter, arms a little bit less forgiving.

“I won’t,” you say, hoping that the promise will be enough. The two of you fall asleep like that, and when you wake up in the morning it’s the first time ever that you haven’t moved in the night.

As if it wasn’t enough to be spending every night together, at some point you start to dream about him too. Usually it’ll just be a flash or a snippet that you barely remember once you wake—the reassuring tone of his voice, a smell like a campfire, or a few notes of laughter—but tonight you’re watching him train in the courtyard. In the dream, he moves through his forms with inhuman grace, position to position to position, balanced with perfect agility like he’s a dancer and not a swordsman. With how beautiful it is, you can almost forget the raw power behind his movement, the strength that has subjugated more demons than you care to know.

He pauses to stretch, rolling his shoulders back, and you notice that he’s shirtless (which is how you know it’s a dream). Tanjiro’s arms flex as he raises the blade into position, and the sun shimmers over the thin sheen of sweat on his chest. He looks ethereal like this, and as you sit on the porch and watch him, you feel heat stir inside of you that has nothing to do with the sunlight.

Tanjiro, you call out softly. He looks around to you, deep red eyes resting on yours, and whips the blade down to replace it in its sheath.

Can I come closer? The grass is cool and wet under your bare feet as you pad lightly into the courtyard toward him. You can taste the humid summer air in your mouth. Fingers tangle themselves in your hair, tilting your head up to meet his.

Tanjiro…

“(Y/N)?”

Tanjiro’s voice cuts through the dream and you scrunch your eyes shut, reluctant to leave the dream world where he wants to touch you, not out of pity or because he thinks it’s his duty to take care of you but because he wants to. But it’s too late—his hand is on your shoulder, gently shaking you out of your slumber. “(Y/N)? You said my name.”

“Sorry, I…sorry.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

He kissed you, in your dream. Now that you’re looking at the real version, your cheeks feel warm…and so does that same spot below your belly. Suddenly the room feels uncomfortably hot, and you wish you weren’t trapped under the covers with Tanjiro. You shift your legs to try and get a little more air between the two of you, but the heat persists.

“I think I should go back to my room.” You must be sweating—you feel damp for some reason. He’s too close.

Tanjiro ignores you. “Can you tell me what you were dreaming about?”

“I—you,” you admit. “You were training.”

“And?”

“And…I don’t know. It’s kind of warm in here, isn’t it? I think I’ll just…” You push the cover aside and sit up, but before you can get yourself off the bed, Tanjiro is tugging you back down, holding to the mattress so he can hover over you in that way he likes.

“Tell me,” he says to you, voice as firm as it is gentle. Sleep-mussed locks of red hair flop over his forehead but his face is serious, and you can’t look away.

“You kissed me,” you whisper.

That takes him by surprise. You can tell by the way his eyes widen, but his hold on you doesn’t ease up. You want to die. Why did you say that? He’ll think you’re disgusting, sleeping next to him in his bed and having perverted dreams about him. Why couldn’t you have just lied? Why can’t you ever lie to him?

“I’m going back to my bedroom.” You try to project more confidence than you actually feel, but there’s no use. Tanjiro doesn’t seem like he’s going to let you get away from him any time soon.

He’s straddling your body carefully, one elbow folded next to your head while his other hand comes up to stroke your cheek. “Your face is all red.”

“You’re…you’re too close.”

“I don’t think I’m close enough. You have goosebumps, look...” Tanjiro folds up the sleeve of your sleep shirt, exposing your arms to view. “…here…and here, too…”

His hands are wandering further down to the hem of the shirt, pushing it up so slowly and gently that you’re not even sure it’s happening until you feel him stroking over your belly. It’s true, you do have goosebumps. It feels like every hair on your body is standing on end. “Tanjiro…?”

“I guess you haven’t been able to touch yourself, since we’ve been sleeping together. That kind of repression is bad for your health. Even I’ve been a little…frustrated.”

Your mind has to work overtime to understand what he’s telling you as he strokes over your stomach and onto the sensitive skin of your sides, and then up to the flesh covering your ribs. His thumb teases over the underside of one of your breasts for a second, but the shock must have shown on your face because he retreats immediately.

“I’m not. I’m not frustrated,” you say, knowing he won’t believe you.

Tanjiro shakes his head in dismissal. “I don’t think that’s true, (Y/N).”

What are you supposed to say? Of course it’s not true. But admitting that you’ve been feeling heated around him lately would ruin everything, so refuse to say it. “I…I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say it. Can I prove it to you?”

What does he mean? Your head jerks up and down in acquiescence. You barely have to wait a moment before Tanjiro’s hands are slipping down your sides to the waistband of your pants and tugging them down over your hips. A tap on your hipbones prompts you to lift your hips and let him remove the clothing, not that you know why you’re complying so blindly.

Just like you always do.

Is he still trying to take care of you? Putting himself in a caretaker’s role because he thinks you need him? This is going a little far, too far maybe, but you can’t deny you want this. The heat of his body is no longer stifling—instead, it feels like it’s pulling you into him.

When your pants are out of the way, Tanjiro reaches into your underwear and dabs against your slit. It’s not until you feel his finger sliding between the puffy lips of your cunt that you realize how wet you are…and of course he can feel it too. Your knees jerk together to try and push him away from you but he’s unfazed, his touch steadily becoming more intrusive as he seeks out the syrupy dampness from your pussy.

“What am I feeling right now? I want you to tell me.”

“You’re—you’re touching me?” you gasp out.

“And you’re all wet. You can’t tell me you haven’t been frustrated when you’re getting this wet with just my fingers.” At this, you feel him prodding deeper into your pussy and stretching you open.

“Nn—okay, fine! Fine!” The words come out of you in a rapid burst, and you finally muster up the resolve to push Tanjiro away from you by his shoulders. “I’ll go back to my room and deal with it, okay? You don’t have to do it for me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I can trust you to take care of this problem by yourself. You’ve been lying to me about your needs.”

You wish he wasn’t able to be so calm while you feel like your entire face is on fire. He pulls his hand out of your panties and backs up on the bed so his torso is framed between your legs. “Can you let me help you, (Y/N)? Let me take care of you.”

You lick your lips without realizing you’re doing it, and Tanjiro’s eyes follow the motion. You can barely comprehend what he’s asking. You want it. You want his hands on you; you want to be taken care of in the way he’s offering. But whether or not you can actually ask for it is another story. “Tanjiro…”

“You need this. I know you do.” He skims his palm over your bare thigh in a soothing motion that, oddly enough, puts your barbed nerves a fraction at ease. “I want you to be honest with me about what you need.”

It’s too much. The warmth of his body so tantalizingly close to yours, his shadowed eyes searching yours for a response you don’t know how to give him…and the sticky mess in your panties. Tanjiro’s giving you a free pass to get something you’ve wanted for longer than you can comfortably admit to yourself, and you’re not sure you could deny him if you tried. What can you tell him except the truth? “I want you. I need you.”

“Good girl. See how good it feels to be honest?” Tanjiro bows down and mouths over your pussy through the wet spot on your panties.

It’s not the honesty that feels good, you think as his tongue pads at you through the fabric.

Too impatient to wait another second to taste you, Tanjiro nudges your rear up and slides your panties down your legs. As soon as you kick the undergarment off your feet, he’s pulling your thighs back apart and curling his thickly-muscled arms around them to hold you securely as his head dips back down to your bare pussy. He wastes no time in laving his tongue over your slit and up to the button at the top.

The sensation of this hot, wet muscle pressing up against your most private area is…weird, to say the least. You’ve never felt anything like this—to be honest, you don’t even know exactly what Tanjiro’s doing. When you think about what’s actually happening on this bed—your (friend? partner? bedmate? crush?) ally has his mouth angled between your legs and is licking your pussy—you think you might spontaneously combust. You’ve never felt anything like this before, and however strange the feeling is, you’re more than aware of your hips grinding up toward Tanjiro just so you can feel more of it.

“Here, let me help…” Tanjiro effortlessly lifts you to place a pillow under your lower back, and then moves back down to continue his relentless licking, this time at a new angle that allows him full access to every millimeter of your raw cunt. He’s eating you out like your pussy is the last meal he’ll ever have.

And how can he help it? You taste so good, so sweet on his lips and over his tongue. You must have been in so much pain lying next to him every night with your desire leaking out between your thighs. Just thinking about is making heat rise low in his groin, and his grip on you is getting tighter by the second. How awful that you tried to keep this to yourself…it was remiss of him not to realize before tonight that you needed him so badly.

But it’s going to be alright, because judging from the muffled noises you’re making, every swipe of his tongue licking up your slit is more than making it up to you.

You probably don’t realize how much your hips are wiggling under his minstrations. He barely has to exert any effort to keep you still, but the way you keep trying you push yourself closer to him is enticing, not to mention the way you’re trying (and failing) to keep your voice down through your moans.

“Tanjiro…T-Tanjiro,” you whimper. It’s like you can’t think of anything except for his name. All of your attention is focused on the pressure building up deep in your core, each stroke of his tongue over your clit taking you higher and higher. You feel tense…wound up so tightly that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from letting the shallow puffs of air turn into full-fledged cries.

Just like that, please, please… You think the words rather than saying them, even though you want to. It’s too humiliating to be begging Tanjiro for more while he’s already giving you more than you deserve, but it’s almost like he heard you anyway, because his tongue writhes down across your clit again and your back arches up off the bedspread.

Your thighs twitch around his head, trying involuntarily to hold him down. He just chuckles and keeps you firmly in place, and his voice hums out over your pussy making feel even more wild. “Please, I’m—I’m cumming…” Your voice trails off and you crush the heels of your palms into your face to cover up your expression while the wave of pleasure hits you so hard you think you might faint.

Tanjiro doesn’t stop. You’re crying out in whimpers so high-pitched he can barely hear them, but he doesn’t stop. The delicate muscles in your pussy are throbbing under his tongue, but he doesn’t stop licking until you’re almost crying, panting out “it’s too much it’s too much, please Tanjiro” and pushing his head away with your hand.

When he finally pulls away, his hair is tangled and disarrayed from where you’ve been running your hands through it, and his mouth and jaw are shining wet. Tanjiro licks his lips and if you didn’t feel shaky before…you do now.

It takes a second for the power of thought to return to you, but when it does you just sigh weakly and flop back down onto the bed. Tanjiro’s next to you before you hit the pillow, and he grips your jaw with one hand to angle your head to meet his, and—

He’s kissing you. He’s actually kissing you. His lips are surprisingly soft over yours, but as usual there’s an unnecessary degree of pressure attached to the contact that has you sinking deeper into your blankets under his force. You can detect the lush, slightly bitter taste of your arousal coating the inside of his mouth as his tongue (skillful as ever) traces over yours. Tanjiro is kissing you, and it’s a hundred times better than any dream you could come up with on your own, so you kiss back.

It takes him a long moment to break the kiss, long enough that your lungs are pleading for air by the end of it. When his lips leave yours, a thin trail of saliva connects the two of you until it breaks and drips down your chin.

“Tanjiro…” You search for the right words, but what are you supposed to say at a time like this? “I…what did we just do?”

“Shh, don’t worry.” Tanjiro leans in again, this time just to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I’m going to take good care of you, okay?”

You take a moment and then duck your head into a nod. It doesn’t make any sense—how does he do that?—but once he says it’s okay it always is.

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waitimcomingtoo · 3 years

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In Case You Don’t Live Forever

~chapter four rewritten~

Pairing: Peter Parker x Venom!Reader

Synopsis: you are Peter’s greatest love and Spiderman’s greatest enemy

Series Masterlist

After eating dessert and saying goodbye to May, Peter walked you to your room like a proper gentleman.

“You really don’t have to walk me home. I live right across that hall.” You teased him as you leaned against your door. You were glad he did, though. You wanted to spend every minute you could with him.

“I know, but I wanted to make sure you got in okay.” Peter said shyly. “You never know what dangers can be lurking in a hallway. Henry could’ve been around here and you and your feet would’ve been defenseless. You think I could live with myself if something happened to you?”

You laughed loudly and took your time unlocking your door, partially to extend your time together and partially to hide your massive blush.

“Thanks for dinner, Parker. I had a good time.” You said slowly as you fixed his collar.

“I had a moderately alright time.” He said nonchalantly. You laughed at his joke and shoved him a little.

“Fine. I had an amazing time.” He answered honestly. “We should do this again.”

The hope in his eyes knocked you out.

“Definitely.” You agreed. “But at my place next time.”

“Deal.” He stood there for a moment, just staring at you. You stared back, seeing the pale freckles on his nose and around his eyes. The longer you look at Peter, the better he got.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” Peter said finally. You sighed softly and looked him over.

Parting really is such sweet sorrow.

“Goodnight Peter.” You answered. You gave each other one more giggly smile before you closed the door, completely missing the victory dance Peter did in the hallway.

“Alright. You ate. Now it’s our turn. Let’s go eat some assholes.” Venom cheered once you were alone.

“You couldn’t have phrased that in a worse way.” You grimaced as you set your keys down.

“I mean, let’s go eat some men who are assholes.” Venom corrected herself.

“Alright alright. Let’s go.” You walked to the window. “But, they have to be a total asshole. We can’t just eat a dick.”

“And you think what we said was bad? Listen to yourself.” Venom retorted.

“I heard it. I meant we have to eat someone who is really, really bad. Not just some random jerk.” You defended.

“Whatever. Let’s go. Your liver is starting to look really, really juicy.” Venom warned. With that, you climbed out the window and prowled the streets of New York.

It wasn’t long before you found a man harassing a woman near a local bar. They were both tipsy, but she seemed drunker than he was. He kept putting his hands on her, despite her protests. Every time she tried to push him away, he’d only try harder.

“Come on baby.” He purred.

“Leave me alone. I don’t want you.” The woman slurred as she pushed him away.

“Yes you do. You wouldn’t have worn that tight dress if you didn’t.” The man said.

Ah yes, logic.

When she ignored his comment, he angrily pushed her against a wall and covered her mouth.

“Asshole?” Venom asked you.

“Asshole.” You confirmed. You and Venom did your usual tactic. You’d start off as you and kindly ask the gentleman to leave the lady alone. When all else fails, you became Venom and ate the bad guy.

You and Venom weren’t cold blooded killers. If a problem could be solved with words, you would do it that way. But there are a lot of bad men on the streets who don’t take no for an answer.

And you catch bad men.

You tore the man away from the lady and she ran away screaming when she saw you as Venom. Most people do. At least she was safe. The man on the other hand suddenly lost his tough guy stamina and resulted to begging for his life.

“Should we eat them?” Venom asked you, loud enough for the man to hear. You did that little thing when half your face was Venom and half your face was you.

People get a real kick out of it.

“No.” You cooed. “They probably taste terrible.”

The man cowered away, begging you to leave.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.” He pleaded.

“I never much liked the taste of perverts.” Venom snarled.

“Me either. Plus, he’s so puny. He’s probably disgusting.” You agreed.

You were dragging the man along. He was definitely getting eaten, no doubt about it. At least, there was no doubt, up until you heard the sound of feet landing on the pavement behind you.

“Hey, big guy, didn’t anyone ever tell you that people are friends, not food?” A young, muffled voice sounded. Spider-Mans eyes grew comically wide when Venom turned around.

“What are you?” He gasped. You could hear the terror in his voice. Under his mask, he was probably trembling. He sounded so young and terrified.

“We…are venom.” You answered as you snarled at him.

Never gets old.

“Hi Venom.” Spider-Man took a step back in fear, legs shaking slightly. “I’m Spiderman.”

The man took this as an opportunity to get up and run. You quickly ran after him, but you were suddenly covered in a sticky white substance. It wrapped around your legs and you fell to the ground. From the floor, you could see the man getting away.

“I can’t take credit for that. I got that from this really old movie, The Empire Strikes back. It works every time.” Spider-Man panted as he ran over to you.

You decided you had enough of this and easily broke out of the sticky stuff. You grabbed the unsuspecting Spider-Man by the throat and lifted him up by his neck. You could hear the sounds of him choking through his mask, and looses your grip. You weren’t a monster, but you weren’t a superhero either. Spiderman had let a bad guy get away and you could only hope you scared him enough not to do it again.

“You let him go.” You growled as you got in his face. Spider-Man hit the hand around his throat in an attempt to break free, making Venom smile. His feet were dangling off the ground. He was defenseless.

“You can’t eat people.” He choked out, gasping for air.

“We can and we will.” Venom growled. “Since you let our dinner get away, looks like you’ll have to take his place. We hope you taste better than you look, Spiderman.”

“Please don’t eat me. I’m just a kid.” Spider-Man begged. Venom tried to keep going, but you pulled back.

“Venom, put him down. We can find someone else. We can’t eat this guy. He’s too young.” You said calmly and prayed Venom would listen. Spider-Man was right. He was just a kid. He had pissed you off, but that didn’t mean he had to die.

“We don’t want anyone else. We want him”. Venom answered. Spider-Man looked confused, seeing as he could only hear Venoms part of the conversation.

“Put him down. His suit probably tastes terrible anyway. Let’s go find someone else. How about we go find a smoker to eat? You know how much you love to eat smokers.” You argued as you felt her grip loosen.

“They taste like barbecue.” Venom replied, feeling her mouth watering.

“Let’s go.” You insisted. “He’s not worth it.”

“Fine.” Venom grouched and threw Spider-Man against a wall. Spider-Man began to cough and clutch his throat. Venom stormed over to him and grabbed his head, making him look at you.

“If you ever bother us again, we are going to eat both of your arms, then both of your legs, and then we are going to eat your face. Do you understand?”

“We?” was all Spider-Man could get out.

“We.” Venom repeated. “Me and my girl. She saved your life tonight. Don’t except it to happen again. Next time, you’re dead.” Venom warned. With that, you ran away into the night, leaving Spider-Man behind.

After eating a man you saw steal money out of multiple homeless peoples cups, you climbed up the apartment building and sat on the ledge of the roof. You transformed back into yourself and watched as the sun made its way up the horizon.

“What are you doing up here?” You heard a familiar Queens accent from behind you. You smiled immediately and turned around.

“Are you stalking me Parker?” You teased as a bashful smile broke across his face. He looked ethereal in the early morning sunshine so you bit your tongue to keep from giggling.

He was too damn cute.

“You’ve got it the wrong way around. I lived here first. This had been my spot for years now. You’re the one stalking me.” Peter remarked. His voice sounded horse, like he had strained it. He moved slowly, almost as if he was in pain, as he swung his legs over the ledge and took a seat next to you. Your thighs just barely touched, but enough to send sparks though your body.

“Is this really your spot? I’ll leave if you want.” You offered, but Peter put his hand on your shoulder to keep you from getting up.

“It’s our spot now.” He said matter of factly. The sun light up his profile and you could see how tired his eyes were. You wondered what late night adventures kept Peter Parker awake. Peter stared out into the New York City skyline and sighed with content. A gentle breeze blew his brown locks and ruffled your clothing.

Everything was quiet. Everything was good.

“Are you an orphan?” You blurted before smacking your hand over your mouth.

You almost jumped off the roof right there. And you probably should’ve. No, actually, Peter should’ve pushed you off. It’s what you deserved. Who the HELL asks someone you just met that question? Who asks that question at all? Does anyone even use the term “orphan” anymore? Is this Annie? All these questions swarmed through your head as your cheeks managed to burn the brightest shade of red they ever had. Peter snapped his head to you and tried to say something but you cut him off.

“I only ask because…well, I am.” You admitted. “An orphan, I mean. And I saw the pictures in your apartment with the candle and you kinda have that…orphan look to you. No offense! It’s not a bad thing either. I probably have the same look. Plus, you live with your aunt and I didn’t see anyone else come home. Of course, maybe they just weren’t home the one night I was over. Not that it’s any of my business anyway. I’m sorry I asked. It was a dumb, dumb question and I’m a dumb, dumb person and I-“

Your excessive rambling was cut off by a soft chuckles on Peters part. You looked at him confused as it wasn’t the response you expected.

“You’re not dumb. You took down Carlton Drake at 19 years old with no help. I wouldn’t call that person dumb. I’d call her brave, smart, even heroic.” Peter complimented you. “And all the best heroes are orphans. So to answer your question…there was a question in there somewhere right? I think so. Yes, I am an orphan. I live with my Aunt May. I used to live with my Uncle Ben too but he passed away.”

“Your uncle was Ben Parker.” You realized. “I should’ve known. May mentioned his name at dinner. I remember hearing about the shooting. All my friends and I created a club in school to protest the lack of gun regulation in America after that. I’m so sorry, Peter.”

“I really appreciate you doing that. I’m really upset over the lack of gun regulation too.” He was quiet for a moment. “My Uncle Ben used to write too. He was always trying to get me to write for the school newspaper. It wasn’t my thing though. I prefer taking pictures and videos. You’re a really good writer, Y/N. My Uncle Ben would’ve loved you.” Peter said earnestly. You smiled at Peter and scooted closer to him.

“Thank you for saying that. I bet I would’ve loved him too.” You told him. Peter looked down at his hands which were dangerously close to yours. You weren’t bold enough to hold his hand, though you desperately wanted to. Instead, you put your head on his shoulder and looked out at the sunrise. It was a simple, innocent gesture. You were both awkward and knew it. It was the safest thing you could do without something going terribly wrong. Peter rested his head on top of yours and sighed.

“I didn’t know you were an orphan.” He said softly, not wanting to disturb the peace. You nodded, still nestled in his neck.

“My mom died a few minutes after giving birth to me.” You opened up to him, something you hadn’t done with anyone before. “I’m not sure what went wrong but they had to do an emergency C-section. I survived, but she didn’t.”

You got quiet for a moment.

“She never even got to hold me.”

“I’m sorry Y/N.” Peter whispered. He gingerly laced his fingers with yours. You watched as he did it and didn’t try to stop him.

“It’s weird.” You shrugged. “I never knew her, but I miss her everyday. I wish we could’ve had a conversation. Just one would be enough.” Your mom wasn’t something you often talked about. It was too painful to relive the past so you hadn’t even told Andy the full story.

But you felt safe with Peter.

“You don’t have to have known her to miss her.” Peter insisted. “I bet she misses you too and she never met you either.”

“What were your parents names?” You changed the topic as you rubbed his hand softly with your thumb.

“Richard And Mary. Richard and Mary Parker.” He answered proudly. “I write them letters all the time. I put them in an envelope and everything. Then I put them in a box in my closet. I like to think the read them.”

“I bet they do.” You told him while squeezing his hand gently. In that moment, you could’ve sworn he was yours. Like you were an actual couple that had been through hell and back together. Like you’d know him all my life. Peter looked you in the eyes and for the first time, someone really saw you.

The real you, and he didn’t turn away. His brown eyes stared right down into your soul. You felt insecure suddenly, your soul wasn’t a pretty place to see. Certainly not pretty enough for Peter Parker. But Peter didn’t seem to mind.

