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berryless · 6 months

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"What, want me to ruffle your feathers?" Tav asked with a smirk when she caught him staring, as if she didn't ruffle enough of his feathers prior to this moment—figuratively speaking, most unfortunately.

The owlbear's cub sprawled on its stomach beside her, head on her lap as it was cooing something. Given how eagerly it butted into her hand, rather obvious what it was after.

He took a step back, arms raised as he refused, "I'll abstain for tonight. Afraid the competition's too fierce for me to win this fight without any losses. Tomorrow, though…"

He let some hope into his voice, tone laced thick with promise.

Astarion looked at Tav, waiting for her answer, and she nodded to him with a smile on her lips.

"Wonderful. I'll be awaiting then. Most eagerly."

So easy.

Too easy.

He should've known better, but perhaps he was momentarily blinded that she'd finally given up keeping her distance.

Tav played with his hair for a good part of the evening, and Astarion tolerated it—the experience was quite enjoyable, if he was to be honest, but those weren't headpats that he was after. Finally the time came to take the heavy weapons against her, those that he was most proficient at using. Those that hardly ever betrayed him. And he needed Tav to not betray him either. To protect him, when hardly anyone in the camp was terribly happy about having a vampire in their midst. If Cazador… When Cazador… Even though Astarion didn't need to breathe anymore, the air staled in lungs when he thought about this. He needed Tav—and everyone else she have eating out of the palm of her adorable little hand—to stay on his side when that happens. Because as convenient as it may've been, out of many advantages the worm gave him, making his master forget about his existence wasn't one of them.

Her fingers raked his hair and scratched his scalp, sending him into shivers as Astarion couldn't help but lower his guard a notch. He wasn't an inexperienced youngling, still wet behind his ears. He wouldn't miss the change in her touch when it was most familiar to him. It would be rather convenient for Tav to hold his neck or slide her fingers under the lacing of his shirt, so Astarion expected that. Ears too were a good starting point… Lips, perhaps, if she was feeling adventurous for a sharp touch of his fangs…

He turned to the side, forehead pressed against Tav's stomach to let her get to the back of his head. Then turned again, face buried in her lap.

As tedious the pointless waiting went, this kind of foreplay was not without its pleasures. If she were to continue fondling the rest of him in same manner, Astarion wouldn't mind much. If anything, the thought was getting him rather excited, albeit weary in a similar way any kind of sex did. But it was familiar kind of wear he was most used to, so Astarion was slipping into it with ease like one would into old boots they've long been donning. Perhaps the heels were stooped a bit from years of use, and the laces were frayed and brittle, but those were the boots he'd worn for as long as he could remember. He didn't have a spare, if there even existed a spare the likes of him could afford.

Finally Tav's hand stopped, resting on his neck as she barely moved her big finger against the edge of his hairline.

He knew it was coming, and yet a part of him was strangely disappointed.

Well, no point dwelling on it.

Finally it was his turn to…

"Think I'm spent for the evening. My hand's cramping. Want to lie down for a little while longer, or you'd prefer to rest on something more comfortable than my lap?"

Her question came most unexpectedly. At first Astarion thought he heard it wrong. But when he raised his head to check Tav's face, there was nothing special on it, like she was asking something mundane, barely worth of notice. And it was a rather mundane thing to ask. If you weren't expecting anything else to follow.

She wasn't.

It stunned him when Astarion realized that.

Thankfully it lasted barely a moment, and then his instincts kicked in.

"Why? I find your lap a rather enjoyable place to rest my head on."

'It would be even better if you were to let me put it between your legs, but I suppose I wouldn't get much rest then,' was supposed to follow, but somehow it got stuck in his throat. He couldn't even say why at first.

Because she wasn't flirting. Because it wasn't foreplay. Because she just offered to ruffle his feathers in a most simple, primitive, childish way possible, and never planned to stretch the invitation to something more salacious and titillating.

Ruffled his feathers she did.

With much too fervor.

Astarion hardly remembered the way he traveled back into his tent and what he said in the process. Surely it was something appropriate for the occasion, he could trust the habits beaten into his skull by years of use.

No wonder she agreed so easily. He must've been blind not to notice.

He laid down, curled into a ball, sulking—for what, Astarion couldn't tell.

Perhaps it irked him that his plans fell through, and the cooked duck flew away from his mouth when he was so close to biting into it. What else could've been the issue otherwise?

But most strangely, a tightness in his stomach loosened as soon as he was left alone. He breathed with ease, warm ticklish touch of Tav's fingers lingering on his skin.

Safe.

From what..?

He didn't know.

#fanfiction #fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #fluff #character study #astarion being astarion #my timeline is all over the place #this is supposed to preceed previous headpats drabble #because I think it would take some time for Astarion to ease into the idea of having platonic skinship #I will later boot it onto my ao3 #so if you want to read things in PROPER timeline #you can find my texts there

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sungbeam · 3 months

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9:47PM — lee juyeon x gn!reader

a/n: okay but if i did ever go thru w my frat tbz series, this would be so much fun for juyo, just saying 😭 she's been stewing in my brain for how long now

You were just walking beneath the balconies of one of the frat houses when you came to an abrupt halt. Tipsy and unaware of your actions, your friend Ningning crashed right into your back. “Yn, what—”

“Waitwaitwait!” You told her as you backpedaled a few steps to get a better view.