You got this feeling all the sudden, this feeling that told you you and Peter were meant to meet. That you were always meant to be in each other’s lives. To protect and love each other, like real people do. Peter didn’t feel like a stranger. He wasn’t someone you met on accident. You were destined to be. Just be. No matter what you were. This rooftop didn’t feel like a place you’d never been before. This rooftop felt like home. And Peter made it feel that way. Or maybe it wasn’t the rooftop that felt like home, it was just Peter. Your cheeks burned up when you realized what was happening. Your heart fluttered and your lungs felt like they were in fire.

You knew it. Every fiber of your being knew it. All your senses came alive at once and in that moment, on that rooftop, your heart looked into Peters and said those two words,

“Welcome home”

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker x venom!reader #venom!reader #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland fluff #iron man #tom holland fanfiction

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pleasantanathema · 4 years

Text

The Witcher’s Woes

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: bruising/marking, rough sex, dirty talk, light degradation, mentions of blood/injuries, very mild angst, porn with plot

Word Count: 10k

A/N: This is a collab piece for the Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab hosted by myself, @present-mel, and @linestrider

You can find all the other wonderfully creative and smutty pieces on our masterlist!

P.S.: This is a long one, if you feel like only reading smut, feel free to jump down to the second line break and begin there.

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A Witcher: someone who has undergone extensive training, ruthless mental and physical conditioning, and mysterious rituals, which take place within Witcher schools such as the Wolf, Cat, and Griffin in their respective hidden Kaers, or home castles, in preparation for becoming an itinerant monster slayer for hire. (source: fandom.com).

The storms were raging on the coast, salty waves crashing into the shore like heavy hands attempting to crawl out of the sea, only to get dragged back into the abyss. The winds were howling, lightning crashing, yet the storm was the last thing on your mind as you opened the door to your lowly estate.

Ushijima of Velhad still had his arm raised from where he knocked on the wood, his yellow eyes glowing against the darkness of night. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, his chestnut hair tousled, lines of rain water dripping down his nose, his cheeks pallid. Even still, The Witcher looked to be a living memory, no new wrinkles or scars that you could detect when the rumbling flashes lit the sky. If it wasn’t for the rain, he would’ve looked entirely the same since you last saw him years ago, smiling in the evening glow of the countryside before departing for a new journey.

You ushered him in quickly, silently, your instincts for hospitality taking over before you could begin to think of questioning him about his sudden arrival. His armor was damp, heavy, sloshing and clinking as he undid the leather and meteorite laced straps from his shoulders. He was breathing slowly, deliberately. You rushed to grab towels from a chest, blanketing him in warmth as he sat before your rolling fireplace. He uttered a quiet thanks, never one to use words out of place.

The tea you had been brewing above the fire began to boil. You quickly poured two cups, adding a dash of the alcoholic white gull to his and using a burst of fire magic between your palms to keep the cup warm. You settled into the chair beside him, noticing how his gaze leered into the sparking fireplace.

“Ushijima,” you finally called him, after time had passed and his hair began to dry, “are you hurt? Is that why you’re here?”

He grunted from beside you, moving the hand you noticed had been clutching his rib cage.

“Yes, but not badly. I needed refuge from the storm more-so than a potion.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

He was quiet for a moment, perhaps pondering if he should simplify the truth.

“A sorceress, even in hiding, is never hard to find. The townsfolk talk, you know. I knew you were nearby before even beginning my hunt.”

“You could have asked for more than the tea I gave you, you know I’m here to help.”

He leaned back in the chair, his thick, long legs spreading out before the fire, his socks still damp and clinging to his toes, a big cat uncurling his weary limbs.

“It would have been rude to barge in begging for assistance.”

Ah, yes. He was still as courteous as always, his Griffin School teaching still ingrained in his mannerisms. Most Witchers were not so polite, but that school in particular valued traditional teachings. You knew you’d have to indulge his small conversation before getting more answers from him; he always played the chivalrous game, after all.

“Tell me, what brings you to the shores of Blaviken? Last I saw of you, you were riding north, returning to what is left of Kaer Seren.”

“There is nothing left,” he sighed, both arms now resting on the chair, the last remnants of tea staining his cup, “everything was destroyed, save a few books I found amongst the rubble.”

“What a shame, that library was a marvel. I would’ve liked to visit it myself.”

The story of the destruction of Kaer Seren was only well known to those acquainted with the last remaining Witchers. The keep was tucked away amidst the edge of the sea and the snowy mountains of Kovir to the north. The Witchers of that school, all of Ushijima’s kin, were well acquainted with magic and kept a vast library of mystic tomes within their home. But they were secretive, protective of their knowledge. Witchers, men created by magic to become the monsters they killed, were guarded for good reason. Years of persecution had left their numbers in ruin.

A group of mages felt scorned by the Witchers’ refusal to share their wealth and toppled the castle of Kaer Seren in an avalanche, leaving bodies and crumpled books in the wake, all never to be used again. You could almost picture the blood and ink that stained the snowy graves.

You’d only heard this story from the mouth of Ushijima himself, one night after too many scuffles and too many drinks.

“I brought some for you,” he smiled then, warm and soft, full lips on display, “that’s the real reason I’m here.”

His eyes were especially luminous in the firelight, gold irises reflecting the flames like the most precious of coins. His cheeks were flushed now, color regaining across his skin. Freckles smattered his cheeks like dried blood; you had to hold yourself back from reaching to him, from caressing his skin to see if the marks were lost war paint or new stories etched into his skin. He was tanned from all his time spent meditating in the sun, truly a unique specimen to behold. It was rare to see someone so brutal be so beautiful.

You were excited at his words, your fingers digging into the grooves of your cup at the mention of magical books awaiting you to peruse them.

He could see the eagerness behind your eyes and he laughed, then coughed, but continued his soft chuckling again. You paused, realizing he must be in more pain than he was letting on. His arm had returned to his torso, the thickly corded muscle clutching and protecting whatever injury was lying beneath.

“They’re in my bag by your door, you should go look at—.”

“Ushi, you’re hurt. Let me take care of you.”

Before becoming friends with the valiant hunter, you would’ve leapt at the opportunity to read hidden knowledge. But years of acquaintance with the hardened man had your heart tugging in another direction; suddenly, Ushijima was becoming more important than all your years of study and practice in sorcery.

He had a habit of breaking everything he touched: monsters, glass cups, weapons, he had a very powerful grip, and perhaps you were just the next thing in line to come undone by his hands.

You stood from your place by the fire, strolling over to a cabinet where you kept all the alchemy ingredients you had collected from your years living alone here by the sea. Many travelers had come by, having heard of the witch by the shore, bringing elements and components to sell at a high price. And you had taken them all, emptying your purse at even the faintest glimpse of a rare material peeking from their bag. You loved your craft, you had perfected it, almost, and every day you spent toiling away finding new ways to create potions and expand your magical knowledge.

“I need to know what you were hunting earlier.” Your fingers began rustling within the crowded shelves, grabbing an empty bottle as you heard him sigh behind you.

“A Hym,” he said softly, “it scratched my side, it’s deep, but not fatal.”

You stilled, eyes darting across all your ingredients. He said the word so easily, so nonchalantly, like he didn’t just battle a demon.

“A slice from Hym’s ethereal claws drains the life force from their victim, the longer that wound sits untreated, the worse you will get.” You mentally cursed at him, blaming his chivalrous nature for hurting him for longer than he deserved to be in pain. If he had said something when he came in your front door, you could have had him on the mend already.

“I know that, but a small potion to get me through most of the pain until now.”

“You’ll need more than that. You’re lucky, I just went to town last week and managed to find vitriol. I can make you a superior swallow drink, just…stay still.”

Quiet mumbles tumbled from your lips as you worked: measurements, ingredients, small musings as you set aside all the components to begin assembling them upon your alchemy table. Plants like white myrtle, celandine, crow’s eye fell into the bottle of enhanced swallow you already had on hand; you added fruit, nothing too exotic, just the common berbercane, and finally the blue tinted vitriol powder.

You eyed the hunter as you mixed the potion, swirling the now red liquid within the high neck of the bottle, speeding up the mixing process with a little magic of your own. Only he would have such insouciance concerning a fight with such a wicked creature. He was talented, perhaps not as much as the more legendary Witchers that roamed the lands, but Ushijima was strong, sturdy, nimble and smart when in battle. His stoic nature allowed him to distance himself from the horrors of his life, a life you knew he had not chosen.

He was an orphan, brought up by the Griffin School and transformed into a monster hunter without much consent, though you knew he had none to give. But he wore his profession like a badge of honor, looking at his life through a lens of helping those who could not help themselves in a world infested with demons, ghouls, and humanoid monstrosities.

You’d always wanted to admit how admirable you found him, but you knew he was never one to take compliments.

Standing next to where he was patiently sitting, you offered him the small bottle, the glass precariously dangling in your fingers.

“Take this,” you pulled the flask away just slightly as he reached for it, “but only after you tell me what the hell you were doing fighting a Hym.”

“You said it yourself, I get worse every moment I don’t drink that.”

“You’ve lasted an hour, Ushi,” you chided, “I think you can take a few moments to tell me why there was a Hym near Blaviken.”

You sat the bottle back on the table, moving to stand behind him and press the towel around his shoulders a little tighter into his neck. He gave you a contented sigh, eyes closing. He never liked to talk about his work, but you always pressed him. You lived in this monstrous world as well, had killed a few drowners while walking along the sands, aided an earl with a botchling, once even made friends with a rather tempting succubus. Everyone in this world was plagued by wretched creatures, he was just more qualified to kill them with his training and silver swords.

Your fingers pressed into the soft cloth around his neck, picking up the fabric and using it to brush against his hair and continue drying the damp spots still lingering around his ears, the back of his neck. You normally weren’t so blatant with your affection for him, but you knew you had him as a captive audience within the chair. He’d have to tell you his story before earning what he desired, but you might as well humor him with soothing touches while he did.

“Hyms are nasty things, you know. Demons that feed off the guilt of others.” He began.

“I found a note from a daughter in distress about her father on a notice board not too far down the road. He was going mad, she wrote, she thought perhaps he had become possessed. I did some searching in their house, found love letters tucked away under the old man’s mattress addressed to his sister-in-law. He wanted her, he loved her, so he killed his own brother to have her. But then she threw herself into the sea from her own grief; I think the Hym could’ve gotten to her first, then transfixed itself onto the man.”

“Hm, the things we do for love.” You mused, hands coming to rest on his shoulders once again.

Somehow, he felt stronger, broader than the last time you’d touched him. You sunk your fingers into the sinews on display in his damp shirt, humming to yourself. You’d thought about this before, about having the strengthened hunter sit vulnerably before you, only your thoughts involved the two of you in much less clothing and talking of much less rotten things.

You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering the sketches you’d seen of Hyms in bestiaries. They were murky, shadowy beings, devilish horns upon their faceless heads, long black claws dripping from their hands. You would have cowered at the sight of such a creature, yet Ushijima sought out to destroy it.

His gruff voice continued on, “I confronted the man, called out the Hym, and it began to attack. Its claws are long, it scratched me from the very beginning. But it’s gone now, perhaps banished to the dark realm from whence it came.”

You plucked the bottle from its resting place, handing it to Ushijima over his shoulder. He took it with a simple thanks, head tipping back as he drank the entirety of its contents. You watched almost gleefully at his thick, irresistible neck on display. Everything about him was so strong, so well kept, even as he sat before you dampened from a storm.

“You know, Ushi, I could listen to you talk like that for hours.”

“Oh yeah? Then maybe I’ll stick around for a bit this time, let you listen to all my seedy tales.”

“Mhm, they’re only seedy when that bard friend of yours is around. Is he still alive? Tendō, that is.”

A flash of red hair and a catlike smile flashed before your mind’s eye as you thought of the dangerous, yet comical bard who often clung to the Witcher’s side.

Ushijima laughed, clutching at his stomach as you circled his chair and came to stand before him, arms crossed delicately in front of your body. Your figure cast a silhouette across his own, making you seem larger than life in the firelight. He was enraptured in the inky vice of your shadow.

“Yes, somehow he is still alive. Last I heard of him, he’s off singing songs in the capital of Redania to some rich heiress.”

“Good to hear,” you shrugged, “I always liked him.”

“No, he always liked you.” He wiggled his eyebrows, the action sending you into a fit of giggles as well. “And I can’t blame him.”

Your laughter subsided at his words, a warm tingle spreading across your body. Normally Ushijima was not one to flirt without the aid of alcohol; perhaps you’d given him more than you thought in his tea earlier? You watched him relax in his seat, lifting his shirt to reveal a quickly fading wound upon his tawny skin, the old blood sinking back into the muscle where it belonged.

Thunder rumbled outside the walls, a heavy boom resounding from the gods above.

“You should bathe, Ushi.”

“What, do I smell?”

He was suddenly so playful, so charming, his grin making you feel flustered.

“You will soon, I’m sure. Go beyond those doors,” you pointed over your shoulder, “It’s a heated pool, one of the reasons I chose this god forsaken estate.”

“Will you join me?”

You took a pause. This man was always making you pause, making you step back and evaluate your words and actions around him. Surely, he was joking. But the gleam in his bright eyes told you a different story, there was more lingering behind his words that you did not yet understand.

“I will, but only after I take a peek at those books you brought me. Now, off with you.”

You brushed by him as he stood, arms stretching above his head, his body shifting as he evaluated the healing wound upon his flesh. His heavy boots clunked against the floorboards as he followed your command, the sound of an enhanced predator marking his path. He slid through the door at the back of the great room and left you alone once more.

You would’ve been ashamed if he saw how quickly you rushed to his bag, gathering the cold, dusty books in your arms before setting them gently on the table. They were relics, ancient, undoubtedly hiding secret runes and magic within their spines.

Your fingertips brushed over the titles of the four books he brought you, but despite being entranced by the knowledge lying in wait for you, you were imagining your fingers to be elsewhere. You flipped one book open, your nails following the lines of ink, but your mind took in no words you read.

You were somewhere else; you were mentally with Ushijima, your fingers back in his hair, your hands exploring places unknown to you on his skin. He was the well-guarded book you desired to read, to hold, to explore.

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Ushijima was astounded by your bath. He knelt to the stones on the ground, using his keen senses to feel the heated rocks and look for their source. There were some offshore vents that were connected to this place, feeding in warm water to the bath. He took in a deep breath, smelling the lingering hint of salt in the air, but the scent didn’t entirely match the ocean.

He dipped his fingers in the water, finding it smooth, warm, unsalted. You must have put magic in place to filter all the sediment from the pipes. You always were clever, even in the smallest of ways. Your wit was something he admired about you.

He took his time undressing, his ears perked as he heard you rustling paper in the other room. He had felt embarrassed at first about being so sentimental towards you; he had known from the beginning of his journey that any tomes he found would be placed into your care for you to enjoy. He’d read them, of course, the journey from Kovir and Poviss still a long one to the border of Redania where you lived. As he divulged himself in the ancient knowledge of his Witcher school, he always pictured you reading the same words he did; he felt your presence nestling into his skin, enveloping him like a magic spell. He liked to imagine how you’d react to the pages, how many notes you would scribble down from certain intriguing sections.

Ushijima thought about you more than he cared to admit.

Naked, he stepped into the bath, his screaming muscles finally silenced under the hot press of water against his body. The bathing pool had a ledge around its border, and he took a seat at the back, arms spreading out like heavy wings along the rocky edge. He sat where he could watch the door; it was instinct, he told himself, to always be aware of his surroundings, but he knew he was just waiting to glimpse your figure appear before him.

Some nights, when preparing his tent under the stars, he would think of the first time he met you. He had traveled with Tendō to some opulent gathering in Toussaint, one filled with wine and vampires he knew were hidden amongst the crowds, but any thought he had of a hunt had vanished when he saw you. You were delightful, enchanting, eye-catching amongst the throngs of people. It didn’t take long for his friend to seek you out, to gain your friendship, and Ushijima watched patiently from the sidelines, watched how you held yourself with such poise and dignity. But all the while, he was aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to know you.

You had become his guilty pleasure over the years, a fantasy he envisioned as he lay alone at night. Even when he was meditating, he was hard-pressed to not find himself seeing your skin behind his eyes, imagining how your body would feel within his hands. The hands of a killer, a fiend, hands that crushed whatever he held all too easily. But you, you were so powerful, so seemingly untouchable, and he found himself unworthy to behold you. He was just another creature, a man turned monster, someone wholly undeserving of a divine sorceress.

He huffed to himself, a shy smile pulling at his cheeks as he thought of your words from earlier.

“The things we do for love.” He repeated the words to himself, sinking a little deeper into the water.

He didn’t have to wait long for you to enter. He was unexpectedly aware of his nakedness as you entered, fully clothed still in your corset and trousers. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, spreading down across his belly, at the prospect of watching you change; it would be impolite to ogle you. He turned his gaze instead to the water, watching how the surface lapped at his skin as he shifted his weight.

“Are you comfortable?” You called out to him from across the room. He could hear your clothing shuffling, hear the laces coming undone one by one from your body. The room felt quiet, the air smothering. He’d felt so bold earlier, but now he felt almost ashamed that he had asked you to join him.

“Ushiwaka,” you implored with a little more strain to your voice, “don’t tell me you’ve gone shy on me.”

His gaze shifted up for only a moment, catching a glimpse of your naked back as you peered over your shoulder at him, your hands ready to pull down your breeches and become fully naked. He couldn’t help himself, he gawked at your beauty, tracing every curve, line, and dip across your splendidly sculpted skin. You looked more beautiful than any constellation he pointed out with his finger in the night sky. He unabashedly gazed at the planes of your shoulders, the gentle slope of your spine. He imagined taking his time to map the uncharted waters of your body, of discovering every hidden cosmos tucked away within your curves.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “I think I’ve become even more comfortable at the sight of you.”

He held his breath for a moment, waiting for your reaction. Upon seeing you smile and turn your face away, he sighed, sinking deeper into the pool, arms barely keeping him afloat from where they rested on the edge.

He heard splashing as you waded into the water, submerging yourself up to your neck before you came to sit just a few feet away from him. From here, he could study you more closely, see the elegant slope of your neck into your shoulder. He was pleased to note that he could still make out the form of your breasts in the water, the lovely globes just barely dipping out of sight.

“I must say, even in the given circumstances, you’re still a sight for sore eyes.” He always loved how silky your voice was, always melodious to his ears. He always worried he’d forget how it sounded, but your timbre matched the tone he had been playing in his head since he last saw you.

“I haven’t heard the name Ushiwaka in a long time,” he confessed, “it’s always Witcher now, or Ushijima of Velhad since that’s where I did most of my work.”

“Well, you lost that name—Wakatoshi—a long time ago when you were picked up by the Witchers, but I know it is sentimental to you still. If you prefer, I can just call you Ushijima.”

“You know I don’t mind it.” He felt like he said the words too quickly.

“Hm, well, I’ll call you anything you let me, Ushiwaka.”

A shiver hit his body at your words, he was keen enough to know there was innuendo laced behind them.

______________________________________________________________

You closed your eyes, head leaning back against the warm stone as you allowed the steamy water to wash away the grime of the day. You moved your hands over your body, feeling the sticky sweat melt away. You reached for a small towel, tossing one in Ushijima’s direction and watching how he caught it so effortlessly, like a cat swatting at a shadow on the wall. He received a small bar of lavender soap with the same ease, his nose wrinkling at the flowery scent.

You both took a moment to wash, you humming an old tune, Ushijima remaining silent aside from the sloshing of water made from his heavy limbs beneath the surface.

You’d never been in such an intimate space with him before. A bath is time of solace and cleansing, but also one of exposure and susceptibility. Water intentionally brings forth feelings of intimacy and ambivalence. You knew he was there, watching, his heightened senses attuned to every sound, smell, every minimal movement around him. You couldn’t take his silence any longer.

“I—,” you began quietly, “can I ask you something?”

His movements ceased, those radiant eyes now focusing entirely on you. You instantly felt heat spread across your chest, climbing up and darkening your ears with blush. You wondered for a moment if he could see through you, in you, see how fast your heart was pounding blood through all your veins. His intense stare made you feel like he was closer, his deadly hand wrapped acutely around your heart, aiding it as it struggled to beat harder, faster.

“Of course.” His words were direct, poignant, the deep vibrations almost tingling the water itself.

“When you were facing that Hym, at any moment, did you fear it would sense your grief?”

You could tell he was taken aback by your words. He placed the wet cloth to his chest, his long fingers digging into the fabric as he pondered what you said.

Once again, he wasn’t sure if he should simplify the truth. He mulled over your question, let the words seep into his consciousness as he looked up to the ceiling. He should’ve known you were astute enough to see through him.

“Yes,” he stated, “I did.”

He didn’t wish to elaborate any further, but he could tell his curt response didn’t satisfy your internal reasonings.

“I see.” You noted somberly.

“How did you know?”

He watched you slink farther under the water, searching for cover, searching for a way not to express your thoughts. He noticed how your legs crossed beneath the surface, the light from the hanging candles glittering through the water.

“I know you didn’t choose this path, didn’t choose to be a Witcher. That was forced upon you; you were lucky you even survived the Trial of Grasses that made you into what you are—.”

“A monster.” He interjected flatly.

“You’re not…” you sighed, dipping your head into your wet hand, “you’re no monstrosity, Ushi, not even a miscreation.”

He tensed at your words, catching how you regarded him with a solemn look.

“I didn’t choose a life of sorcery, you know. I was torn away from society when I was a girl, taught to use my source of magic to heal wounds, but also how to kill someone in an instant. People…powerful people used me to their advantage. It’s why I stay hidden now, I’m running from my past misdeeds. I know what it is like to have regrets; to grieve.”

He only nodded in understanding, afraid of using the wrong affirmations.

A heavy silence fell between you once again. You plucked the soap from its resting place behind you, thoughts tumbling through your mind like the waves crashing at the shore outside. So many words were desperate to leave your mouth, to be birthed and said and made into reality between you, but you dared not.

If anyone understood the weightiness, the hidden meaning behind silence, it was Ushijima.

But even he couldn’t bear it much longer. He grunted, running his wet hands over his face as he contemplated his next move.

“Well, tell me this. What would you be if not a sorceress?”

“Hm? Oh, I’ve never thought about it before. I’ve just…always accepted my fate.”

“I’d have been a sportsman,” he declared, a slight uplift in his voice.

“Oh really?” He watched as a grin pulled at your cheeks, the heaviness of the conversation before dissipating. “And what sports are you good at, Ushiwaka?”

“Anything with a ball,” he shrugged, “some kids down south play games with poorly strung nets, and they do their best to keep the ball from hitting the ground as they toss it back and forth. I think I’d be quite decent at it; I am agile, after all.”

“Powerful, too.” You remarked.

“You think so?” He teased.

He eyed you carefully as you set the cloth and soap aside.

You began to move... towards him. His eyes narrowed, his hands mimicking your actions and setting his bathing instruments to the side, freeing his hands.

You were ethereal in the water, gentle waves lapping at your skin, the ebb and flow of it shimmering around your body.

“Now that I think about it, I know what I would at least be proficient as if not a sorceress.”

The smirk that tugged at your lips intrigued him. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out for you, taking your arms and pulling you towards his chest.

“And that is?”

Time stopped for a moment as you settled yourself into his lap, the sound of your breathing, the feeling of skin upon skin, touch upon touch, the only increments of time needed.

His body was so hot, so willing to accept yours upon it.

“I’d be a wonderful whore.”

Golden eyes flickered up to you, lashes low, his lips parted.

“Care to show me?”

Your skin was cold to his warm touch, his hot breath fanning across your cheeks. He was so close, so eager, you could feel hardness begin to form between where your thighs cradled his.

Your hands slid across his shoulders, feeling the grooves and puckers of scars pass under your touch. You settled your grasp onto his neck, steadying yourself above him. His hands played against your skin under the water, the heavy fingers finding your hips and sinking into the smooth flesh he found. You gasped aloud at the feeling; his grip was strong, iron-clad, daring to leave marks behind. You wanted to break under his touch, collapse against his chest and allow the water to pull you both under into euphoria, but you secured your inner desires. Your back straightened, your fingers clawing into his thick skin.

“Ushiwaka,” you whispered it like a humble prayer, your lips brushing his, “kiss me.”

He groaned, pulling you a little closer, spreading your thighs a little wider.

“Why don’t you kiss me, little temptress? Show me how much you want me.”

You felt bewitched, wondering for a moment if he had placed you under a mind control spell with his words. Your thoughts were jumbled, but they were still yours: kiss him, touch him, read the hidden words on his inky pages like you had long desired.

Your lips met his tenderly, hesitantly, tasting the salt of water and sweat against his awaiting mouth. He breathed through his nose like he was exhaling life into you. He moved his mouth against yours, testing you, pushing at you, and effortlessly you gave in. Your eyes were closed, but you felt like you could still see him, felt like you knew every step in the dance he was leading you in. It felt so natural, so smooth, and you found yourself clinging to him with every press of his lips against yours.

Then his mouth fell open; an invitation. You followed him, sliding your tongue in, finding his own past his teeth. He felt like true sin, his tongue tempting yours to reveal its secrets to him. It was slow, methodical, a mutual exploration of tastes and pleasures you had both long craved to discover.

Your chest fell to his, your breasts meeting the hard planes of muscle found there. You moaned, the sound of water moving igniting your hunger as one of his hands meandered up your back, fingers lapsing into your soft muscles. He offered you a groan, and you took it desperately, hastening your kiss and plunging you both deeper into one another. One of your hands wandered from his neck, slipping down his chest, pressing him back against the edge of the pool. Your nails pulled at his flesh, wanting, needing, unknowing how to gain purchase against such solid muscle.

He tasted like tea leaves: earnest, alluring, but also like the earth, like something natural and primal. It was a taste that was familiar, enticing, and every time he took a moment to breathe, you found yourself diving back in for another taste, another glimpse of what lay hidden beyond his lips.

“Mhm,” he moaned as he finally pulled away, chest rising and falling, “perhaps I’ll mold you into my own personal whore.”

“I’d like that, Ushiwaka.”

The blood within his veins rushed to his cock at the sound of his name, of that personal name, falling from your sweet voice. Fuck, he would give anything to have you, but it seemed that he didn’t have to. He could feel by the way you clung to him, by the way you kissed him with such fervor, that you desired him all the same. It was thrilling to know you wanted him, and he wondered how far he could take you.

His hand glided away from your back, circling around to your chest. He cupped one of your breasts in his hands, holding back a groan as he felt the weight of it within his palm. He watched how the water lapped at your skin, the ripples from his movement brushing against a hardening nipple. The small sound of delight that left your lips had him refocusing his gaze to your face. You wore a sly smile, your own hand upon his neck tightening in anticipation of his next move.

“I’m a dark man, my love. Hardened.”

He was toying with you, but his words offered some truth. Ushijima had been envisioning you like this for far too long; there many devious things he wanted to do to your body.

You leaned forward, pressing a wet kiss to his ear, your voice low, “hardened indeed…I can feel you between my thighs.”

He smirked at your words, taking your nipple between his fingers and listening to you gasp as he gave it a simple tug. Your teeth found his ear in response, nipping tenderly.

His eyes fluttered at the feeling; a groan caught in his throat. He wondered if you could sense it. You pulled back slightly, angling your head to give him another kiss. He accepted it gladly, tongue ready to find yours again.

“You can be an obedient little whore, can’t you?” He rumbled against your lips; his words being lost inside your mouth.

You ate the words like you were starved, a hot moan swallowing them down as you felt a shock of pleasure race down your spine. He grunted at your action, the hand upon your breast squeezing in response.

“Yes,” you said softly, as he allowed you to escape his kiss, “where did all your chivalry go, Ushiwaka?”

He smirked as you teased him, his lips dipping to your neck, tongue tracing the lingering water droplets that fell down your skin.

“It’s waiting between your legs.”

It was a growl, the sound of a predator marking his prey, the sound of a man holding back his lusts.

You sucked in a breath, eyes closing as you dipped your head back and allowed him more access to the length of your throat. The hand at your breast squeezed harder, his thumb and forefinger rolling languidly across your straining nipple. You felt like you were lost at sea, the weight of the water around your bodies feeling heavier as Ushijima pulled you into his tides. He was the moon, pushing you, pulling you; he always has been. For so long he kept you at arm’s length, toying with you, teasing you, bringing you so close to him but never close enough. But tonight, the moon was waning, his control faltering as he finally gave in and allowed himself to fall into the calling sea.

He held you back on his thighs, but you could feel the heat radiating from his body below the surface. One of your hands trailed down his chest as he sucked dark red marks into the junction of your shoulder and neck, staining your skin with colors from his own making. He bit your skin especially rough when your wandering fingers found the hard lines of his stomach.

You were tentative, taking a moment to feel if his wound was finally gone from the magic bestowed upon him. You could only feel scars underneath your palm, though one felt particularly puckered and new. But his stomach wasn’t your goal, it was what was straining against it.

He cursed into your skin when you wrapped your hand around his cock, fingers pumping against the silken skin within the water. His lips fell lower, his eyes closing as he littered open-mouth kisses against your chest, now using both hands to cup your breasts and bring a nipple within his mouth. You moaned loudly, a rush of ecstasy coursing through your veins. He pulled you forward, forcing your hand away from his cock. Instead, he shifted to where his cock was nestled between your pussy and his stomach, allowing just enough friction to keep you wanting.

He needed to keep his head clear if he was going to please you in all the ways he had dreamt of. He was going to taste you, tease you, earn the right to claim your body as his own.

“Ushi—,” you went to whine, but a calloused pinch to your nipple ripped his name away from your mouth.

“Be quiet.” He demanded against your breast, teeth lightly tugging at your hardened bud.

You only gasped in response, hands smoothing across his broad shoulders as he worked his way to your other breast, hands needy, mouth exceptionally hot. Your hips pressed down and you felt the length of his thick cock against your aching pussy. You experimentally slid yourself against him, desperate to feel more touch against your most sensitive flesh, against the place that had wanted him for so long.

His hands moved to your hips to still you, his vice-like grip returning.

His mouth left your breast, his chin tilting up to look at you. Those glowing eyes were dark, ravenous; perhaps there was something monstrous sleeping inside of him, ready to awaken.

“Stop tempting me. You’ll regret it.”

His reflexes snapped as your lips parted to speak. Two thick fingers slid onto your tongue, pressing it down, the taste of water and leather swirling in your mouth. His taste was a mixture of his worn gloves and the floral soap he’d cleansed himself with. You groaned, head tilting back as you let him have his way, your mouth suctioning around his fingers for some kind of relief.

He eyed you carefully, watching the sinews in your neck come on display for him. Bruising marks of his design were blooming on your skin, little fragments of memories coming to life before his eyes. Your mouth felt like sin and he could already imagine how it would feel to have his cock sliding against the supple lips wrapped around his fingers.

Ushijima twisted your nipple again, a little harder, a little tighter, feeling pleased with himself as he heard and felt the grumble of a groan against his skin. A small drip of saliva trickled down your chin and he used his thumb to smear it into your cheek.

He could’ve held you like this for all eternity, had you pressed against his cock, his fingers padded against your tongue, your beautiful breasts on display as he groped one, watching the flesh mold into his hand. He had you subdued, compliant, a wondrous creature caught in a dangerous trap. He could do anything he wanted to you right here and now, and the realization had his cock twitching against your cunt.

For his own enjoyment, he was going to mark you, leave something behind on the picturesque pallet of your body.

You would never be allowed to forget him, as he knew this vision of you would forever live inside his mind.

He took his time, each bite and suck carefully and meticulously placed. Ushiwaka was never one to use his mouth without purpose, whether it be for his words, or his kisses. Your shoulders, your chest, your breasts, nothing was forgotten, and you felt like you had been sitting on his lap for eons. Each time his mouth curled into your flesh, his hair tickling you, you felt hotter, more alive than before. You pressed down harder against him, searching for some kind of release to the pleasure he was building inside of you. But he had you pinned, a strong arm encircled your back and kept you exactly where he wanted you.

When he sucked your nipple back into his mouth, you cried out against his fingers, your tongue darting between the digits as you sucked a quick breath in through your nose. He paid you no mind, his own tongue licking meticulously at your nipple, up and down, slow and steady. The bliss that erupted from your breast was almost mind-numbing. Your thighs clenched around his, your head lolling back even farther than before. You needed more, you were desperate to feel that talented mouth back on yours, to feel his fat cock slip inside you were you needed it.

Finally, he released you, his mouth leaving your breast as he slipped his fingers from your mouth. You took a moment to catch your breath. He splashed his drool covered fingers in the water, bringing the wet digits back to your face to wipe you clean, his thumb tracing your lips with care.

“See what being quiet gets you?”

You nodded your head in agreement, your nails finally releasing his shoulders where they had been clawing into his skin.

“I need you,” your arms wrapped around his neck, your mouth finding his in a tender kiss, “please, Ushiwaka.”

“You beg so prettily, my love. Perhaps I should have you beg a little more.”

“No! Fuck, please…” you entangled yourself around him, legs curling around his toned waist, your face nestling into his shoulder. You brushed the skin found there with your mouth, hungrily moaning against him. You were frantic; you had already waited for him for so long, thought about him for too many nights, too many years.

His strong arms enveloped your back and he lifted you easily from the water. You adhered yourself to his body, ready to have your muscles clench around him to assist, but he needed no such help. Your weight was effortless to him.

Ushijima used the ledge of the pool as a step, faultlessly exiting the pool like a nautical divinity coming to soft shores. He was cautious as he laid your wet body upon the heated stone, careful not to crush you under his weight. He watched your eyes alight as you took in the sight of him out of the water, now hovering above you. Your gentle fingers traced over his biceps, his shoulders, his chest, finding the constellations of scars upon his skin, his own physical galaxy for you to explore.

He took your face in his hand as one of his muscled thighs spread your legs. You were entranced in his gaze, finding yourself lost in the molten amber of his eyes as his pupils danced across your face. He was taking in every bit of you that he could, burning this vision of you below him into his memory. You were flushed, lips parted, slightly swollen from his ardent kisses. Your delicate hands moved to rest beside your head, palms facing him, submissive.

“Please,” your voice broke him from his trance, “don’t make me wait any longer.”

He nodded in response, eyes tracing down across your body. He relished having you before him like this, back arching towards him, breasts falling, your hips shifting against his legs. The hand on your face trailed away, making a path down your torso, fingers swirling against the lost dewy droplets against your skin. And then he finally peered down farther, having to steel himself from groaning as he found your awaiting pussy.

Your skin was prickling from the cool air meeting it, gooseflesh creeping up your legs, down your arms. Your heart was pounding in your ears as you watched him, waiting for him. You could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind, though you wished you could know them. What was he thinking? Was he hesitant?

Your own contemplations vanished when his warm, wet fingers spread your pussy, two fingers deftly sinking along the sides of your lower lips. You moaned, eyes fluttering closed, heat pooling within your belly. He took his time exploring you; he was a man of patience, after all.

You could feel his weight shift back as he sat on his knees, spreading your legs across his thighs. He curled one leg back for him, opening you up more for his viewing pleasure. His finger slowly traced up the center of your cunt, finding your sticky wetness coating the digit as it carefully curled against your clit. You let out a quick gasp, hips twitching, and he repeated the motion, watching you slowly come apart from the simplest of touches.

His other hand found his cock, fisting it as he played with you. You could hear the slick pumping of his hand against himself, and you moved your weight upon your elbows to sit up and watch him. Even on his knees, Ushijima of Velhad was intimidating, all broad shoulders and heavily corded muscle across his body. You admired how his arm flexed as he stroked himself, how his toned stomach was clenching with need. Your mouth fell open as you glimpsed his thick cock within his palm. It fit so perfectly in his big hand, throbbing, thick veins calling out to be inside of you.

You wanted to beg for him again, but your words were lost when one of his fingers slid inside of you, stretching your walls to fit around him. You dropped back against the warm stone, mouth falling open.

“So tight,” he said it like a fact, like he expected it, “you’ll feel so good stuffed with my cock.”

You bit into your lip in a whimper as he curled the digit inside of you, pumping it once, twice, with agonizing slowness. But soon, he added a second finger, the thick digits spreading you, testing you. His pace was calculated, fingers pleasurably systematic. You moaned at every twist and plunge, hips arching off the floor to meet his pace. His thumb began to circle your clit and you swore that stars overtook your vision, bursting in the corners of your eyes as you tried to focus on the ecstasy churning deep within your stomach. His long fingers were stroking your velvety walls just perfectly, each plunge feeling deeper and deeper than before, fanning the flames beneath your skin even hotter.

“Ushi, please…”

“Please what, my love? Tell me.”

He was particularly cruel, electing to rub your clit faster, harder, making your words choke in your throat. You cried out, feeling the orgasmic coil begin to tighten in your belly. You were already so strung out for his love, for his touch, and you knew your little death was just around the corner.

“Make me cum, p-please!”

You felt his heavy body come back to yours, the hand on his cock ceasing its movements and instead finding your hand beside your head. His strong fingers wrapped around your flesh, curling into your forearm, thumb tactfully pinning down your wrist to the stones below.

He repositioned the hand between your thighs, now using the palm of his hand to press against your aching clit. His fingers found the soft patch of flesh inside of you, petting against it skillfully, like he already knew exactly what you needed, knew exactly what made you fall apart to his immoral hands.

His face dipped to yours, causing your eyes to flicker open to find his adoring gaze above you. He pressed a lazy kiss to your lips, muffling your moans as your legs began to press against his forearm, thighs begging for the release he could bring you. His mouth matched the rhythm of his fingers within you, his body in harmony with your own, pulling you tightly like the strings on a well-played lute. You were so ready to snap, so ready to sing songs of praise up into him, but all too soon his mouth and his hand left your body.

He could read the bewilderment on your face, feel you try to press back against him, but he held you down easily with the weight he forced onto your wrist.

“I want to feel you come undone on my cock,” he whispered against your lips, “are you ready?”

His hand, now slick from your pussy, pushed your thighs apart wider, curled your legs back farther, his own thighs pressing into your soft flesh. You felt his cockhead brush between your dripping folds.

“Yes! Take me, for the love of all things hol—!”

His hips slammed into yours, his throbbing cock filling you, stretching, pressing you far beyond what you expected. He hushed your cry with his mouth, his hand cupping your thigh and urging your body to move with him as he began to thrust within you. Your hand that he pinned to the floor fisted in on itself, your nails threatening to break your own skin as your mind struggled to catch up with your pleasure. You were so full, so fucking full, so overwhelmed by him.

His dewy, tawny skin felt so sinful against yours, the lingering moisture on your bodies bleeding into one another. His hips were strong, fast, each plunge of his cock going deep, deep, deep into your awaiting depths, finally uncovering every hidden place on your body to have as his own. You gasped and moaned into his mouth, and his sighs melded with yours, his kiss desperate, lips crashing into yours with more fervor than the storm that raged outside.

You felt so utterly lost, yet so wholly encompassed by him, by his earthy scent, by the weight of his body against yours. Your breasts slid against his chest, nipples pebbling as they brushed against his downy hair. Your back was skating against the warm stones below, the pressure against the hard surface enough to make you ache, but it paled in comparison to the jolts of pure pleasure that resounded through your body with every thrust of his massive cock inside of you.

“More,” you pleaded softly, lips peppering him with ardent kisses, “more, more, more.”

You felt him place more pressure on your trapped wrist and you gasped, worried for a split moment that your bones would splinter under his power. But he was cautious, moving your arm gently to rest above your head. The hand on your thigh crept up your body, stopping for only an instant to grope at your bouncing breast. But his fingers quickly moved on, skimming up your other arm, palm smoothing against your dampened skin. He soon found your wrist, now using both his mighty arms to pin your own above your head, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

His words were a dare, a wicked promise.

At the nodding of your head, he smirked, lips coming to your ear.

“Tell me to stop if it becomes too much, you promise?”

His thrusts had never faltered, the air in your lungs still hot from all your heavy breaths. You closed your eyes again, finding your voice.

“I promise.”

The primal sound that left his chest startled you; you could feel the rumbling spread across your body like aftershocks of an earthquake. His hands around your wrists tightened, arms tensing. He shifted forwards, pushing your hips up, legs wider.

And then he began to pound mercilessly into your body. You screamed, the high-pitched shrill echoing within the room, rebounding off the walls, soaking into his naked skin. Every fantasy he ever had of you suddenly came alive inside his mind, burning like a roaring fire, making his vision go blind as he pounded himself inside of you. You were so warm, so god damn tight, your pussy sucking him in with every unbridled thrust that he felt like he would break open from all the euphoria that was crackling within him.

He called out your name, over, and over, and over again, reminding himself who he was with, who he finally had coming undone below him. He was still holding back, too afraid of breaking you, but even still his hips moved faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing in his ears like the constant moans and praises that feel from your mouth.

“Ushi, fuck, fuck, yes!”

He was being cruel, he knew it, slamming into you like this, making your body bow into the floor, but he didn’t care. He needed to feel that coil that was tightening inside of you earlier come to fruition on his cock, he needed to spill his seed inside of you.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel what was happening to you. All your focus was upon his cock stretching your pussy, filling you so perfectly that you knew you’d never want to feel another again. It was like you were made for him; all your limits were being pushed at once. Your wrists ached within his grip, surely bruising under such an immense hold, but you felt secure, safe underneath his power.

Your knees were bent to their threshold of flexibility, your ass now well above the floor as he curled you to fit him. His cock was so deep, his thrusts now remaining almost entirely inside of you, pounding away at your insides like a man gone mad. You were at the borders of your composure.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, eyes watering, mouth open, body stinging, longing, begging for him, “g-gonna, gonna, cum!”

“That’s right,” he murmured, tongue daring to skim the shell of your ear, “cum on my cock, baby, cum for me.”

Your nails finally pierced the flesh of your palms as you came completely undone around him, orgasm bursting forth and blooming around you in euphoria. All your senses came crashing down, every small detail becoming more alive and ever present than ever before. It was all so much, the pleasure pooling in your belly and spreading across your body faster than lightning that raced across the sky. His hot breath was against your neck, your legs aching, blood dripping down your palms, water still cooling against your skin, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks. You could hear every sound: your screams ringing against the stone, his grunts into your hair, the wet suck of your pussy around his cock, even the still water resting in the pool.

Your body was wrecked with tremors as he continued his ruthless assault, sweat beading at the nape of his neck. Your orgasm drenched his cock with thick, wet slick, encouraging him to drive a little harder, push a little deeper. He heard little pained gasps from your mouth, but he warned you he was corrupt, told you to stop him, yet you were taking him so fucking well, so fucking perfect like he knew you would. He was so close, so painfully close, his cock throbbing, his rigorous pace becoming unsettled as he felt your sweet thighs wrap around him.

Then there it was, the sound of your voice, the sound of his goddess calling to him.

“I want your cum, n-need it, please, fill me up, make me yours.”

He finally crashed, your words like the irresistible call of a siren. Hot cum filled your tight pussy, his cock thumping deep inside your womb. You felt like you could breathe again, his inhuman strength finally laxing upon your ruined body.

His mouth found yours again, his lips tender and now so familiar and welcoming. The tension in your body washed away, his loving hands tracing over your body as he allowed your legs to finally rest. Your heart was hammering in your chest; you could feel every beat inside your rib cage as you finally calmed down, mind returning, body waking up from its lust.

Ushijima slid himself from inside of you, leaving your body with a groan of satisfaction. He watched his cum pool between your thighs, pearl white and stark against the stones. He looked up at you, all of you, admiring your spent body below him. He watched how your breasts heaved with breaths, how your eyes were blinking mindlessly up at the ceiling as you came down from your high.

But then he recognized the bruises on your arms, the bites on your chest, the indentions of the stone upon your sides, the bloody nail prints in your open palms. He cursed himself, cursed his monstrous hands—he knew he was never meant to hold you, that he was unworthy.

“I hurt you.”

His simple words brought you back to reality.

You sat up then, stretching your body as you came face-to-face with him once more.

“Oh please.” You chided, a smile forming on your face as you cast a simple spell within your torn hands. He eyed you curiously as the blue tinge of magic twisted within your palms, your small wounds closing, even the marks upon your chest healing to a more reasonable color. They were still there, the small reminders he created, but they would fade on their own in a few days.

You took his face in your hands, thumbs caressing his handsome cheeks.

“No more grief, Ushiwaka. Please, for me?”

He only drew you closer in response, cradling you in his arms.

A few words of thanks came forth from his mouth, but you paid them little mind, too caught up in his embrace. You remained entangled in one another for a moment longer, both at ease in the company of each other’s breaths, your heart beats, the feeling of fingers skimming over skin.

“Stay with me awhile?” You questioned softly into his chest.

“Did you think I was going to leave after that?”

“You always leave, you know, at some point.”

“Not this time, my love. I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.”

You both felt the pull then, the same tug that you had both longed to feel for so long.

You were at home.

Ushijima pulled you to your feet, wordlessly leading you to get dressed and follow him back into your great room. You saw the books still open on your desk, forlorn and nearly forgotten.

He settled back into the chair after stoking the fire in your pit, bringing the flames back to life. He stretched out, yawned, and appeared wholly comfortable there, magnificent arms crossed upon his chest.

You could get used to seeing him there, and you knew little by little, he’d allow you to read his pages, too.

_______________________________________________________________________

Note: I don’t own anything from Haikyuu or the Witcher Universe.

Taglist: @badtimechara @present-mel @sgoldberg1997 @donica95 @hi-itsbonny @linestrider @shoutosplaything @kyberhearts @dhyaena @heyybrittannia @thisisthehardestthing @presmiic @kittifer @lemonsqueexx @iwaizumi-chan @kitten-on-ecstasy @dekulover @thatpeachybandgirl @skincrepe @whats-her-quirk @littlewhitefairy7777 @unboundbnha @tinitimesims125 @disasteren @misfitgirlwrites @tsum-samu @pineappleinmyass

#ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x reader #ushijima #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima x you #ushijima x y/n #haikyuu fanfiction #hq fanfiction #fantasy au #witcher universe #the witcher #ushijima headcanons #ushijima wakastoshi fanfic #the smut pile collab #server collab

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dxrkdreamer · 3 years

Text

Salvation Part 2

Sukuna had come back to be repaid for what he did for you, his original plan of terrorizing you went down the drain as he stared at a different girl from what he left and the way his heart and mind remained puzzled because of you.

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader

Word Count: 2.3 k

Part 1

Part 3: coming soon… September 19

(A/N: Part 2 everyone! I hope you guys like this :)

Warnings: Mentions of fighting and some blood.

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You heard stories as you started life with the newfound skills Sukuna helped you develop. The stories were enough to make adults shiver in fear, enough for them to offer their souls. But you laughed at them. Because you knew nothing, not even their soul would stop Sukuna from annihilating them if he felt like it. He didn’t need a reason. The stories of him burning down villages and torturing the inhabitants of said villages were most likely true. You heard a lot of villages began worshipping him out of their fear. It was foolish you thought, He’s just a man.

You may have not been the fittest back then, but you were one of the smartest. You knew he left you when you were 5 because he did want to kill you- but only when you were begging for your life. He wanted to enjoy the pain he’d bring upon you. But if he still wanted that he could have killed you when you were learning from him. You were happy and trusted him, and what hurts more than someone breaking your trust?

He did not want to kill you now either. You knew that. If he did, he would have done it long ago.

So you stared at him, right in his eyes as he looked down at you. Not bothering to pay attention to the other people around him, they were like maggots to him after all.

After he had left you, you lived in the same cottage and fended for yourself. It was not difficult for you to do. But eventually the meat you hunted, berries you picked and plants you harvested would start to spoil. It was too much for a young teenager so you started sharing them with the fellow orphans from your village. But after being with you, they wanted to learn how to fend for themselves too. And you taught them what he had taught you.

Eventually you had become quite popular in the village, and even the nobleman would send their children to you for martial arts lessons. Your students were skilled enough to go to the competitions held in bigger cities where people from all over the country would come to see. And your students won often.

But after 7 years of this you were bored. So when you spotted the peculiar man from your childhood during a martial arts competition your body could only bubble up with excitement inside.

The host man announced the winner and Sukuna smirked as he saw it was one of your pupils. Your name had become known since you were the first female teacher, let alone a female teacher with such a high success rate. The stories he had heard of you made his chest swell with pride… Because I was the one who taught the brat he’d tell himself at the strange feeling. He looked down and noted how much you had grown, from a scrawny preteen to a beautiful woman. Your old tattered clothes were replaced with a silk robe- a very suggestive robe with a deep neckline and the hem at the bottom just barely touching the top of your ankles. So that when you walked your lower leg would be in clear view of ongoing lookers. He knew you wore the cheeky robe on purpose, you loved the attention you got from all the gasps and looks of distaste from other females. What a lecherous woman.

As you walked over to congratulate your student, he swooped down onto the center of the stadium. Chuckling as he heard the gasps from the audience, his four arms stretched out, claws protruded, ready to attack. The sun’s rays made him appear like an ethereal being that demanded attention.

“It’s time you repaid me brat.”

The crowd went crazy, everyone running out, looking for a place to hide as fast as their legs could take them. But his focus was just on you. Your student is long gone, leaving you alone. You never taught them about loyalty so it didn’t matter.

“How can I do that?” you asked tilting your head, you spoke with such calmness it made Sukuna question if you knew who and what he was.

“By coming with me, as my servant”

“Sure” you said nonchalantly. Life was boring, he had come to save you again… from a mundane life. But nonetheless saved you even if it was not from an immediate danger. You did not feel any sympathy for your village, the label of a traitor did not bother you. The village betrayed you first by not batting an eye or offering you any form of help during your time of need. You owed Sukuna a lot, and you were not scared of him, just extremely grateful.

“Women I am taking you with me” He repeated again, slightly deadpanning. Could your pathetic human ears not hear his majestic voice? He brought down a hand and the seating of the studium tumbled down as his power slashed it. The rubble flying everywhere as debris and sand made your sight hazy.

“And I said yes” you spoke and walked towards him, stopping a few inches away where you grabbed one his arms, pulled it down and pressed his claws to the exposed skin right above your heart “You can’t kill me” you said answering the question he had not asked yet.

His arm stayed still in the girl’s hand as he looked at her curiously. When he felt you push his claws further onto your skin, enough that blood started seeping from the puncture wounds his nails created he realized it. He really could not kill you. You saw him not as a monster that terrorized innocent people in villages for his pure joy, but as a powerful man who saved you and gave you a life with purpose. You were the first acting out of love rather than fear.

The dust had cleared and the sun had become visible once again. The hot rays burning the back of his neck, it would surely burn you too if he was not standing two and a half feet taller than you, shading you from it.

“Very well then women”

“Sukuna-sama I’ve washed and hung your clothes to dry and have cleaned your quarters” he heard you say. He looked back at you from training, your cheeky robe now traded to more modest apparel. A yukata that would not expose your ankles or your chest, in fact the fabric would sometimes drag on the floor and the neckline was almost choking you. You hated it, but that was all the more reason for him to make you wear it.

It had been about 2 weeks since he “kidnapped you”, he called it but youd respond saying you went willingly- which was the truer of the two stories. Cleaning and cooking and doing the basic servant duties. Normally you’d hate this more than your previous lifestyle, but with Sukuna-sama there was always some excitement. Mostly watching him have trouble with the most basic things and yelling out to you to “fix the mess” in disguise of needing help.

He grunted in response but noticed you settling down, back resting against a tree trunk and you sat in the soft grass he had not wrecked yet. “Woman, have you finished everything?”

“Yes Sukuna-sama” perplexed he brainstormed for another task he could give you but came up with none on the spot.

“Spar with me.”

“What?” You looked up, mouth open as you stared at him. Had you heard him correct?

“I should not have to repeat my words for my servant to do as she is asked.”

Oh.

You stood up hesitantly and walked up in front of him, standing face to face as you took your position. He on the other hand lifted one set of hands so his head could lean back at them, the other lazily at his sides.

You ran up to him, getting ready to punch him, which he stopped with one hand grabbing your fist, so you took it as an opportunity to kick him. But this outfit made it very difficult for you to do as you were thrown to the ground.

“Have you grown weaker?” he mocked. This time with more fire in your body you stood up, ripping the bottom of the dress off, exposing your knees. And you ran forward again, now with more mobility.

What the…. He stared at your exposed legs as you ran, he was distracted allowing you to land a harsh kick at his side making him stumble and fall.

An even score, 1-1.

Dumbfounded he looked up at you, you smirked but deep down you were just as surprised as he was.

“Brat” he mumbled, standing up, stretching his limbs. “One more time” he smirked at you before charging at you with speed. It caught you off guard and you only recovered a second before his right fist came right down at you, giving you just enough time to block it with your forearm, pushing his hand to the side. His left hand was already moving, but you were too and you blocked it again. He was fast and you knew he was not at his full speed, he jumped clasping his other set of hands together as he brought them down on you but you dodged again, jumping back creating a gap of a few meters between you two. You ran to him your fist ready to make contact against his smug face, but he caught your fist and swung you around before throwing you against some trees, the force breaking the tree as you went flying into the trees behind it, each tree falling as your back crashed into them, finally stopping as the force faded.

“Ughhh what was that...'' you groaned trying to move, but your back was in too much pain, and you felt like the bones in your body had all changed places and were swimming around in whatever blood was left in you. In your clouded vision you saw him approach you, tsking and sitting down on a fallen trunk.

This move was different, you knew that much. More powerful? But how and why?

“That had cursed energy in it,” he simply said.

“Cursed energy? What’s that?” you asked confused, your brows furrowing up. “Like curses?” you had heard about those but only thought of them as wive tales.

“Curses are apparitions made from cursed energy” he said, watching carefully as your eyes lit up with curiosity. “The energy is a manifestation of negative emotions”

You nodded pretending to understand what he was going on about.

“Tsk let me show you women” he said.

This marked the next part of your training from him, he taught you how to manipulate your own cursed energy to the point you could also see these apparitions and use it to your advantage.

And you grew stronger than ever before, much to his delight.

Throughout the time spent with you, Sukuna began growing fond of you, he enjoyed your presence. To the point he rushed through his usual escapades of terrorizing the lives of people. He’d perk up watching you look through the many offerings he received, picking through them and smiling in excitement when something caught your eye and you’d beg him to let you have it.

“You seem deep in thought?” your soft voice asked from across the room, you were sitting on a floor cushion, mending one of his robes using a needle and thread. It was getting late, the sun was setting and the colors spilled into the room, lighting you up in it’s warmth. You looked ethereal, he thought, taking in the sight of you. You were humming quietly, your eyes focused on the needle, your hands holding the soft fabric of the robe you had picked out for him, your legs tucked underneath you towards the side, the skirt of your dress riding up to reveal your legs. His eye twitched.

“When did I allow you to wear such skanky clothes?”

“Sukuna-sama it's just so much easier to move in these” you argued. He scoffed looking away, but looking at you through the corner of his eye.

“You’re nice to be around women” he grunted.

“Sorry, what?” you lowered your head, hair spilling over your face to hide your grin.

‘I’ll cut your useless ears off myself once you’re done with my robe.’ he tried saying, but he couldn’t lie to you. As he opened his mouth to attempt to say it again he felt the futon dip as you sat near him, placing his finished robe to the side.

“Are you saying you like me?”

“If I didn’t like you I would have killed you and smeared your blood all over the filthy village you came from”

“So you do like me.” How annoying he thought

“Why must I always repeat myself around you, I should just slash you up right now” he says as he lifts his finger, expecting you to dodge it but you sit there not defending yourself as his power cuts through the cloth and flesh over your shoulder, you just grinned up at him. You were so troublesome, getting hurt for his attention. Leaving the room he came back with water, a cloth and some gauze. As he sat down to clean the wound he inflicted you laid your head in his lap, legs sprawled out as he cleaned the wound.

“Hey” you whispered, lifting your hand up and caressing his jaw with gentle fingers “I like you too”.

“I didn’t ask”

#sukuna x reader #sukuna imagines #sukuna x y/n #sukuna fics #jjk sukuna #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader

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kikilefangirl · 3 years

Text

Loved One

Geralt of Rivia x Black!Reader

(Word Count: 1.4K)

The peeking sun shot out from in between the blinds, bursts of light leaving a soft warmth on your face.

Before you opened your eyes, you felt the hard body beside you. The hair on his chest tickled your fingers as you tried not to wake him. The blood rushing through his heart roared in your ears as you laid there. Your eyes fluttered as you opened them slowly, blearing at the harsh light.

“Destiny is taking its course.”

You lay in Geralt of Rivia’s bed, his gruff voice softened from tiredness. You tilted your head to see those unearthly, golden orbs peering down at you through slightly hooded lids.

You frowned slightly as you sat up to face the Witcher. Away from his body, a morning chill sent goosebumps along your bare spine.

“You must guide her, Geralt.” You said softly, keeping your voice low. The two of you slept in this room while the owners and Ciri arranged around it.

Ciri, the poor princess from Cintra, orphaned and a fugitive at such a young age. Too young. You remembered the smell of smoke and blood poisoning the evening air, overpowering the earthly scent that usually awaited you at the castle gates.

You shivered at the memory.

Before the bile could creep up your throat, you shoved it back down. Death reeked over your lands once; and it had done the same to Ciri as her kingdom.

Geralt sat up as well.

“She needs better than me.”

You hooked your legs over his, and cupped a hand on his cheek. You savored the closeness reserved just for you, it eased the mounting tension.

“You cannot abandon her again, Geralt.” You pleaded, but the Witcher gave no quarter. His face remained unchanged, your hands still on him.

You ripped them away, climbing off your lovers lap with a detached sadness. That girl was the key to the latest tyrant to bring violence and destruction throughout the continent. You dressed and Geralt watched you.

Neither of you spoke as you gracefully made to leave.

“She is alone with no family to claim her. Certainly you would know how that feels.”

...

Your airy, breathy voice was unnervingly calm and fact like.

Anger brought Geralt to his feet in a blur. He sprang up from the bed, his beloved already slipping out the door.

Your words echoed in his head—his mother, Kaer Morhen, and his mother again.

“Fuck.”

Geralt surveyed the room as flashes of you invaded his senses. The smell of you— the peace he felt when you were near. Right now, the thought of you and your easy gentleness, made his jaw tighten with fury.

Your words had reached their target, and he hated it. Geralt didn’t like to dwell, not when he had already spent enough years hoping for the impossible. But of course he was breaking his rules when it came to you.

He grumbled as he too, dressed for the day, grumbling to himself in open annoyance.

…

The day was a series of quick bristles through fabric, a blur moving limbs attached to faces neither dared to gaze upon, and an audience.

Everyone noticed the icy cavern between you and your Witcher.

But you hadn’t lied to him.

You never lied to Geralt, a fault that probably made you rather odd company. All of your objections, your laughs, and your smiles were genuine with him. That wasn’t so for everyone—anyone else, but Geralt of Rivia.

You surveyed gorgeous plants hanging over the windowsill, long strains of bright green dangled in the air. A surprisingly elegant and simple touch to the modest cottage.

“—last us a fortnight.”

Your host announced, but you were hardly paying any attention. You were attending to Ciri’s knotted, freshly washed hair, and led her outside.

Your quick nimble fingers made quick work of the fine blond hair—it was nothing like your own. The girl looked so haunted and neglected on her journey to Geralt, you wanted to do something nice for her before the journey resumed.

“Ouch.” The young princess winced at your heavy handedness. You clicked your tongue, loosening your grip slightly.

“You are nearly presentable. Patience is becoming of every young lady.” You admonished, softly.

The two of you sat on the stone step before the front door. High grass tickled the fabric of your dress as you and Ciri traded stories.

You had never really imagined yourself as a mother, but you took to the princess of Cintra and she you. Mother-like then.

When you pinned her last braid, Ciri hummed in excitement as she glanced in the small mirror.

“Many thanks, Y/N. It’s beautiful.”

The girl’s demeanor shifted at the word—she shrank into herself, letting the mirror fall in the grass beside you.

“My people are dying and I am worried about what is beautiful.” Ciri’s lower lip quivered as she sank back to the ground.

You frowned at the girl with a kingdom on her shoulders.

“It is something you love and it will keep you grounded.” Your voice never wavered. It was a clear, calm sound that cut through the haze of Ciri’s emotions.

“What do you love?” She asked.

“I love Geralt, I suppose.” You replied without blinking.

Familiar amber eyes poked out from the door. It was a miracle the Witcher’s large frame fit anywhere. The princess didn’t seem to notice his presence, but responded nevertheless.

“And I love Cintra. What am I to do with that information?” Ciri’s eyes burned with desperation, for the answers to her problems.

You saw it and so did Geralt. The Witcher nodded, bowing his head a tad longer than he needed to. The corners of your lips turned up, forming a sad, delicate smile.

“I have my love, Lioncub of Cintra,” Your eyes flicked up at Geralt, “I have fought many times to keep him with me, always. You must also fight for yours. Always.”

A determination brewed in the girl’s eyes, growing harder and harder with each passing moment. Gone was the clever, skittish girl who escaped the fall of Cintra through the sacrifices of others— no.

Something ancient coursed through her veins, and Ciri looked every bit the cold, ethereal Queen she truly was. You recalled Geralt’s mystified, and all together defeated expression.

The girl had more power that he paled against, and you had ignored his warnings. Ciri was more than a girl, or a princess for that matter.

She was the hope of her people and had a firm hand in shaping all of their futures—whatever they may be.

Ciri took in the wisdom you offered with a deep breath, you waited until her body sagged in an effort to keep upright. You ross to your feet and guided her inside, not bothering to spare the silver haired man a glance as you passed.

…

After Ciri promptly requested to be alone, you wished to be as well. Those plans fell apart when Geralt’s gaze— his impossible Witcher gaze— pinned you to the far wall.

“Y/N, I can see her hurt,” Geralt said in a low, gravelly voice.

He stood at his full height, making everything around him look smaller, all the sudden. You blinked, processing his words.

A silent apology followed as your eyes once again settled on him. You let your gaze drift to somewhere behind him.

“She has too much power to go on untrained.”

Clamping down on your own pride was easier because you were telling the truth. Geralt had said as much and you ignored him.

The Witcher offered an upturned palm. A peace offering. You took it and melted into him, savoring his warmth.

“I will not continue defying destiny.” Geralt broke the comfortable silence that had settled. You felt the hum in his chest when he spoke.

You kissed him then— on his neck, where you were nestled. Underneath his jaw, his chin, and finally his lips.

Whereas you were light and tender in your approach, Geralt possessed nothing of the sort. He returned your affection with a fierceness reserved for lovers only.

When the two of you finally separated, you held his face in your hands.

“I pray destiny will always bring us back together.”

Geralt gripped you tighter, the pressure keeping you in the moment. Proof that your love was real, that he would not let go of you even as times became more and more unsure.

“I will pray, too.”

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #Geralt x black!reader #Geralt x poc!reader #Geralt of rivia x black!reader #Geralt of rivia x poc!reader #the Witcher #the Witcher fic #black!reader #poc!reader #I slept on Henry cavill #I was wrong #geralt of rivia oneshot #this is my first time writing for Geralt #witcher ciri #Geralt angst and then fluff #joined a new fandom I guess

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magalidragon · 3 years

Text

So this is in response to a prompt ask I got awhile back from @freesoulladyaic— they requested beauty underneath and I am not sure exactly what but I think there was a mixup for which prompt list and number was requested so I went with the one I thought made most sense I hope you don’t mind and so sorry it has been so long! Enjoy!

Prompt: “I prefer you naked but that dress looks really good on you too.”

"Fuck!"

"Language."

Jon looked up from where he'd stabbed his thumb with a pin, a series of them stuck between his lips. He made a face at his wife, who was on the other side of the room, working on another dress form. He lifted up the yards of shades of red soft organza and tulle, which he'd been alternating in a macrame styling on the bodice of the gown. He'd been pinning them to the waist, already marked on the form. It was giving it a very ethereal look, but with the deep colors, indicative of the Targaryen crest, the overlay looked equal parts ash and fire.

He finished off the bodice, taking the remaining pins from his mouth, and turned the form, frowning at the back, where he wanted to make the two straps criss-crossing from shoulder to waist thicker, both in black. The red was just the detailing. He pursed his lips, contemplating how best to achieve this, and felt eyes on him. He lifted his, meeting Dany's gaze across the studio. He smirked. "What?"

"You're so focused, so intense." She licked her lips, arching her brow teasingly. She purred, "You know what that does to me."

"Keep it in your pants, we've got dresses to finish."

"Hmm, the auteur himself, Jon Snow, working on his creation." She sauntered over, in her long black housecoat, which she wore when working, her feet bare on the hardwood and jeans rolled at the cuffs. Her hair was bound up in a scarf, kept from her eyes while she worked. It was a decidedly unsexy look, measuring tape over her shoulder, pincushion strapped to her wrist and her pockets heavy with thread and a little set of scissors tucked into a brace on her other wrist, like she was some sort of sewing superhero.

He smirked up at her, the stool he was on swiveling over to her. "Well I promised the client that I would have my best men on it." He puffed his chest. "And that happens to be me."

"Funny, I thought I was the client."

"You are, what do you think so far?" He chewed his bottom lip, studying her face as she perused the fabric draped and pinned to the form. He pretended like her opinion meant nothing to him, but in reality it was the only one that mattered. If there was even a hint of dislike, he'd destroy the entire thing and start again. It worked both ways.

She trailed a finger along the macrame detailing, the straps across the back, and lifted up the tulle strewn along the floor. On the table he had sketches of the design, fabric samples pinned to a board on an easel, and at least one of the leather leggings he'd been sewing to go underneath. While she studied everything, he got up, too nervous to watch her, and went into the adjoining office, picking up his vape.

Clamping his lips around it, he puffed, holding it in his mouth like a 'binkie' as Dany teased him, and picked up some sales reports, flicking through the assessments from their CFO. They'd poached Willas Tyrell from his grandmother, mostly because he was bored with the steadiness of the established company and wanted something new. He was brilliant, had taken their sales higher than even Jon had imagined-- and that was pretty far.

Dragonwolf had become the most sought after couture house in Westeros, while he transitioned L.Stark into an upscale ready-to-wear line, headed by Sansa. Dany still maintained her CEO position over Dracarys, but Missandei had taken over as creative director. It afforded him more time, he'd discovered, to do the things he really enjoyed doing.

Hanging out with Ghost, coming up with new creations, and Dany, not necessarily in that order.

He sucked down the fake smoke from the vape, tricking his brain it was actually a real cigarette, the action habitual and relaxing his nerves. He sank into his chair, glancing at the photo of his mother he kept on the edge of the desk, smiling briefly at the image of her laughing, arms around him as he was wrapped up in fabric from playing in her studio. His gaze darted to the image right beside it, of Dany in the same pose, hugging him after she had wrapped him up in fabric too. It was in the same place, the same location he'd just come from, their private studio in the old townhome in Winterfell.

The vape still between his lips, he moved to the window, cranking it open and blowing smoke into the nighttime air, glancing towards the castle up on the hill. The dresses were for the annual Winter's Eve Gala event, something of a who's who in the zoo of the Westerosi peerage and entertainment industry. It was a chance for the Starks to show off the castle, everyone to arrive dripping in icy couture and jewels, and pretend like they gave a shit about the lesser people among them. There would be a famous silent auction, fundraising for the Lyanna Stark Memorial Fund-- which was incredibly important to his heart-- along with an award that would honor someone who had contributed significantly to Lyanna's chosen cause-- orphaned children.

But the thing people seemed to care most about was what everyone would be wearing.

He was making Dany's dress and she was making a dress for a new young actress as well as the young cousin of her friend Ser Jorah Mormont. Lyanna Mormont was a Lady, technically, but you wouldn't know it. She was a pistol. This would be her first big event after her first movie had hit the scene, garnering her immediate raves and attention. It was a big deal for her to be getting a chance to wear a Dracarys creation, especially handmade by Dany herself, but it was the least Dany said she could do for the young girl who made her smile and laugh every single time she encountered her.

Jon finished his vape, returning to the studio, and found Dany back to work on Lyanna's dress. There were no notes left for him, so he continued to work, both of them silent. He kept at it, accepting her kiss and murmured "don't stay up too late" with a distracted nod, remaining at his station into the night. He pinned and draped and sewed, every stitch even, like his mother taught him.

Around two in the morning, his eyes burned, but he leaned back in his chair, feet up on his desk, and Ghost under his legs, fast asleep. He was working on the leggings, finding hand-sewing leather to actually be a relaxing task. It was soft in his hands, buttery almost, and he likened it to his mother, watching her work on making her own riding clothes. He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it, and pulled on thread, slipping it in and out, until his eyes drooped further and further, until he was fast asleep.

The suit he'd chosen to wear was one of Dany's. The irony of L.Stark by Jon Snow, award winning and bestselling couture men's designer wearing a suit from anyone but his own line, especially Dracarys. It was something he never would have thought possible two years ago when they were at the height of their hatred for each other. Nay, he corrected himself, it wasn't hating, it was unresolved tension, best resolved by the explosion most everyone witnessed at the MET gala.

He adjusted his tie in the mirror, smoothing the velvet brocade over his chest, eyeing Ghost, who looked like he wanted to run up to him. He pointed his finger, warning. "No way. This is black velvet. I'll never get your fur out."

Ghost wagged his tail, thankfully staying put on the bed.

Indeed, it was an incredibly comfortable and finely detailed suit, black silk tie with matching black velvet brocade along it-- if you got close enough you could see it was wolves and dragons running and tangling throughout, swirls of flames and snow following them. That was a hallmark of Dany-- her ability to tell stories with her designs and the intricacies of her attention to detail.

He left their room, knowing she was elsewhere in the suite at Winterfell, where they'd deigned to stay that evening to prepare for the event. He thought it a little silly; they would have to pretend to "leave" just to "arrive" at the same location and walk up the icy blue carpet with photographers.

Price they paid, he supposed, for business.

He left the suite, taking his time down the set of stone stairs spiraling down from their sitting and bedroom areas, into a receiving hall. Davos was already waiting, their constant taskmaster, and he had Satin floating about somewhere. "Where's Arya?" he asked.

"I believe she said and I quote 'fuck this shit, I'm not going.'"

He snorted, fixing his cufflinks. "Sounds about right."

Davos checked his watch. "I'll go check on the car."

"Stupid Davos, this is stupid."

"It's just a whip around the block." Davos nodded, signing, resigned. "Although aye, it is stupid."

"What's stupid?"

Jon heard Dany's voice before he saw her, and turned, looking up the stairs to where she was at the top, waiting for him. He gaped, mute, and jaw dropping the moment his eyes rested on her form. It took his brain a second to catch up with his body, which was already responding in kind, and another second for his voice to return.

He choked, watching her smirk at him, knowing exactly how she appeared and what she was doing. Especially with the slow descent she took, every step tiny, allowing the full effect of her appearance to settle. He could not believe it.

It was one thing to see a dress on paper, another in progress, and even the final version on the form or on a model down the runway.

It was another when it was on the person who inspired it, who it was meant for, from the first sketch to the final stitch.

Dany floated down the stairs, the dress whispering around her, the crimson and black rippling through the soft tulle. It gave her a fairy-like appearance, but it was the black macrame, the black strappy heels on her feet, and her black fingernails, leather leggings, and crimson lips that warned eveyrone she was no simpering little thing. She would burn you alive.

The skirt floated about her and she had topped it off with the see-through tulle gloves he'd made at the last minute. Her silver tresses were spun in a complicated braided style, mountains of them criss-crossing and tangling in a crown about her head.

Someone asked her once why she always wore her hair in such intricate braids-- it had become her trademark. "When I was growing up I learned a lot about the Dothraki tradition of a braid for a victory," she explained. She had smirked. "I grew up with the Dothraki. They were my family. I have never been defeated. The braids show that."

Jon couldn't believe how gorgeous she was.

Or how lucky he happened to be.

He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, found his voice. "You know, I prefer you naked but that dress looks really good on you too."

Dany beamed, her smile beatific. She offered her elbow to him, to take and lead her away to their car, but instead he lifted her hand delicately, even though that had was stronger than anyone would have thought at first look. Eyes on hers, unblinking, he dragged his fingertips up the tulle, delighting in her breathy hiss.

He dipped under the top of the glove, above her elbow, and began to peel it down, agonizingly slow. Her pupils dilated and mouth fell, her tongue darting out to nervously wet her lips. He plucked at fingers, removing the glove. With her skin bared, he stroked her forearm and then lifted her knuckles to his lips, brushing over them.

"Jon," she gasped, brows arching. "We're going to be late."

"Do you think I care?"

"It took forever to get into this dress and look like this."

He spun her into his arms, tossing the glove down, and nosed at her neck, whispering along her racing pulse. "I made the dress, I'll be careful."

"Not a word in your vocabulary."

He didn't acknowledge that, because he was kissing her. After a moment, he lifted her under her knees, hurrying her back towards the stairs, to her delighted giggles.

Occupational hazard, he thought, later when they were late, racing down the carpet instead of allowing photos taken. He made her the dresses, even though honestly, she looked good in anything. Or nothing, as the case may be.

"Dany, who are you wearing?" someone called out.

Dany shouted back. "Who do you think?"

He laughed, racing after her and not even bothering to answer the same question directed at him.

#jonerys #jonerys au #my fics #my moodboards #jonerys fanfic #writer prompts #fashion jonerys!

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concealeddarkness13 · 3 years

Text

All’s Fair In Love And War (Especially When It’s Both) Powerpoint!

I finally made one for the worldbuilding and main characters! Tagging: @ratracechronicler, @merigreenleaf, @maple-writes, @half-litpersonas, and @incandescent-creativity (since you want to be tagged in Powerpoints)! Here, here, and here are other info posts about this story.

[Image Description: a page titled: All’s Fair In Love an War (Especially When It’s Both)

AKA: The story I already want to start writing, even though I already have plenty of stories. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Overview

One bit happy world

Except the fact that humans are stuck in a fairly small enclosure because they tried to conquer the other species centuries ago

At that time so long ago, a scientist made prosthetics that gave elemental magic to people but also adversely affected their bodies

More info on the magic in a later slide

So, humans aren’t very happy about being in the enclosure

Some humans have come to believe that being 100% peaceful and ignoring the victims of the magical cyborg experiments (because they’re still going on) is the best way to convince the species to let them out

While other humans are convinced that a show of force and violence is the only way to get out

But this group has shady connections with the magical cyborg experiments

So, both groups are iffy

Good thing there’s one POV protagonist who couldn’t care less and just wants to live her life. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: The Species (almost all these names are temporary)

Humans: Just regular, old, plain humans, nothing to see here, they certainly don’t have any inherent magic (that the author still knows nothing about), just the magic that is given to them through the prosthetics

The Shades: (Yes, this is the home world of the Shades from Bring Me That Horizon) the Shades eat human emotions, and they’re shapeshifters

The Snakes: This species feeds on human blood, they have snake scales, longer limbs in proportion to their body, large eyes, slit pupils, and snake scales all over their bodies; they have paralyzing toxins that are aerosols and are secreted by their hair; these toxins only paralyze humans

The Venus Girdles: This species feeds on human souls, they have hair that looks like a lot of Venus Girdle jellyfish fused to their head, they glow slightly, and they just have an ethereal feel; they feed using their Venus Girdle hair coming into contact with the prey’s skin and sucking up the life force, so a human can still live, and their soul will replenish the life force after a while; the feeding isn’t painful, just makes the human feel really tired

The Crabs (I suppose): This species claims to feed on human logic, they have carapace that grows over their skin, especially on their chest to protect their hearts, they’re usually faster and stronger than humans, and they have slit pupils; they actually feed on the inherent magic humans have (surprise, surprise the prosthetics are not even needed), and their carapace is especially anti-magic

The Celestials: This is a species no one has ever seen, but there’s a whole belief system around them, and they are actually real; I don’t know what they eat, but they live out in space around the planet, they protect the planet from invaders, their skin looks like the night sky, their hair and clothes are all flowy and wave in an ever-present wind, and they can change their body’s make-up to fit the atmosphere of the planet or space. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: The Magic from the Prosthetics

It’s elemental magic...with a nefarious twist!

The fire magic lets a person control fire, but the source of their fire resides in their lungs, and if they exercise too much or get stressed out, the fire stokes and burns their throat (but they can breathe fire), and occasionally, they’ll have to cough up smoke

The water magic allows a person to control water and swim really well, but after a year, they grow gills, and that’s a painful process, and randomly, their bodies will forget how to use lungs, so they will have to breathe through their gills for an unspecified amount of time, which sucks if there isn’t a good water source around

The wind magic allows a person to control air, but they grow wings, which sounds great, but it takes two to three years to grow those wings, and it’s very painful throughout the whole process, and they hurt more than they should even after the wings are fully grown

Finally, the lightning magic allows a person to control lightning, but they basically have lightning in their bodies the whole time, which means that they have 24/7 static electricity that makes their hair stand on end, and the energy the lightning gives their bodes means they really can’t sleep, which really sucks, so they’re chronically tired. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Characters

I have way too many characters

Seriously, there are a lot of them

So, I’ll only talk about the really main characters

But I’m having fun, so it’s ok! End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Chess

One of the POV characters

She was part of the most recent cyborg experiments (which are still going on), but she doesn’t remember any of it; her right arm and left leg are prosthetics

Actually, she doesn’t remember anything past two years ago, so she doesn’t know who she was before that

Because she was part of the cyborg experiments, people don’t particularly like to see her if they can identify her prosthetics

So, she keeps moving from city to city once people start to recognize her prosthetics

Survivor; the only time she doesn’t prioritize survival is when she goes to a bar and picks up someone so she doesn’t have to sleep alone

She doesn’t believe anyone would do anything for reasons other than selfish ones

Doesn’t trust anyone

Chill, though; she could see some alien she can’t explain and she’d just shrug; she also has no opinion on either of the different sides

One night, she’s found kissing the son of the leaders, and that causes a scandal

So, the leaders decide to cover it up by trying to say she’s really human and had been engaged to their son the whole time

Creed, their son, decides to cause some mischief, and she agrees

She keeps claiming that soon she’ll have to leave, but she never does

“I put my head down keep running away from it, anywhere I’m going can’t be worse than this, I need to get away before it pulls me in, I’m never ever getting close to anyone again.” (Right Left Wrong by Three Days Grace). End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Creed

He’s the son of the leaders

...But is he?

He’s known as Callum Miro Rey, but he likes the nickname Creed (spoiler reasons why)

When they met at the bar, he seemed to recognize Chess from somewhere, but of course, she doesn’t remember

He is genderfluid, and I’m still figuring that out; he likes he/him, they/them, and she/her on different days, and it changes every couple days normally

He seems to be easily amused and doesn’t have an opinion on whether peace or violence is the best way to go

He just likes to watch humans bicker about the different sides

Doesn’t seem to care about much, but he does seem to actually have some kind of fond feelings for Chess

They become partners in mischief, to more? Possibly.

“And now the silence screams that you are gone, you’ve tuned me out, I’ve lost your frequency.” (Frequency by Starset). End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Vesper

She is an important member of the peace group; she gives speeches about the logic of staying peaceful to get out of the enclosure

She grew up with parents who were hosts to the various ambassadors the different species would send inside the enclosure

Her parents always taught her to bury her emotions and never show that something affected her

While observing the ambassadors, she came to the conclusion that there was no way to fight the different species and expect to get out of the enclosure, that the only way to get out is to make the other species see humans as such a non-threat that they wouldn’t care about letting them out

Because she’s such a high rank in the peace movement, the violence movement sends the infamous demon twins, Thorne and Jude, to capture her

She’s logical, but she does have emotions, and she actually feels them very deeply, she just never shows them

And she’s also self sacrificial, very much so

“No one is coming to save you, the enemy means only to play you, and they take and they take and they give just a little.” (Save You by Manafest) End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Thorne

His full name is Thorne Ragnik (and I’m only saying this because I’m proud I actually thought up last names)

He’s part of the violence movement, one of the demon twins (even though they aren’t twins)

He grew up poor because both of his parents were part of the previous cyborg experiments, so they were ignored by society (because the leaders are part of the peace movement), and now he’s an orphan

As such, he stole to survive, and one day, he stole from Jude’s parents’ house, and Jude caught him

But instead of raising the alarm, Jude decided to help Thorne because he wanted to and also because of the mischief

They’ve both been part of the violence movement for a few years, and they’ve become infamous for capturing opponents to the violence movement in their special way

Which means dancing with their prey until the prey is thoroughly confused and dazed

Thorne is more of the serious one, but he also gets dryly dramatic really quick

He wears a normal suit most of the time. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Jude

His full name is Jude Laynor

His parents are nobles that believe in the peace movement

And he’s a trickster who loves mischief

So, he doesn’t get along with his parents much

And when he was young, he met Thorne when Thorne tried to steal from his parets’ house, and he didn’t care

He actually hangs out with Thorne a lot after that, and he’s one of the reasons Thorne becomes more lighthearted

He joined the violence movement with Thorne at the same time, and they quickly became known as the demon twins

He’s more playful and teasing, and he wears fancy, flashy stuff

He grins all the time. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Maisa

He’s a Shade who has taken an interest in Vesper

He’s actually part of a group of different species that are working to make sure the humans never leave the enclosure, and in fact, they want to control humans even more

Vesper came to the conclusion that peace is the only way on her own, but once Maisa took an interest in her, he started manipulating her to make her believe even more in the peace movement

He manipulates her by seducing her, because of course

And Vesper knows Maisa’s horrible, but she thinks her sacrifice is worth it to let other people out of the enclosure

Maisa’s selfish, possessive, and a jerk

He’s a shapeshifter, and he does change between male and female sometimes

He basically feels he’s entitled to Vesper (he’s so interested in her because she does feel deep emotions even though she doesn’t show them), so when Thorne and Jude capture her, he’s going to send minions after them. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Quin

He’s the final POV character, but he won’t show up as a POV right away

That’s because neither Chess nor Vesper know that there are humans living on the outside of the enclosure, so that reveal should be hidden a little

I’m not sure how yet, but Quin was captured by the group of different species that want humans to stay in the enclosure sometime before the story starts

They keep him as basically an animal in a small cage: they show him off to the other species to convince them that humans aren’t sentient (which the group knows isn’t correct, but they want the others to believe so)

The species speak in their language around him (that he doesn’t speak), but one day, while they’re showing him off, he speaks back to them in their language because he learned a few phrases from them talking it around him so much

Which leads to him getting tortured for interrupting their plans

Which then leads to the totally not inherent magic in humans coming to the surface for Quin and helping him escape

He’s scared and doesn’t trust people much

Which leads him to the becoming a part of a small group of one human and a few different species or half-species, who is moving around outside the enclosure (I don’t know all of the characters, so they’ll go on the extra characters powerpoint if I make one)

I’m not sure all that he’ll do in this story, but he’ll be fun! End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Aeflin

She is a human antagonist, she’s the scientist that is conducting the magic cyborg experiments now

She’s bubbly and happy, and she actually gives really good life advice

She just also doesn’t have very good ethics when she’s being a scientist

Very curious and will ask you tons of questions if she doesn’t understand what’s going on

She is with the other antagonist on the next slide, and they’re in a loving relationship. End Description]

[Image Description: a page titled: Naivi

She’s the second human antagonist, she’s working on the outside of the enclosure to destroy the other species

She’s charming and teasing, at least to people who aren’t her enemies

I don’t know all of her backstory, but she’s a victim, while she also does some horrible things

Duality!

I already know she’s going to be a fun character. End Description]

#writeblr #All's Fair #yes I know I said about the snake scales twice #but I'm too lazy to go back and fix it

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baeklooming-day · 4 years

Text

Winter Heat || Baekhyun

♢ SUMMARY: Whilst the one you like couldn’t care less about you, the one who likes YOU makes sure to let you know that he will always run to you. No matter if your life is even more of a mess than it already was.

Feat. Jongin

♢ GENRE: Heiress!AU, Art Museum!AU, Bad Boy!AU, Fluff, Slight Angst

♢ WORD COUNT: 5.7k

Masterlist

„Why aren’t you replying.”

You’ve been looking mindlessly at the immobile screen of your iPhone, not caring about any bypassers who could hear you talking to yourself.

It’s been almost a whole twenty minutes since you’ve sent a direct message to Jongin, asking if he was done with his work at the Museum for today.

It wouldn’t be so frustrating to you that he didn’t reply yet, if not the big SEEN mark underneath your text.

Was he ignoring you?

You would never know if you didn’t ask, but despite you being probably the most straightforward and unfiltered person walking on the globe, given that you were also always the one to initiate conversations, with time you started to feel like you were bothering him.

Even if he never, ever, gave you any direct answer which would significate that you were, in fact, being annoying and bothering him, you were getting that feeling always more often around him every time you tried to talk to him.

And if you were being completely honest, you didn’t like it.

Even more to it, you hated that feeling.

For as long as you could remember, you developed the biggest crush you’ve ever had in your whole life on Jongin, starting to like him almost right away at the first encounter.

Looking back now and recalling how genuinely happy you were when the two of you actually became friends, you would have never thought that you would go back to being practical strangers again.

It hurt you, but unfortunately truth to be told, your life has played you countless times throughout the twenty years you’ve been walking on this planet, so as gloomy as it sounded you weren’t that surprised.

Disappointed but not surprised, by now should be very much replacing your second name.

You exhaled deeply, your warm breath forming a little white cloud in the cold winter air.

You were very well aware that if you still wanted to come as that „independent woman of success” which for some reason people always thought you were, you needed to quit caring about the boy who cared about everything else but you.

Judging by all the recent events which happened, actually you had all the reasons to despise him, not a single one to still like him as much as you did.

You fixed your black hat on your head, flipping your soft hair back. You earned some looks in awe from people walking past you, giving them only as much as a quick glance of your light luminous eyes.

Even though you were dressed in an all black outfit, you still looked so light and ethereal, your aura making people turn their heads as you did only as much as walk by.

You slid your hand into the pocket of your black long coat, finding your phone and taking it out to throw yet another quick glance at the screen.

Still no reply from Jongin.

You slid it back almost immediately, letting out a low groan of frustration as you plopped on the nearest bench next to a, now obviously not blossoming, cherry tree.

„Woah, impressive. I wouldn’t think that girls can drop their voice to that extent.” Said a warm voice.

You abruptly turned around to where the unexpected voice came from, a little alert, but calming down as soon as you were met with a familiar face.

To your view came a boy with pale cheeks and dark chocolate brown eyes which were looking at you from underneath his fluffy bleached bangs, gently falling back on them every time he shook them off.

Despite it being a really chilly winter day, he was wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of, who would have thought, black snickers.

You wrapped your own warm coat tighter around your body, being left a little amazed how he seemed to be completely unaffected by the cold wind which was now blowing directly in his face, causing his bleached bangs to fly up whilst you were already shivering when the winter wind did as much as lightly hit your soft cheek.

„My apologies, I suppose it wasn’t very ladylike.” You said in your distinguished tone.

„Why, I wouldn’t say that” The boy said. „Everything you do is ladylike because you’re a lady.” He added with a genuine smile.

„Well” You said, looking at him and gesturing to the empty space on the bench next to you. „You can take a seat. Baekhyun.”

You watched as his face lit up immediately when you said that, following with him plopping down on the wooden bench without hesitation.

„You remember my name?” He asked.

„Of course I do” You answered. „It would be difficult not to, given that your friends always scream your name when you are all going crazy on your motorcycles in front of the Art Museum.”

Baekhyun let out a light laugh. You only gave him a weak smile in response, your attention drawn back to your phone which you absentmindedly took out of your pocket again.

It was no use waiting anymore, was it?

Jongin wasn’t going to reply to you, not now, and not later.

You asked yourself how foolish you actually were, letting someone who didn’t give a care about you occupy your whole heart like that.

Your expression must have looked really pained, because soon you felt a gentle nudge to your side. „Are you alright?”

You slowly brought your attention back to the boy sitting beside you, being met with his concerned chocolate eyes.

„Why, yes” You said. „Just reflecting on some stuff.”

„Waiting for some important message?”

„Not really.”

„Really?”

„No.”

„I’m listening.”

You let out a deep sigh. „Do you actually want to hear my sob story?” You asked with a slight disbelief.

„I want to hear whatever that’s been weighing on your heart if it makes you feel better again.” Baekhyun pushed his hair back, uselessly, because the loose locks kept stubbornly falling back on his eyes.

„So” You started. „There is someone I like, even though I should have stopped a long time ago, and lately he’s been becoming always more distant and unavailable. I don’t know why he’s acting like that because at the beginning it looked like he genuinely cared. Well, guess not.” You concluded, tapping on your phone still in your right hand.

Baekhyun managed to do only as much as open and close his mouth like a goldfish before you interrupted him and started talking again. „And the thing is, I’m literally being delusional. I’m a total fool. I know that it’s useless liking him but I don’t do anything to prevent myself from immersing even deeper into this, and I’m aware that in the long run it’s not healthy clinging onto these feelings only because you’ve developed a hopeless crush on someone who doesn’t give a damn about you.” You said, looking over at Baekhyun who was watching you with wide eyes.

You started to feel a little embarrassed for letting your feelings out like that in front of him, given that the two of you weren’t even so close. „Awe, I apologize for rambling on like that.” You quickly added.

„Don’t.” Baekhyun said softly. „I know that feeling when your crush doesn’t notice you, no matter what you do.” He said the last sentence much quieter, but still loud enough for you to hear his words correctly.

„Um-”

„Do you have anything to do in the Museum later today?” He asked quickly. „Why, no, actually.” You answered. „They said I won’t be needed anymore today.”

„I actually always thought you were the boss there.”

„I wish I was. My family’s owned this Art Museum forever, but like everyone knows, they aren’t alive anymore and I was left a literal orphan and the last rightful heir when I was still a child, so their business partners have been running it ever since.” You explained. „Looks like they want to take the whole damned heirloom away from me, too.” You let out a tired laugh. „Sucks to be me.”

„Don’t say that.” Baekhyun straightened immediately, looking at you. „Be kind to yourself. You need to realize how wonderful and crazy intelligent you are, that’s probably exactly what they fear if they’re pulling something as cheap as that, please.”

You failed to hold back a chuckle which soon transformed into a genuine loud laugh.

You laughed as if there wasn’t a single care in the world, covering your red lips with your hand. „Something as cheap?” You said through the laughter.

Baekhyun looked completely flabbergasted by you laughing like that out of nowhere, but smiled at you fondly. „Well, yes, that’s... cheap.”

You couldn’t remember when was the last time you genuinely laughed like that until your stomach started to hurt, but you weren’t mad about it. Even the opposite.

„God, I wish I could always be as carefree as that.” You said after you finally calmed down, yet still little chuckles slipping out. „Even if it was just for one day or one night. I massively need to clear my mind.

„That’s doable.” Baekhyun said. „Since you’ve said that you’re free today, do you want to go somewhere with me?” He asked a little shyly, hope audible in his smooth voice.

„Anywhere away from all those exhausting people will be great.” You said, slightly surprised by your own immediate agreement.

You watched as Baekhyun’s face lit up once again, just like a little boy when he gets the gift he was dreaming of.

„I think I know a place like this.”

When you arrived at your destination, you didn’t even know what you were expecting, but you knew that you weren’t expecting THIS.

You ended up struggling a little to get off of Baekhyun’s motorcycle, almost tangling yourself in your long coat but finally standing on the firm ground feeling your legs still wobbling slightly.

„You seriously just took me to the old airport.” You said, looking around with a visible question in your eyes.

The old airport was located outside the city, the enormous building still in a perfectly presentable state, yet they decided to close it down and build a new airport on the opposite side of the entire city.

The atmosphere there now was just as if the time had stopped, complete silence filling the air and the open space around you.

Baekhyun only flashed you a dazzling smile. „Come to think of it, since nobody’s here anyway that makes it a perfect spot to go on full speed where the airplanes used to take off and land.” He said, running his fingers through his hair and standing right next to you.

You scrunched your nose, looking at him. „But since this is a closed area, is this even legal?”

„Well, it isn’t illegal as long as nobody snitches.” He answered, giving you another, even brighter smile.

You’ve never seen anyone who smiled so often.

You looked back at the bike standing right behind the two of you.

„So, full speed huh? I actually wanna see it.” You said.

„What, are you doubting my amazing driving skills?” He asked jokingly, but turned around and got back on.

Not even a minute later the sound of a starting engine rang in your ears. You stepped aside, watching as Baekhyun effortlessly threw the helmet back on, so naturally as if it was already a part of him.

You couldn’t see his face through the dark cover, but you imagined he must’ve been smiling like crazy.

Like he always did.

The motorcycle dashed past you, the blow of the wind it created so strong that you had to hold onto your hat to prevent it from flying off of the top of your head. You observed as his figure started becoming always smaller and smaller in the distance, soon appearing merely as a silhouette drifting away.

You looked up, taking in the sight of the already darkish sky and breathing in the winter air.

People saying that empty airports had a peculiar aura to them were right, you thought, it indeed felt just as if the time had stopped in this place, nothing but a large and empty open space and silence being the only companion.

Well, right in that moment not the only one, given that soon you heard the sound of a motorcycle coming always closer.

You didn’t know how far Baekhyun did go in the end, but he surely was incredibly fast.

Soon he was standing beside you again, running his fingers through his hair and smiling contentedly.

Figures.

„You look extremely happy.” You observed.

„Well, you could say that this-” He pointed to his bike. „Gives me some kind of particular comfort every time.”

„You mean like, finding solace in racing with the wind ahead?” You said.

Baekhyun paused for a brief moment, looking at you with sparkling eyes. „I was going to say that it never fails to cheer me up, but your words sound much better. So... poetic.” He said. „Where did you learn that?”

You chuckled at his amazed expression. „Awe, don’t exaggerate. I simply enjoy literature. We have a lot of old books and poems in the Museum, so I like to spend my time with them while I’m there.” You answered. „Speaking of, I need to be there tomorrow morning, that’s one thing I forgot about. Apparently Mrs Cha has some announcement to make.” You took a look at your phone, checking the time.

The way to the airport took indeed really long, and given that tomorrow you needed to be awake and presentable you figured that it would be best to go back to the city now.

But strangely, as you looked at Baekhyun next to you, the thought of returning to your little mess which awaited you there started to come off as always more dreadful to you.

As you looked at the careless boy next to you, you realized that you, in fact, envied him.

He appeared so carefree, uncomplicated, and happy.

And with every minute you’ve spent in his company, you’ve come to want to be just like him always more.

You ran up the stairs to the main entrance to the Museum, catching your breath. You were a whole ten minutes late, but you highly doubted that anyone would have really noticed or, better said, you doubted that anyone would have even cared.

You pushed the heavy glass door open, entering the big hall and directing yourself straight to the main office.

The only sound audible was the clacking of your heels on the black and white cold floor.

The Museum had always been so peaceful and silent at this hour before opening, but right now it very much reminded you of your previous evening with Baekhyun at the old empty airport.

You asked yourself how come you never properly talked to him before yesterday, given that he always was somewhere near the Museum, every single day.

But then again, knowing how blinded you were by your hopeless crush, it wasn’t a wonder that you weren’t noticing at least half the things happening around you. You smiled at the thought of Baekhyun dropping you home the night before, taking the opportunity to give you his number too, as he said, for when you felt like you needed to clear your mind again.

With your head in the clouds, you almost didn’t notice the person approaching from the opposite direction, nearly bumping into them.

„Oh” You said as you saw who was in front of you. „Good morning Jongin.”

The said boy only looked up once he heard his name. „Oh, um, good morning to you too.” He said without any emotion, as if a brief interaction with you alone was too much unnecessary effort for him.

Well, figures, you thought to yourself.

Before you could add anything else, he quickly walked away without giving you any other glance.

Well again, FIGURES, as obvious as it was to you until now.

Trying to take your mind elsewhere from the unpleasant feeling of being visibly ignored as if you were nothing, you fastened your pace and by the end of the corridor you almost ran into the office.

As soon as you closed the wooden door behind you, you heard a familiar female voice. „Oh, good morning Y/N. Take a seat.”

„Good morning, Mrs Cha.” You answered politely, taking off your black hat and sitting in front of her desk. „You wished to speak with me?”

„Yes, I have something important to announce to you.” She said. „As you may know, I will retire very soon. I have been the CEO of this Art Museum since your parents passed away, so with me leaving my position the Museum will obviously need a new one.”

You widened your eyes at what you just heard.

Did it mean that the Museum will FINALLY officially and rightfully belong to you? That must be the reason why she called you in so early to announce these news, right?

Right...?

„So, are you telling me that I’m-”

„Jongin will take over as the new CEO of the Art Museum.”

What?

You felt something shattering in your chest, your vision suddenly becoming peculiarly blurry.

„Wh-what do you mean Jongin will take over the Museum???” You almost choked on your own breath.

„I mean exactly what I just said. The Museum will function under Jongin when I take my leave.”

You just sat there with your mouth open, not being able to even proceed the information which had been revealed to you.

At first you felt literal heartbreak, but not a long moment later it had been replaced by pure rage.

„No, no, no, no, NO.” You repeated over and over again, standing up. „No. First of all, you are in no position to simply give the whole Museum to Jongin, because this is exactly what you’re trying to do. Second of all, HE himself is in no position to out of nowhere take over the whole Museum. And third of all-” Without thinking, you slammed your fist onto the wooden surface of the desk, making Mrs Cha flinch and giving you a wide eyed look. „You should have given me that position as soon as I turned eighteen years old. Which was when? Two years ago! So what in the WORLD are you talking about NOW?” You slammed your other fist onto the desk, feeling your blood boiling inside your veins.

„Y/N, listen.” Mrs Cha started. „You were too young to manage something as big and known as this Museum. Besides, I think that Jongin is the best fit for this-”

„NO!” You felt as if you were about to explode any time now. Who did this woman think she was? And WHO did Jongin think he was? Did he even know about all of this? Probably, yes. „Listen carefully now. This is not just an Art Museum. This is my family’s heirloom since its very beginnings.” You said, dropping your voice. „I AM the rightful owner.”

„Y/N-”

„Don’t Y/N me-” You continued. „You have no right to do this. I was quiet even when you limited my activities in the Museum, which by the way you shouldn’t have even done in the first place. I was quiet, because I knew that one day, the Museum will be mine like it belongs. But now you want to STEAL my heirloom from me-”

Now it was Mrs Cha who stood up. „How can you even say something like that” She said with an unmasked disapproval. „You are still only twenty. You don’t-”

„And Jongin is only two years older than me, figures.” You immediately interrupted her. „I don’t know what your actual plan is, but I think that you forgot how influential my family was.” You put your hat back on, preparing yourself to leave before you could say or do anything that you would regret. „I will talk to whomever I need to, and I will get all of you blacklisted forever from whichever activities in this field if you try this. I promise.”

Without giving her any time to respond, you turned around and left the room, making sure to slam the door with full force as you did so.

You didn’t end up leaving the Museum for the day, but instead you went up to where all the old books and other literary works were being safely stored. Probably one of your favorite places ever.

There couldn’t be anything else which was actually able to calm you down than going through a chapter or two of some old fashioned beautifully written novel.

Or could there be?

You slid your hand to the pocket of your black coat where you usually carried your phone.

You didn’t even contemplate much as you typed a quick message to Baekhyun, asking him if by any chance he could come to pick you up at the Museum later that day.

You pressed send, hoping that he would see and reply to you soon enough, and ending up being completely surprised when you got an almost immediate reply.

»Of course I’ll be there. I’ll be waiting in the back!«

At least one pleasant message today, you thought.

You placed your phone on the nearest dark wooden table, wiping off some dust which managed to collect on the smooth surface of the elegant furniture.

You didn’t want to think about any of your cares in that moment, swiftly collecting a little pile of novels and placing them on the same table next to your phone.

You sat down, opening the first one on top, immediately immersing into your own personal escape from reality.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, or more importantly, how on Earth did you manage to fall asleep reading, but the one thing you knew for sure was the impossible to miss, extremely loud sudden alarm which snapped you back into the reality.

You woke up completely dazed, not knowing what was going on, the never stopping alarm being the only thing which filled your ears.

Still in a dumbfounded state, you started to hastily collect your belongings and once you took everything you ran down the stairs, becoming always more awake with every step.

As soon as you found yourself back in the main hall, you started looking around not even knowing what you were looking for.

Did someone break in?

Had something just been stolen whilst you were asleep?

No way, the Museum had a security system beyond excellent, at the same time at the first glance nothing seemed to be harmed.

You ran up to the door, grabbing the large doorknob and trying to open it in one swing.

Failed.

The door didn’t even budge.

You tried opening it again, pulling on it with all the strength you had, but still it remained immobile.

It must had been locked, you thought.

In all the daze, you took out your phone and took a quick look at the screen.

Nineteen o’clock.

A whole two hours after the official closing time.

And then it hit you.

One, you had been locked inside the Art Museum.

Two, someone activated the alarm.

And not without a reason, you might even have an idea who that person could be.

Every aspect of this situation seemed totally ridiculous to you, given that you didn’t even have the keys to free yourself.

You couldn’t leave through the main door, that was for sure. You couldn’t also just stay inside, given the extremely loud alarm which, you believed would soon make you deaf if you stayed there any longer, and the police which was very likely to appear soon.

They probably wouldn’t care that you were the very heiress of the Museum, if it looked like a break in, they were more than likely to simply arrest you.

You felt your eyes welling up at the ridiculousness of the situation you ended up being in, swearing to yourself that if Mrs Cha was behind this, and you were more than sure that she was, you would make her pay for trying to steal what was rightfully yours.

But right now you needed more to focus on how to find an alternate way of getting out of the building.

You needed to quickly find a way out on the ground floor, given that obviously there was no way you could just jump from higher floors if you didn’t want to break your legs.

And then it enlightened you.

The only low and big enough window for you to escape through was at the end of the corridor which lead to the main office occupied by Mrs Cha.

You rapidly turned around and bolted forward to the said corridor, dashing through it at a speed you probably never ran at before.

As soon as you found yourself standing before the big window, you realized that it couldn’t be opened, throwing your hands up in the air in a desperate manner. You already wanted to just break down right where you were standing, letting whatever that was about to happen if you stayed there happen, when your eyes landed on a medium sized marble figure of a cat standing in the corner by the wall.

You remembered once trying to take that figure all the way down the stairs by yourself, it being way too heavy to just carry it freely around let alone down or up the stairs.

You looked at the figure again.

It was your only call, you thought.

You fixed your black hat and approached the figure, being careful to properly grasp it and hold it up.

If you threw it strongly enough, the glass would break allowing you to escape safely and quickly.

„Alright, there goes nothing.”

You swung the marble cat as well as your petite body allowed you to, aiming at the glass and praying that it would actually break and let you out.

As soon as the marble came into contact with the glass, you heard a loud CRASH, watching as the window shattered entirely in front of you, sending little pieces of glass flying on the floor by your feet.

You wrapped your black long coat tighter around yourself, quickly getting through the broken window out on the cold winter air.

It was even colder than yesterday but you didn’t care, concentrating only on running around to the back where Baekhyun was supposed to be waiting for you.

You started to desperately run even faster when you heard the loud sirens of police cars, followed by red and blue lights illuminating the walls.

You didn’t even know how on Earth you managed to run so incredibly fast in your usual heels, but as soon as you reached the back alley of the Museum and spotted a very concerned and flabbergasted Baekhyun on his motorcycle, you ran up to him and jumped on the seat behind him without thinking, startling him even more.

„Drive, fucking DRIVE!” You yelled.

„Y/N! What-”

„BAEKHYUN, DRIVE-”

„Oh my god, okay!”

You heard the familiar sound of a starting engine, soon the two of you dashing through the dark alley and onto the open road, driving just ahead of you, with the sound of police sirens fading behind you.

„So basically you got locked up in your OWN museum, then broke OUT of your own museum by crashing the window with a sculpture, and then we escaped with police of the state basically on our tail-” Baekhyun was walking back and forth on the white snow, stepping in his own imprinted footsteps.

You made an even more pained expression, covering your blushing face with your hands.

„And all that just happened because that sick woman being currently officially in charge of the Museum wants to practically disown you-” Now he was just walking around in circles before you, tapping his lip with his finger repeatedly. „And on top of that, the other thing which concerns me...” He paused, making you look up at him. „You actually swear?”

You raised your eyebrows in question. „What?”

„You told me to fucking drive.”

„Baekhyun.” You said. „I really have more serious problems than this right in this instant.” You said, but cracked a smile nonetheless.

Which was soon wiped off of your face again, as your head started to fill up with the Museum, Jongin, Mrs Cha, and everything else what had been keeping you up at night.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Baekhyun, who just crouched in front of you and looked you in your eyes.

„Y/N-”

„Jongin is really-” You started, but got interrupted by Baekhyun who took your hands and gently pulled you up.

Never breaking the eye contact, he decisively intertwined his fingers with yours. „Now seriously, fuck him. Forget him. You’re with me tonight.” He said, firmly holding your hands. „And as for everything else concerning the Museum, this is your heirloom. There has to be a way to kick them all out once and for good, and I believe you know very well how to-” He said, his eyes still fixed on yours. „We can win this. None should be messing with you like that.”

„We?” You asked quietly.

„Yes.” He simply said. „I’m with you.” He said the last part in a much softer tone, resulting in you almost welling up all over again, but ending up only shyly squeezing his hands.

He seemed to notice that his words unlocked something in you, because as soon as he saw your teary eyes, he let go of your hands and pulled you in into the warmest embrace you’d ever been in without the slightest hesitation.

You didn’t know what it was about Baekhyun that made you feel so safe and cared about, but you knew that being in his embrace felt so warm and natural that you almost forgot that you were standing in the middle of nowhere, cold snow falling everywhere around you, his body heat being the only source of warmth on this eventful winter night.

After that memorable night, everything what followed happened in a blur. Right on the next day, your suspicions regarding Mrs Cha and the sudden alarm had been confirmed.

Apparently, a group of students who luckily happened to pass by the Museum, witnessed her fidgeting with something through the glass door, seconds before the alarm went on and when she hurriedly left the Museum, not doing anything about the insupportable noise.

After the police arrived and the scene had been properly checked and investigated to cross out any other possibilities, they concluded that it only could have been her who consciously started all the mess which followed.

You expected to get at least scolded big time for what you pulled yourself with the marble figure and a broken window last night, but to your utter surprise everyone was beyond mad at Mrs Cha and others who were involved in her scheme, not a single person being mad at you.

Even more to it, before you could fill any form against the people who were, indeed, trying to steal your family’s heirloom from you, the word spread much quicker to the higher ups, making it even easier and smoother for you to legally kick out and even actually blacklist some people, starting with Mrs Cha.

When it finally came to Jongin, though, you would lie if you said that you handed him the dismissal letter without thinking twice.

Something deep in your heart, something twitched a little for a brief moment, but you shook it off completely as soon as you remembered Baekhyun holding you and telling you that you were not alone.

You finally knew that you really deserved much better than someone who wouldn’t notice and care if you disappeared.

Jongin didn’t even say one word to you, took the letter, and left your life through the Museum’s door.

You couldn’t really name that feeling, but you felt some kind of relief as soon as he walked through the glass door, not even looking back once.

Right now, you were just standing in the middle of a large room filled with oil paintings, admiring every single one of them in silence, smiling genuinely for the first time in a very, very long time.

You heard soft footsteps shuffling on the marble floor, soon being met with Baekhyun’s softly smiling face.

„This is the exhibition room I was telling you about earlier today.” You told him. „Almost all of my favorite oil paintings are being displayed right here. Look around.” You added, doing so yourself.

Baekhyun didn’t say anything, staying quiet. You looked at him, noticing that he’d been just looking at you the entire time, not paying even the slightest attention to the marvelous paintings surrounding him.

„Um, Baek-” You started. „You aren’t even looking at the art.”

„I am.”

„You aren’t, you’re looking at me.”

„Yeah” He simply replied. „Even in a room full of art, I would be still looking only at you.” He took a step closer to you. „You are the finest artwork of them all.”

You just looked at him in awe, not being able to say anything.

„Y/N, do you remember when I told you that I knew how it felt like to not be noticed by your crush whatever you do?” He asked softly. When you nodded, he continued. „Well, I think you already know that I was talking about you. That you are the crush I wanted to notice me?” He slowly intertwined his fingers with yours again, looking in your eyes through his bleached light hair. „I was by the Museum everyday only so that I could see you. And I hoped that one day you will eventually see me too, even if in the end everything went to a total mess in general, but-” You interrupted him by squeezing his hands.

„You’ve really spent only three days with me, and yet letting out an entire monologue like I always tend to do already rubbed off on you?” You asked with a smile.

He just continued to look at you completely in awe, the way he was looking at you alone telling more than a thousand words.

You imagined you must have looked very similarly, as you felt your cheeks warming up with every additional moment in which you stared into his dazzling chocolate eyes.

You went through a total earthquake in a matter of days, but it looked like it was all worth it at the end.

It felt like you found your heat in that winter.

A/N: oh lord this is one big sob story

leave me your thoughts!! and remember to reblog if you liked it!!

seriously, tell me what you think, even if it is from anon jkdshbfhg

124 notes · View notes

mew-oconnor · 3 years

Note

👀👀 does this count for two wip’s

Sure lmao I’ll let you have two! This first one’s an excerpt from drain the water from the room (fill it up again), the Wangxianxuan-endgame canon divergence au WIP where things go wrong on a Lan-led night hunt during the Gusu lectures, and it ends up changing everything.

Wei Wuxian stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“It’s cold,” the peacock mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning over even further. “You’re warm.”

Wei Wuxian frowned, a seed of worry taking root in his chest. He didn’t like Jin Zixuan, sure, but Jiang-yisheng had told him that head injuries could kill on a delay, and he didn’t want to sit here and watch the other boy die, or be in pain like this! No way would he be acting so weird if he was alright—Jin Zixuan was too proud to deign to cuddle with anyone, let alone with Wei Wuxian.

Although... perhaps... if Jin Zixuan’s injuries had made him unrestrained and loose in his speech, maybe Wei Wuxian could use that to get some answers. Besides, weren’t you supposed to keep people with head injuries awake? Wasn’t talking to them a good way to do that?

“Hey, peacock,” he said, shifting them around so that Jin Zixuan was lying in his lap, his dazed, hazy gaze on display, “why do you hate being engaged to my shijie so much?”

Jin Zixuan frowned. “Don’t want it,” he slurred.

Wei Wuxian could already tell that. “Why not?”

“It’s not... not good. Not safe. She can’t defend herself.”

That... wasn’t what he was expecting. Not safe? What did that mean?

“Why isn’t it safe? What’s the problem?”

“She can’t come to Jinlintai. It’s not safe if she can’t defend herself.” Jin Zixuan shook his head, and then winced at the movement. “No one should come to Jinlintai.”

Wei Wuxian felt like the ground had been yanked out from under him. What did Jin Zixuan mean by saying that no one should come to Jinlintai? He didn’t disagree, but... to say it wasn’t safe—had there been worry underlying Jin Zixuan’s hostility? Was he actually trying to help? If that was the case—which was still a big if, since this was just a rambling concussed confession—but if it was true, then... it hurt to admit, but maybe Wei Wuxian had misjudged the peacock.

Still, it didn’t excuse the nasty comments that Jin Zixuan had allowed. “If you were really trying to protect Shijie, from... whatever you say is going on in Jinlintai, then what was all that bullshit you spouted about her not being pretty enough about? Not only was it wrong—you’re the one who isn’t good enough for her—but there’s so many other ways you could’ve gone about it, instead of spreading hurtful lies—”

“You’re prettier.”

The words hit Wei Wuxian like a slap in the face. He gaped, speechless.

Jin Zixuan closed his eyes and kept going. “Pretty. Handsome. Beautiful. Whatever you want to call it. You’d be ranked first if you were a sect heir.”

Was the peacock a cutsleeve?

Did Jin Zixuan like him?!

“And it’s worse, because it’s not just looks. You’re so smart and brave, and you just... do things without caring about what people think, and I know you hate me but even your glares are nice—”

He cut off with a pained gasp, his unharmed hand flying up towards his damaged shoulder, and Wei Wuxian realized that he’d unconsciously leaned forward in surprise and jostled the wound.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, focusing on staying still.

Jin Zixuan smiled unevenly , the dried blood on the side of his face cracking. “It’s okay. I know you won’t ever like me back.” His eyes wandered, unfocused. “I’ve seen how you look at Lan-er-gongzi.”

“I don’t...” Wei Wuxian said weakly, but there wasn’t anything he could say to refute that. He did look at Lan Zhan, after all. Not in a cutsleeve way, though—Lan Zhan was just so ethereal, so above-it-all, that he couldn’t help but want to drag him down to earth, muss him up a bit and introduce him to some fun, break that icy exterior and have all that intense attention focus on him like an arrow in the wind—

Oh, heavens. Maybe it was in a cutsleeve way.

The second excerpt is from backwards now you dance to freedom (lift your gutted lungs and sing), the timeskip canon divergence au WIP where nine year old Jin Ling makes a wish at an abandoned shrine and accidentally resurrects his father... who wakes up in the Nie saber tombs.

“I want to go home,” he sniffles, curling into a ball, wrapping his arms around Suihua. “I want to be back in Lotus Pier again, where no one cares about if you’re an orphan or not. I wish I wasn’t an orphan. I wish my parents were alive.”

He shakes his head and wipes at his eyes, trying to stop the tears leaking through his lashes. He’s a big boy now, nine years old and strong, so he can’t cry at something so small as getting lost; if Jin Chan found out, he’d never let him forget it. As the future sect leader, Jin Ling can’t be weak like that—any weakness he shows will reflect on the clan.

The rain continues to pound down outside the shrine, and Jin Ling shivers. He turns back to the altar.

“This was my father’s sword, you know,” he says, hugging Suihua closer to himself before holding it out a little, so that just in case this shrine’s god is listening, it can get a good look at the sword. He doesn’t hold it out too far, though, so the god won’t mistake it for an offering. “He carried it through the Sunshot Campaign. He killed many monsters with it, and angry spirits, and fierce corpses and Wens; it’s got a strong spirit already. Sometimes I—it’s like I can almost hear him, sometimes.”

“My mother’s sword... I don’t know where it is. She rarely used it. Jiujiu says she didn’t need to, that she was good at keeping peace around her.” He swallows. “But she died anyway, so...”

He shifts against the stone, tucking his knees to his chest. “I have her clarity bell. But it’s a Jiang symbol, so I... the sect heir can’t wear another clan’s symbol in their own home.” He reaches into his robe, runs a thumb along the familiar curves hidden in there, and chokes back a sob. “I just wish I could remember them.”

The shrine gives no answer, and Jin Ling finds his throat closing up with new tears, so he stops trying to talk. He curls in on himself further, Suihua gripped tight in his embrace, and resolves to watch the rain and speak no more until he drifts off to sleep.

***

Jin Zixuan wakes to darkness.

He is lying on his back on a hard, cold surface, his hands folded over his stomach and his legs straight, completely and entirely naked. It’s a small space, the ceiling bumping his nose when he tries to sit up and his shoulders brushing walls on either side of him, and he can’t help the fear that spikes low in his gut at the realization that he’s in some kind of stone sarcophagus. His limbs are shivery, his core sluggish when he reaches for it, his throat dry and scratchy, and his chest—

(“A-Li is—still... waiting...”)

His chest does not hurt.

He doesn’t remember how he got here. He doesn’t remember anything after the hole punched through his lung, after the bleak certainty of death. His breaths echo loudly in the enclosed space—strong, healthy breaths, not the final rattling whistle he remembers—and he shoves at the stone above him, fear turning to panic as it refuses to budge.

He needs to get out.

His spiritual energy is slow to respond when he reaches for it, but he manages to muster enough strength to kick the stone lid off. He scrambles upright and leaps out of the coffin, snatching a banner down from the altar in front of him and wrapping it around himself before taking stock of his surroundings.

It’s some kind of tomb (which he supposes makes sense, given that he woke up in a coffin). The entire room is stone, with sarcophagi crouching in neat rows throughout it, lurking at the edges of the altar’s thin candlelight. A statue towers over the room, human-shaped with a saber in hand but too tall for Jin Zixuan to make out the details on its shadowed face. Across the altar from the banner he’d grabbed for warmth, another one hangs, embroidered with the beast head symbol of the Qinghe Nie.

He has no idea where he is.

He has no idea how he’s alive.

#wei wuxian #jin zixuan #jin ling #mine #drain the water from the room (fill it up again)#backwards now you dance to freedom (lift your gutted lungs and sing)

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starkergames · 4 years

Photo

Title: New Years Artists: @lilsoshie (Sketch), @iammagicfishhook (Lineart), @marveling-marvelous (Color) Writer: @darker-soft-starker The years will change and people will change as much as they stay the same. Some changes though, Tony finds, he really doesn’t mind.

Fic below the cut

Some things never change.

Like, being riddled with nerves whilst attending big events.

Or, the little ticks he’s adopted to mitigate the uneasiness, like bouncing his leg up and down, firing off questions to anyone in earshot like, do you think they’ll have sushi at this thing, I have a craving.

Or Pepper singing along to whatever is playing on the car ride over, and Morgan answering his inane questions with things like, ew, sushi.

Some things do change, though.

Like, coming back to life after five years of being dead.

Or being delegated to the backseat next to his daughter, despite the honourable resurrection. Or having his wife remarry in the years following his death.

You know, typical resurrection things, like realizing that the entire world and everyone you knew has changed.

Tony’s got a thing about control. Always has. He likes to know, has to know, all of the variables. He thought he knew all of them before he snapped his fingers and prayed to the stones in his gauntlet.

Here’s the thing about infinity stones: they’re sentient. They like balance.

They’re also assholes with a perverted sense of symmetry.

Somehow, perfect balance and perfect symmetry translated into bringing Tony back to life after five years. Or, being suspended in the ether that was neither life, nor death, the holding cell between worlds.

That was the airy-fairy, hand-wavey way that Strange explained to him. Sparkles and mystery. But Tony doesn’t remember any of it. The not being alive. One moment his heart was giving out, the next he was clawing himself out of the earth.

That was pleasant.

Emerging dirty and naked to find he’d missed five years of his life was also a barrel of laughs. Missing five years of his daughters growth, finding out his wife had moved on? Hilarious. Best cosmic joke to have happened to him yet.

Though, Tony supposes this is how the recovered Snap victims felt, after. Chasing and chasing the years that were missed, feeling as if they will never be completely caught up.

But that was months ago, his resurrection. Reawakening. Whatever. Seven months and three and a half weeks, if he’s counting. He’d say he isn’t, but he definitely is.

He’d used the time mostly caught up on the life of his friends and family, shed his tears. He’s lamented Steve, grieved over Natasha all over again. Wondered why the divine equilibrium didn’t include her sacrifice.

But he’s learned to be okay. He’s living back at the re-built compound with Clint and Wanda and the old-new crowd of super-people that populate the place he used to call home.

He doesn’t don the suit, hasn’t since he came back, worried that the moment he activates the housing unit that it will all be over, and Morgan will lose her father for the second time.

He’s a consultant, now, for the new team. Financier. Benefactor. It’s very boring.

“You sure you want to go to this thing,” Tony says again, stretching his legs so his knees hit the driver's seat in front of him, where Peppers’ new husband sits. “You don’t want a quiet one at home? Ring in New Years with the llamas?”

“Morgan wants to go,” Pepper repeats, peering back to smile at her daughter. “Right, sweetpea?”

Beside Tony, Morgan looks up from her hand-held video game and nods vehemently, smiling brightly. Tony feels betrayed by her enthusiasm.

“Are they paying you to say that?” he leans in, whispering close to her ear. “You can tell me Morgasboard, name your price. I’ll beat it.”

His daughter flicks her gaze between her mother and Tony. She leans into her father and whispers loud enough for the entire car to hear, “Uncle Peter is going to be there. I haven’t seen him in forever.”

Tony sighs exaggeratedly, nodding along, even though he knows she saw him two weeks ago.

“Forever is a long time,” he agrees.

That was another change that Tony feels weird and wonderful about.

Somehow, in the time that he was six-feet-under, his former protege had become something akin to family to his daughter. Which, if he’s honest, in the years after the Snap, was the goal, the dream as he skipped through time with the Avengers, the proverbial what if that drove him to say yes that one, final time.

Happy families, he’d thought. What else could two wayward orphans hope for?

Tony’s at least glad that Peter got that part of the deal. That Morgan got Peter.

Even if Tony didn’t really have either, after.

“Uncle Peter could go back to the compound or the penthouse with us,” Tony offers, nudging his daughter. “You could ask DUM-E to be your new years kiss.”

“You have a speech scheduled, right, babe?” Peppers husband, Greg, cuts in. He was hired as CFO of SI three years ago and it was heart eyes at first sight, Tony is told. He watches as Greg frees one of his grubby hands from the steering wheel to reach across the console and squeeze her knee.

“Sure do,” Pepper smiles, snaking her hand down to clutch his, squeezing their fingers together.

Tony’s not jealous. No, really. He’s adjusted, he’s over it.

But he’s still Tony Stark, so he’s unapologetically petulant. And it’s Pepper, what kind of ex would he be if he didn’t properly field the prospects of the one woman he truly loved?

Feigning a stretch, he kicks his feet out again and jolts the driver's seat, delight welling up when Greg huffs irritatedly. Morgan giggles as if it’s some kind of game, and all the adults pretend that it is to please her.

The unimpressed stare from his ex-wife caught through the rear-view mirror does little to dampen his satisfaction.

It’s the little wins, Tony thinks, as they pull up to the building, paparazzi huddling around the rope barriers that flank the red carpet, flashes firing through the tinted windows as they come to a stop.

Just because some things change, doesn’t mean he has to.

It’s that mentality that gets him through the dreaded, interminable walk from the car to the ballroom entrance. This is old hat, he tells himself as he waves to the crowd. You could do this with your eyes closed. God, he used to be so good at pretending to care about this kind of crap.

Reporters brandish their network-issued microphones at him, at his family. Fans shoulder against security, all of them yelling out in a cacophony of noise he might call white were it not the sound of his own name, in all of its iterations.

Although he’d rather make a beeline straight to the ballroom he stops and greets a few fans, shakes a few hands, high-fives a few kids. After a slew of signings and selfies the comparatively calm interior of the ballroom is blissfully welcomed. The quartet supplying tunes in the far corner is a reprieve.

So is the way that Pepper clutches Greg’s hand and leads him away at the same time Morgan clutches Tony’s. She looks back and says, be good. Tony doesn’t know if she’s directing it to him or their daughter.

Socialites swan around them, but Tony just looks down at his daughter and smiles. He squeezes her tiny fingers.

“You wanna dance, Morgarita?”

Her serious expression turns gleeful as she drags him to the centre of the room to dance without a shred of shyness.

She’s a lot like she was before he died. Smart and mischievous, cute as a button. But she’s markedly different, caught in that pre-teen phase where she’s gaining modicums of independence. Tony’s getting used to not needing to make all her meals or do her hair for her. He kinda misses it.

Little things. It’s always the little things.

She’s taller now, too. That was a change, to have his daughters head rest against his chest when she hugs him. She’s too tall to be picked up, too proud when Tony offers. So she wraps her arms around his midsection and they sway together on the dancefloor.

Only a few couples are dancing. The night is still young. But, like anything in high society, it’s all smoke and mirrors.

Which means most guests are mingling, telling each other how beautiful and fabulous they are, filling the room with so much re-circulated pomp and hot air the room is practically a hotbox.

Of course it’s a business event as much as it is a philanthropic one, so not even Tony can avoid the inevitable schmoozing that comes along with it. When Morgans tired feet demand a break they seek out seats and snacks - and they too, are sought out.

To his ire, associates come and go like a conveyor belt to shake his hand, politicians and socialites thank him for reversing the Snap, the Blip, the Click, the Dusting, all of the stupid names and his daughter is sitting right there, growing more and more morose at each mention of the worst thing that ever happened to her.

So Tony looks down at his daughter, mid conversation with a senator and says, “Hey, sweet child of mine, wanna go to the dessert table?”

She perks up at that and is off like a rocket to the other side of the room where swathes of mouth-watering sweets are spread over an eighteen foot table.

Tony follows her beeline without saying goodbye to the senator, mentally rubbing his hands together at the grub. He’s sure he will pay for directing his daughter to a trove of sugar and hyperactivity. But desperate times.

Who is he kidding. He’s going to need all the sweet stimulation he can possibly consume to get through this shit-show himself.

When he catches up Morgan already has chocolate smeared on her lips. Fancy desserts perch daintily upon gold lined plates, on tiered stands. Thin streams of velvety, liquid chocolate trickle out of apex fountains, flakes of edible gold cover the setting.

She points excitedly with messy fingers to the ones she wants Tony to try. He should resist, right? He’s really isn’t supposed to eat dairy. That, along with his faulty levels of serotonin, was something the all powerful stones failed to fix. Which was really just plain lazy, if you ask him.

But he spies a flamboyant looking fruit-pastry and thinks, fuck it.

Then he sees a yellow-treat that makes his mouth water and thinks, I can work it off tomorrow.

He reaches over and crams an entire portugese egg tart in his mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. Morgan laughs, tipping her neck back in unbridled delight.

“Do it again!” she says, bouncing on her feet.

He does. And then again, and again.

Which is how Peter Parker finds him no more than ten minutes later.

“Mr. Stark!”

Tony nearly chokes in his haste to chew and swallow the pastry when Peter swans into view, dressed to the nines and grinning a mile wide. He hears Morgan gasp delightedly beside him, running off to catch up with the younger man while Tony tries not to quietly asphyxiate.

Swallowing roughly, Tony gives him a thumbs up.

Several feet away, Morgan throws her gangly arms around Peter. She buries her head into his chest, just like she does with Tony, brown hair cascading over her shoulders as she embraces him tightly. Peter settles his arms around her neck and leans down to kiss the crown of her head, whispering something to hear that Tony can’t hear.

There’s a weird pang somewhere behind his ribs at the sight.

He swipes his half-empty flute of champagne and downs the remainder in one gulp to cover it.

“Mr. Parker,” Tony greets, rocking on his feet when his daughter and former protege walk back to him hand-in-hand. “Didn’t know you owned a suit in your size.”

The younger man holds his free arm out, twisting it to test the fit. It’s a grey suit with a maroon dress-shirt, tailored to perfection. It looks new.

Peter smiles. The action has creases forming at the corners of his eyes; a small, subtle nod to the years Tony missed. Gone is all of his baby fat, his face angular and defined. He holds himself with more self-assuredness, even now.

He wouldn’t say it aloud, but Peter grew up handsome.

Worse, he grew up to be Tony’s type.

“Oh, this? I didn’t pick it - but it’s nice, right?”

“Yeah. You, uh,” Tony swallows roughly, eyeing the man from head to toe. “You look good. You clean up well, kid.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly at the compliment.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark. You - you too. You look... good. Really good.”

Peter meets his gaze, his cheeks a furious shade of pink.

The motion of the room slows as he watches the sparkle reach Peter’s eyes. Everything in his peripherals becomes dull, unfocused. His own heartbeat jackrabbits against his chest and his sure his face is doing something without his permission.

Tony’s throat clicks when he swallows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, stepping closer.

Now, Tony thinks, staring at Peter’s face, the earnest smile still tugging at his lips. Now is the time he would say something to curdle the mood.

Peter being a full-fledged, rent-paying adult adult is new. Being on an even footing with Tony as a person and a professional is new. There’s so much new about him that Tony still has to learn.

There’s plenty that has stayed the same. His soft-spoken, courteous nature, his ethics.

But Tony can read the unfamiliar in Peter’s posture as much as he does the carefully curated vocabulary, how he stops himself from stammering into subjects he might have stepped into, before. The barely-there lines of age around his eyes, the confident squaring of his shoulders.

And how Tony finds that his imperfect teeth compliment the ever-wayward hairs of his eyebrows - and how all of it, all of Peter, is now somehow charming, rather than awkward.

“How have you been, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling forward

“Good,” Tony says, lips stretching onto the first genuine smile of the night. He’d try to tug those corners down, were it not for the infectious way Peter’s mouth does the same. “You?”

“Good, yeah. Super busy.”

“That’s good. Good to keep busy, as they say.”

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “It is good. Keeping busy. And how are you? -- Wait, shit, sorry, I already asked that.”

“This one keeps me going,” Tony tugs on a lock of Morgan's hair, taking mercy on him. “You been too busy to see the news about Spider-Man? I know you’re a fan.”

Peter steps closer again, clasping his hands behind his back, smiling coyly as those around them perk up in interest.

“Which news?”

“Taking down Kingpins empire. Fisk behind bars.”

“Oh, I think I heard something about that.”

Tony nods.

“What a guy. New York’s never looked cleaner. Although, take that from a guy who hasn’t seen the city for five years.”

“That’s some high praise,” Peter says, wringing his hands together as he nears.

“He’s a hero,” Tony looks to his daughter. With an affirmative nod of dark hair she concurs.

“I think he’s just a regular guy,” Peter huffs, snorting when Morgan giggles knowingly.

Before Tony can inch closer, maybe to do something impulsive like what his hands have been itching to do and grip the lapels of Peter’s suit jacket, the moment is broken by a nearby cry.

“Peter! There you are!”

Sweat beading along his receding hairline, a heavy arm slung over Peter’s shoulders, Otto Octavius swims into view, nodding politely at Tony and Morgan.

“You’re a slippery one, Parker,” he says, shaking Peter’s shoulders. “Been looking for you.”

“Otto, this is --”

“ -- Got some guys that want to meet you,” Octavius interrupts, thick fingers squeezing Peters bicep. He leans in and and whispers in a way Tony is sure is meant to be discreet, “They’re keen to meet the brains behind the project; come say hi.”

Another change Tony never counted on was the trajectory Peter’s life took after his passing.

Peter never went to MIT like Tony had dreamed for him. He went to Empire State University.

Pepper informed Tony that she in fact had reached out prior to his graduation and offered him a position. But Peter had declined. He hadn’t said why, but he’d chosen to work under Otto Octavius at Octavius Industries instead.

One thing that Tony learned in his short time back in the land of the living was that Otto was infamously proud of his new employee and favoured immensely.

It’s what Tony would have wanted for Peter, really. Doing what he loves, being given the respect his intellect and kind heart deserves. He seems to be happy and all grown up. As if Tony needs the reminder.

It’s just that Otto was always an insufferable do-gooder. Save the trees, save the bees. ALl noble notions that Tony agrees with - but Otto is like the human personification of a PETA ad. He’d never been a fan of Tony’s, even after he reformed, literally.

Still, do-gooder or not. There’s something about him. Something that Tony doesn’t like. Just a vibe he has. He’s got good instincts after all of these years and he knows he’s got a solid hunch. There’s something about that man, he knows it.

It’s got nothing to do with the proprietary hand Otto has on Peters shoulder, like the younger man is just a thing to show off. Or how Tony wanted to be the one doing that.

It’s got nothing to do with the way Peter’s suit perfectly fits his frame, or how the maroon and grey compliments his clear, milky skin.

It’s definitely not related to the way Tony’s heart beats just a little bit faster when Peter is in the room.

Yeah.

“Um, I’ll just be a minute,” Peter smiles apologetically at the Starks, eyes softening at Morgans pout. “I won’t be long, you owe me a dance little miss, remember?”

Tony waves dismissively at him, reaching for another flute of champagne from a passing waiters tray. He swallows another generous mouthful, bubbles burning on their way down.

With Morgan munching on a gold flaked cheesecake at his side, Tony watches as the young hero is led away. Otto’s hand on his back, guiding him to make nice with some university hacks. Five years ago Peter would have fumbled through these introductions. He would have gone bright red and blurted some weird factoid to make conversation.

But he’s polished now, Tony watches. Not perfect, but his posture says confident adult, not awkward teenager, like the last time he wore a suit around Tony. This suit really does fit him like a glove. His handshake looks strong, too. Firm.

Were Peter’s hands always that big?

Tony sips his champagne, observing the girth of his former mentee’s fingers. It’s not until he feels the burn of Morgans stare on the side of his face that he breaks his gaze.

“What,” he says.

She points a chocolate covered finger at his face.

“You know how I feel about people holding up one finger at me. If you’re gonna do it, it should be the middle one.”

“You like him.”

Tony huffs, rolling his eyes. “Of course I like him. He’s your Uncle Pete.”

“No, dad, you like like him. You want to be his boyfriend.”

“What -- I do not,” Tony says, casting her an incredulous stare.

“You do. You want to marry him,” she says, scrunching up her face and making kissy noises.

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“I --” he huffs, gesturing to the room at large as his words run away from him. “Do not. I’m the adult. You’re the child. I’m right, you’re wrong. Case closed.”

“Dad.”

“Fine, here,” he fishes out his wallet from his back pocket and slips a crumpled fifty out. He waves it in her face. “Take this and never speak about it again.”

“Can I speak about it to mom?”

He slips out another fifty and hands it to her.

“No.”

She smiles, neatly folding the notes and tucking it into her little bag. Tony stuffs another tart down his throat, knowing he’s been played.

She really is his kid.

----

It’s not that Tony doesn’t know.

He knows.

It’s familiar after decades of experience. That weird feeling he gets. The fluttering of his heart, the topsy-turvy motion in his stomach, were he any younger he might call them butterflies.

He just doesn’t get it.

There’s a lot of things that were jarring when he awoke, soil under his fingernails as he tore through the earth in the desperate search for oxygen. He remembers waking up, confused and naked, body restored to the moment before he snapped his fingers. He remembers stumbling onto a rebuilt compound, unable to speak, learning that the entire world had moved on and changed without him.

With FRIDAY as his guide Tony had seen all of the monuments and the altars in his name, fresh bouquets propped against them, even years after his death. The adoration and the glorification immortalised in murals and statues, in grants in his name, in tell-all books.

They’d even made a shitty movie about his life.

The actor who played him was too short and the woman who played Pepper wore a wig. It was funny. Not like, funny haha, but funny in that uncanny, meta photo-within-a-photo kind of way.

But when Peter had come to the compound that first time and they talked after they both finished crying -- it was different. And every time after, it was different.

It was… awkward. At first, they didn’t know how to be around each other, automatically falling into old molds of mentor and protege. It was almost immediately clear that their old roles weren’t going to work -- too much between them had altered to fit back into the old model.

They needed to recalibrate, and quickly.

Their dynamic did change. If Tony thought about it long enough, innocently enough, he might dare to call it a friendship.

He would, but there was that feeling in his chest. Beat, beat, bang.

It was a work in progress, to reconcile the flutter in his stomach with the Peter now, with the Peter that was, before. A man who had lost all his baby fat, who was old enough to have colourful stories and a wealth of life experience, who had remarkably broad shoulders looked damn good holding a wrench.

It was the hands.

They looked very dexterous. Capable.

But that didn’t stop him from spiraling into deep, existential pockets of despair as he wondered if the stones really thought it was best to revive him so he could actively thirst over someone he used to be responsible for.

Peter is barely fifteen years older than his daughter. He’s lost count how many real and missing years are between them now between death and the Snap. Five a piece.

He can’t tell his road-runner heart if that’s better or worse, though.

But, too high on the adrenaline of seeing Peter, he forgets to tell his body to stop, to remind his stupid heart that this one is not available.

----

Sometime after eleven the gala is in full swing. The mood perks right up in anticipation of the New Year.

Most of the remaining guests are pleasantly tipsy by this point, if not outright drunk. All of the stirring speeches have been made, Peppers included.

Tony tried to listen, however got distracted by - well, anything. But the effort was there. Something about giving and starting the year fresh, clean slates.

The relaxed atmosphere has more couples dancing on the floor. The Mayor and his wife stumble over each other, moguls and A-Listers mingle and take selfies against attractive backdrops.

Even Morgan grew tired of Tony’s ornery approach to the evening, departing with a kiss to his cheek to dance with her mother.

Tony forgets, sometimes. That people expect something of him, something more. Like his resurrection was divine intervention, and if the universe intended him to be here, surely it was for a purpose higher than acting like a morose old man, hiding in the corners of ballrooms.

It’s just. He doesn’t know where his place is anymore.

Norman Osborne stops by to crow about his latest achievements, his contract with the NYPD to provide surveillance towers all over the city. Tony’s seen them. They’re hard to miss.

“Design’s a little archaic, don’t you think? Not very discreet. A pettier man would say you were overcompensating for something.”

He’s not really paying attention as he’s speaking, too distracted by the debacle before him.

Harry Osborn and Peter dance together in the centre of the room, leaned in close to one another and snickering at what the other has said.

They look loose and comfortable around one another, as if they were old friends. Or something else.

Peter leans in close to Harry’s ear to whisper something, the flush on his face creeping down his neck. In one swift movement Tony throws back the rest of his champagne, wishing the liquid would drown him, stomach turning to cement.

Whatever Norman says in response goes unheard.

With the crowd dispersed, Peter catches Tony’s eye and waves exuberantly, nearly hitting Harry in the face.

Tony raises his glass, wincing.

At least some things stay the same.

“They roomed together at ESU,” Norman breaks Tony out of his musings.

Clearing his throat, Tony tries his best to appear indifferent. Why should he care? That’s right, he doesn’t. Not even remotely.

“I see.” Play it cool, he thinks. “They look close, are they —?”

Nailed it.

“No. They tried, but it didn’t work out. Harry’s engaged now.”

“Huh.”

“But Peter is always welcome in our home,” Norman drawls. “He’s like a second son, really. Wasn’t he your protege once?”

Osborn is so smarmy. All at once Tony remembers why he hates this man and his dumb, weathered face. His covetous tone makes Tony want to hurl, or send a suit to the nearest Oscorp building and play rain of fire.

“Good god, imagine if he was your son,” Tony says blithely. “As if you need another one of those to mess up.”

Norman huffs.

“You’re hardly the authority on raising well adjusted children, Stark.”

Ire spears up hot to his throat, but before Tony can deliver a withering reply, he’s interrupted by the arrival of Pepper and Greg.

Morgan trails behind, dragging a laughing Peter with her by hand. She weaves her thin body through the crowd, having pulled the man away from his dance wearing identical grins.

He watches his daughter cut through swathes of the elite in a trail of chiffon, delight clear in the laughter that follows her. Tiny heels clack against the polished ballroom floor, and Peter indulges her mischief, catching Tony’s eye and winking as they near him.

It’s the first time he’s seen his whole family look truly carefree since he came back.

And Tony is where he should be. An inscrutable mass against the beige, peeling wallpaper.

The look of distaste on Normans face as he walks away is enough to dampen some of his churlishness as his family form before him. Pepper makes small talk with Peter and Greg smiles awkwardly at a passing senator. Morgan dives for a profiterole before anyone can stop her.

For a moment Tony feels like he’s in a McDonalds playground instead of an upper-class charity event.

Pepper must have had a hand in choosing Morgans dress, Tony thinks, because it has pockets. And, watching her as the adults talk, she sneaks handfuls of tarts and truffles into the grooves of her dress. Tony wants to laugh, to wink at her conspiratorially at the same time he wants to tuck her into bed, new years or not.

Morgan beckons Peter closer to the sweets table. The younger of the two piling her favourite sampled sweets onto a napkin and thrusts them towards Peter, fervently requesting that he try them, they’re so good, Uncle Peter.

“Not everyone wants dessert for dinner, little miss,” Tony reminds her, swiping a napkin off the table and wiping the melted chocolate off the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not a baby, dad,” she complains, taking the napkin from him.

He forgets that too, sometimes.

Peter smiles between them, delicately plucking a single strawberry off one of the offered miniature flans and popping it into his mouth.

Lust spears through him so suddenly Tony sways on his feet. Fuck.

His daughter and ex-wife are right there.

“Mr. Stark. Would you - uh,” Peter breaks off to swallow audibly. “Would you like to dance?”

Otto is by the bar. Harry, by the French Ambassador. Tony is in his self-made corner of the room, nibbling on vol-au-vents and sashimi to pass the time.

He can smell Peter’s cologne and his sweat when he steps closer and sheepishly offers his hand and Tony’s entire damn body wants to just reach out and interlock their fingers, to pull Peter close and breathe him in. Never has Tony wanted to bury himself in another body before and not come back out, not like this.

Tony would consume all of what Peter had to give, if Peter let him. The offering look in Peter’s eyes say that he would let him.

“I… uh,” Tony begins, searching for a quip to cover his falter. Smiling at his companions, Tony smooths his hand down his tie, pretending the curious looks of concern are just the alcohol. “I need fresh air.”

“Tony --”

“Mr. Stark --”

He waves them off and smiles apologetically at Peter.

“-- I’ll just be a sec. Is it hot in here? Is anyone else hot? I’m like, sweating here, wow. It’s just pooling under the armpits. I’ll just be a minute, excuse me --”

The crowd parts for him like the red sea as he marches through it in search of the nearest door. But he’s never felt less powerful in his entire life.

Or lives, as it were.

----

Outside, the air is blissfully fresh and cold. The rooftop is far less crowded than indoors, only a few patrons lean against the railing, cigarette smoke curling up from their fingers, some in quiet conversation with another.

There’s a carefully constructed pyramid of wide, vintage wine glasses brimming with champagne. He’s careful not to topple the entire thing over when he goes to reach for one. Overheated, even as the winter wind nips at him, he takes his drink and finds a quiet corner to sulk in.

Perching upon a stone bench away far away from the others, Tony tips his head up at the starless sky and huffs.

What the hell does he think he’s doing?

The New York City skyline is alight before him in all its glory, but the memory of how Peter’s face dropped flashes across Tony’s mind on a loop. He looked taken aback. Hurt even.

Shame wells up low in Tony’s stomach and doggedly stays there.

It’s for the best. Right? It has to be for the best. Peter deserves the best and Tony is not that.

It’s not right for him to want to fit himself into Peter’s life when he seems to be happy and successful without Tony - there’s one thing he knows unequivocally about himself is that he would ruin that. Ruin Peter, one of the few good things he has left.

His heart doesn’t get the memo.

Because when he closes his eyes, all he imagines is the way Peter’s firm body would feel against his. What it would feel like to curl together on the sofa, in bed, under the sheets. How his curls would tickle the underside of Tony’s chin, and what it would be like to trace the lines that branch from his eyes when he smiles, or to stroke the narrow slope of his nose as he sleeps.

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong because Tony doesn’t fit there. Not there, nor in all of the places he used to. He’s not Iron Man or a businessman. He’s not a husband or a full-time father. He’s not even Peter Parker's mentor.

What he is, for all of his resurrected glory, is an afterthought. A spectre, hovering in the fringes of all of the places he used to be the centre of.

He smiles, raising his glass to the smoking couple as they nod politely at him.

It’s fine. He’s happy that everyone is happy.

But it’s been months. He ain't Jesus, but surely by now he’d find some sense of purpose.

“Mr. Stark?”

When Tony opens his eyes Peter stands before him, clutching a perspiring glass of wine.

Tony doesn’t want to notice, but he does anyway. The look of concern written on his face is unmistakable, even in the dim lighting of the rooftop, the nearby flamelight serves to deepen the frown lines on his young face.

“Are you alright, Mr. Stark? Sorry to follow you out here, you just seem kind of...”

“Surly?” Tony guess. “I’m fine, kid. Just had a few too many. Didn’t want to hurl all over the drapes. No need to worry.”

“I was gonna say overwhelmed, but yeah,” Peter says, shifting closer until Tony’s bent knees hit the top of Peter’s thighs - his stomach swoops, again. “I’m gonna worry anyway.”

“Yeah, well, happy New Year,” Tony says dryly, knocking their glasses together.

Peter taps his smart-watch with a finger.

“Still got five minutes before that. Can’t break into Auld Lang Syne yet, Mr. Stark.”

“We could if we were in Halifax,” Tony counters. The younger man tilts his head agreeably and Tony calls the easing of tension from Peter’s shoulders a win.

“Let’s stick to New York.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “You don’t have somewhere you’d rather be? You got four-something minutes.”

“Right here, actually, if that’s okay with you.”

Tony doesn’t know if that’s frankness or fiction, but he smiles all the same, patting the slab of stone he’s sat upon invitingly.

“Well, come aboard, Mr. Parker.”

Without pause, Peter hoists himself on the bench with a single hand, delicately balancing the glass of champagne with the other. He shuffles to get comfortable, swinging his legs as he settles.

The firelight catches onto the curve of Peter’s curls, slicked down into wilted tendrils from the sweat dotting his hairline.

His heart is positively thunderous in his chest. He raises his hand to soothe it and at once, sickeningly, painfully misses the comforting heat of the arc reactor.

“You wanna talk about it?” Peter asks, after a moment.

Tony smiles wryly, mostly to himself. Of course, there’s nothing that escapes Peters notice.

“Trust me, kid. There’s not much to say.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Peter says, fishing something out of his pocket and handing it to Tony “I, uh, thought you liked those. I took the last one.”

It’s a portugese egg tart, Tony notes, warmed slightly from Peter’s body heat. Fuck. He does like them. They’re his favourite.

Tony pretends like his heart isn’t swelling to the point where it feels it's going to burst and breaks the tart in two, passing over the other half to Peter.

“Thanks, kid. Try some.”

They eat their halves in relative silence, save for the sound of chewing and Peter’s shoes hitting the stone as he swings his legs. But the mood grows quieter, noticeably pensive after they finish eating. It makes Tony’s skin crawl.

“You know,” Peter says softly, as if raising his voice would shatter the moment, “you’re not the only one to come back to find years lost. To find the world different. I know it’s not easy. Especially on nights like this.”

Tony swallows roughly, chasing it with a mouthful of champagne.

“You seem to have managed well.”

Peter huffs. “Oh yeah, real well. God, you don’t even know how --” his voice breaks off, voice wet with emotion. He looks away, throat bobbing as he gathers himself. “You just -- you don’t know.”

The moment feels fraught with enough gravity that it would bring the moon down between them.

“Hey,” Tony chides, trying to diffuse the heavy emotion with what levity he could utter. “Come on now, it’s supposed to be me out here maudlin. Don’t steal my thunder, Charlotte's Web.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, cracking a smile. “I’ll try to pencil in sad hours for later.”

“Appreciated.”

A comfortable silence settles between them. A woman, visibly drunk, passes them and raises her glass to Tony, the liquid sloshing out from the glass and down her arm. She doesn’t seem to notice, smiling and stumbling away.

That would have been Tony ten years ago (in his lived years). On the weekends without Morgan, sometimes it still is.

“Got any resolutions, Mr. Stark?”

Tony snorts. “Shit, kid, I don’t know. Take Morgan to Saturn. Run for president, get back on the Cosmo’s Bachelor of the Year.”

“Most people just join a gym.”

“I didn’t come back to life to break my hip on a treadmill,” Tony says, offended. “What about you, Peter Rabbit?”

Peter takes a sip of his drink as he visibly deliberates. Wayward drops of champagne gather at the corner of his mouth before he scoops them with his tongue, eyes drifting to the glittering skyline.

“Yeah. I’m trying to get this guy that I’m into to take me seriously.”

Tony hums, stomach dropping.

“Some guy, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ve known him since I was fifteen and I’m like, super into him, but he still sees me as a child.”

His stomach swoops back up.

“Well,” Tony clears his throat, daring to hope, “this guy’s an idiot if he can’t see you for the man you are. You’re a catch.”

Peter shrugs, inching closer as he adjusts his balance. Their hands are nearly touching and Tony can feel the heat radiating from the man's body and he hates himself for it, just a little bit, he’s too old to feel like a kid with a crush again.

“He’s not an idiot. Well, he is, sometimes. Not all the time.”

“You sure this guy is good enough for you?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, looking out at the skyline again. “He’s just lost. I can wait.”

“What if he’s not right for you?” Tony says, throat closing unexpectedly. “What if he’s not worth the wait?”

Peter shuffles closer.

“He has been so far,” he says, bravely extending his pinkie so it curls atop Tony’s. In the cool night air the touch of skin against skin is scorching. “Worst case scenario has already happened. I’ve already lost him in the worst possible way. I could do without him calling me kid all the time though.”

“He makes no promises on that.”

“I thought as much.”

“You deserve better than lost, Pete,” Tony says around the lump in his throat. For a moment he can’t speak, the memories of electricity ripping through his body in a moment of love much like the feeling he has now. “You deserve the best.”

But Peter doesn’t say anything. He tugs on their linked pinkies to intertwine their fingers, resting them in the interstice of their pressed thighs. Tony doesn’t miss how Peter’s palms are damp against his, how they tremble ever so slightly. It’s grounding, to know Peter is as nervous as he is.

When he gets brave enough to stroke the back of Peters hand with his thumb some of the mired shame melts away.

“Deserve is subjective,” Peter says, squeezing Tony’s fingers. “And I decide he is the best.”

“What if he wants you back,” Tony whispers, shifting closer on the stone until their sides are entirely flush together. “But he has nothing to offer you. Doesn’t fit in with your life.”

“What about what I can offer him?” Peter clutches his hand tighter, raising it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the back of Tony’s hand. “What if I'm there while he finds his way?”

“Pete.”

“You have time, Mr. Stark. You can figure the rest out as it comes to you.”

“And until then?”

“You go with the flow.”

“How?”

“Like this,” Peter whispers, pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss.

Closing his eyes, Tony leans into it and lets himself fall. Peters lips feel soft, pillowy, the kiss chaste and unassuming. When Peter pulls back he looks dazed, which is silly, because that was a tease for Tony.

Eyes on the glistening bow of Peter’s lips, he wants to dive in and tug it between his teeth. So he does.

“That’s -- yeah,” Tony says, sliding their noses together, “Were you -- were you always this confident?”

“I’m not confident,” Peter replies, kissing him again, pulling back to exhale shakily against Tony’s lips. “Holy cow. That was, like, a super big risk for me. Wow. Did I fool you? Are you fooled?”

“Bamboozled,” Tony says, staring at Peter’s lips again. “Just to confirm, I’m the guy, right? Resolution guy?”

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

“Good,” Tony says, cupping his cheeks and kissing him again.

Fireworks bathe the couple in an electric array of neons, and crowds can be heard cheering from all around them. Tony pulls away to see Peter illuminated in brilliant colour, lips wet and swollen.

“Is this okay?” Peter reaches his free hand up to cup Tony’s cheek. “Is it weird? It’s a bit weird. Right?”

“It’s weird. But weird-different,” Tony amends. “Good different, right?”

“Right.”

“I should, maybe, keep kissing you to be sure.”

Peter’s answering grin against his lips vivifies the lights exploding around them.

To the soundtrack of waning fireworks, Tony gets lost in learning how Peter kisses, the shape of his lips, how the heat of his tongue feels against his own.

Struck suddenly by a memory Tony pulls away from Peter to groan.

“What?” Peter queries, flushed and panting. “What’s wrong?”

“I literally paid Morgan a hundred bucks to not tell you I was hot for you.”

Peter balks, staring at Tony as if he were stupid.

“Um, I have enhanced hearing, remember? And she told me, like, two months ago.”

Tony squints.

“That little brat.”

——

The knowing smiles when they walk back into the ballroom from their family is a little uncalled for. Morgan is asleep in Peppers lap so she isn’t even awake to crow about her victory.

But the way Otto splutters as his eyes dart between the bruise on Tony’s neck and their joined hands is deeply worth it.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Octavius!” Peter beams, swinging their hands together.

“And - and you. Mr. Parker.”

“Sorry to drop this on you last minute, would you mind if I get another ride home?”

“Well, I --”

“Let me compensate you for the cab,” Tony offers, dropping Peter’s hand to wind his arm around the younger man's waist, pulling their sides flush together. “It’s the least I can do. Don’t worry, Peter’s ride will be very enjoyable.”

“I take it you’re not coming back to the penthouse,” Pepper cuts in, sharing a look with Greg.

“Yeah,” Tony nods, already pulling Peter away. “When Morguna wakes up from her beauty sleep tell her she owes me a cut of the winnings, okay? Good. Happy New whatever.”

They stop by the dessert spread on their way out.

-----

Their taxi driver sends them scalding stares from the front seat.

It’s fine, Tony will compensate him generously in tips. Though, if he were the driver, he’d probably be pissed too.

For all of his stealthyness as Spider-Man, Peter is not quiet right now. He bucks into Tony’s touch, rubbing his crotch against Tony’s hand. He breaks their kiss to moans lewdly into Tony’s mouth, breath hot against his face.

“Oh god,” he exhales shakily, tugging on Tony’s tie to bring their lips together in a filthy kiss.

“Good?” Tony mumbles against his lips, grinding his palm down harder. Peter nods, tilting his head back to groan as Tony’s mouth latches onto his neck. The creamy skin is mottled with teeth marks and barely blooming hickies.

Tony sucks and and laves his tongue over the heated skin to hear how his breath hitches, those high ahh-ahh’s that fall breathlessly out of his mouth, to hear him moan --

“M-Mr. Stark!”

Tony winces, pulling back.

He sighs. “Kid, if we’re doing this, you really gotta call me Tony.”

In an instant Peter’s face turns stony, somehow looking stern despite his swollen lips and wrinkled shirt. He looks like a petulant pitbull.

“If we’re doing this you really gotta stop calling me ‘kid’, Tony.”

Tony undoes the first button of Peter’s dress shirt, then the second, parting the folds of fabric to get a view of his collarbones.

“I suppose I would be amenable to such amendments, Peter,” he nods, “on the condition that you let me take you on a date.”

As Tony snakes a hand over the curves of his clavicle, Peter’s deft fingers undo the knot of Tony’s tie until it lies loose from his neck.

“I would be amenable to that. Conditions accepted.”

“Fantastic.”

“Yeah. I’m going to kiss you again now.”

“Okay. Yeah. Good.”

-----

With a heavy arm slung around his midsection, Tony finds out what Peter’s body feels like curled around his body when he wakes up the next morning.

There are a lot of little discoveries on New Years Day.

Like the feeling of Peter’s morning wood pressed pleasantly against his ass. Or how Peter squints adorably as he wakes up, as if he were confused by his own consciousness, his bedhead a mad nest of curls. Or how much Tony doesn’t mind the humid exchange of morning breath.

“Do you always take your first dates to bed?” Peter queries over breakfast, the ghost of a teasing smile on his face.

“That was not a date,” Tony points his fork at him. Scrambled egg falls from the utensil onto the table. “And we didn’t even have sex. That’s misleading, mister.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Tony sniffs.

“You’ll find out when we have our first date, won’t you? Friday at seven. Yes or yes?”

Peter sips his coffee to hide his smile, but Tony still sees it.

“Yes.”

-----

They got their date.

Six months after the New Years festivities comes Morgans eleventh birthday.

Tony’s had a lot of dates with a lot of people, including Peter, but nothing quite trumps this.

It’s a double date. With his ex-wife and her new husband. Plus twelve other kids and their parents at a McDonalds.

All four are seated at a table, Peter to his side, squirming on the terrible, hard chairs while Pepper and Greg sit opposite. Several servings of burgers and fries lay cold between them. Mostly melted McFlurries ooze off the provided plastic spoon when disinterestedly stirred.

It’s terribly romantic.

Morgan wanted McDonalds with her friends for her birthday, and before the big move to middle school. It fell on date night.

The garishly decorated diner is alive with the sounds of yelling and laughing, kids and their siblings running after one another, pushing each other down slides and following each other through narrow, plastic tunnels.

Tony’s never really been a double date kinda guy, particularly when it involves the mother of his child and his new, twenty-something lover. It was stilted in the beginning, made more awkward by Tony’s foursome jokes, but Peter keeps the conversation afloat, dipping the congealed fries into Tony’s melted ice cream.

He rubs Tony’s lower back as he speaks. Soothing, grounding circles that inadvertently keep Tony in the present.

Peter likes being in constant contact, Tony found. Now that he has the permission. Whether its holding hands, a casual grip on Tonys knee, his thigh, his back.

It’s… actually nice. Maybe because he does it too.

It’s not always about comfort though, Tony concedes, as Peter’s hand dips a little lower, brushing over the swell of his ass.

They share a knowing look.

Tony knows now, what that odd twinkle in Peter’s eyes mean. That little pervert. He knows it in the way Peter bites his bottom lip, as if canary feathers are about to flutter out of his guilty mouth. He wants to lean over and kiss the look right off them.

Greg keeps a close eye on the playground, loafers tapping anxiously on the tiles when a kid pulls a daring move and nearly misses their landing.

He’s not the worst, Tony concedes, wearily assessing the other man. He cares for Morgan which is a plus. But he’s greying gracefully and is genuinely so nice and humble that Tony can’t help but test him every now and then. How earnest can he truly be with Tony stealing a fry here and there and knocking his knees ‘accidentally’.

The conversation turns to Morgans transition to middle school. Pepper thinks she’ll outgrow her peers in months and will pursue a more scientific-focused academic curriculum.

It’s one of those rare, transient moments of life that Tony’s here to witness. He’s getting used to feeling like everything is going to be okay, like maybe he wasn’t brought back just to be a part of another fight. But there’s a lingering anxiety, he just doesn’t know how to deal with without a solder or a suit to tinker on.

He’s working on it though.

“Should we manhandle her highness back in for the cake?” Tony asks, hand snaking down to squeeze Peter’s firm thigh.

Peter, not missing a beat, sends him a smirk that says I’ll manhandle you.

It’s only right that Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s thigh, smiling proudly to himself when Peters breath hitches.

A kid knocks into the back of Tony’s chair, screaming as they run towards the playground. Tony winces, the moment broken.

“Need I remind you two that we’re in a family establishment,” Pepper stresses.

“Yes,” Tony rolls his eyes, gesturing to the playground of rambunctious, screaming children. “How could I forget.”

“Tony.”

“You heard her, Pete, keep it safe for work. You’re making people uncomfortable,” Tony says, clamping down tighter on Peter's leg. Speaking to the couple, he gestures to Peter with his thumb. “Real horndog this one. Insatiable.”

“Me?” Peter says accusingly, jaw dropping.

Pepper raises an eyebrow cooly. “Please, Tony. Don’t think Morgan hasn’t told me about the time she walked in on you two. One time you told her you were checking each Peters temperature. With your long thermometer -- honestly, Tony. Try not to traumatise our child.”

Peter visibly colours at the mention.

“Wait,” Tony says. “That little -- I paid her twenty bucks not to tell you that.”

“So did I,” Peter frowns. “And I gave her the rest of my Reeses to seal the deal. Ah, crap.”

“You got played,” Greg snickers. Tony hates him again.

He nods at Pepper.

“She gets that from you.”

Pepper smiles, unbothered, looking every ounce the image of class as she raises her plastic cup of milkshake to them.

Tony sighs, not even mad.

Some things never change.

-- Thank you to our wonderful artists and writer who participated in the first Starker Games! <3 <3 <3 this is fabulous and we hope you enjoyed yourselves!

#Starker #starker games #starker fanart #PeterxTony #TonyxPeter #New Years

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