The two of you were situated in the middle of a Greek Row block party and it was raging all around you. But on your way down the street, your eyes had caught the marvel of a man leaning over his balcony railing, nursing a can of beer and people-watching. Your buzzed out brain nearly melted into a puddle of goop at the sight of his soft-eyed smile as he laughed at something his brothers were doing across the street at the cornhole boards.

You cupped your hands around your mouth and gave a holler, “Heey, pretty boy!” Oh, you definitely sounded drunk, but you swore you weren't…

The man heard you, loud and clear, and turned his head with wide eyes in your direction. When he saw you there with a big grin on your face, his cheeks darkened. “Wh—who? Me?” He asked while pointing at himself.

“But soft!” You replied, reaching your hands up toward him and then clutching at your heart, “what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet the sun.”

He was fully facing you now and nearly half folded over the railing with his smile as giddy as a girl on the telephone with a lover. “My name's Juyeon, not Juliet, by the way.”

“If I told you my phone number, would you correct it with yours, too?”

#lowkey highkey this is literally just an imagine so idk why im putting proper tags 😭💀#the boyz x reader #tbz x reader #lee juyeon x reader #juyeon x reader #the boyz imagines #the boyz drabbles #the boyz timestamps #the boyz oneshot #juyeon imagines #juyeon timestamps #juyeon drabbles #juyeon oneshots #juyeon scenarios #the boyz scenarios #the boyz fanfic

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everylastbird · 2 months

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I've been thinking of a soulmates style au wherein hualian discover they are soulmates after XL saves HC as a child.

In this AU meeting your soulmate is incredibly rare and very auspicious, so even though HC is a commoner he is recognized as XL's future spouse and taken into the care of the royal family, but sequestered away from XL to maintain decorum. They see each other now and again, and interact during events and gatherings, but otherwise are kept separated. HC is delighted and pines and generally dreams of the day he gets to officially marry XL and be his wife.

(I like to personally use the term 'wife' in danmei specifically to mean 'the spouse that marries into the home of the other', so as he is marrying into XL's home, he would be the bride in this scenario.)

XL ascends, as in canon. Unlike in canon, when a soulmate ascends, so too does your soulmate, and HC ascends with XL.

XL also descends and falls from godhood, as in canon. Ever so magnanimous, JW ~kindly~ allows HC to stay in heaven upon XL's request, as HC didn't break any rules. HC is, however, bound to the heavens, unable to descend to seek out XL.

Centuries pass, and HC becomes known as a God of constancy, faithfulness, and marriage. He is regarded with both awe and pity. Poor HC, who remains loyal to a faithless god of misfortune. Isn't it incredible, how much he is willing and able to endure to uphold the sanctity of his marriage vows? He has a large faction of worshippers, mostly brides and wives in arranged, unhappy marriages, who pray to him for strength.

Few, if any, remember that Xianle fell before HC had the chance to marry XL. That all this time he has remained steadfast and true to his fiancé, rather than his husband. The gods that do look upon him with scorn and judgment. No one expects him to remain loyal to the likes of XL, so who does he think he is putting on this show for?

It doesn't matter what those gods, or even what his worshippers think of him, however. HC is loyal to XL out of love, and devotion. He is not suffering out of obligation. His only pain is that felt by his fiancé, and the pain of separation forced upon him.

And despite what the gods and his worshippers assume, he is not a long-suffering bride who sits and pines for his beloved. While he yearns for the day he can reunite with XL, HC spends his time playing the long-con. After all, is the keeping of house and home not one of the primary roles of any good wife? And the heavens are so steeped in filth. Certainly not worthy of his husband to be.

As for XL, he strives and toils to regain his godhood under the weight of his lost worshippers and the scorn of the gods who once praised him.

More than that, he worries, often, about HC, and his misplaced loyalty. Every now and then XL hears another tale of HC's endless, unshakeable loyalty, but with those tales also come stories of that devotion being nothing more than a shackle. Nothing is ever said of HC's love for his husband, or HC's happiness, only his impressive endurance in the face of obligation to a worthless husband. XL fears that HC is little more than a long suffering would-be bride, held back by XL's mistakes and the fate that bound them together without either of their say.

So XL does his best to regain his godhood, so that he may re-enter heaven and finally free HC from himself for good.

When, after 800 years, XL finally ascends once again, nothing is as he had expected it to be. There is a crowd, but no one is casting judgment or disparaging him. Instead, it seems as though he has ascended amidst the start of a lavish celebration.

As XL stands amidst a sea of joyful revelry, a procession slowly makes its way towards him, and at its end, a bridal sedan.

When the sedan stops before him and a hand moves aside its curtain, XL reaches out to grasp it without thinking. Gently, he leads the bride off of the sedan and onto solid ground.

XL looks up at a veil of opaque crimson silk. He cannot see the face behind it, does not even know, after all this time, what HC would even look like... But in this moment he knows, unquestionably, that this is not just any bride, but his bride.

Part of XL recalls that one of his main reasons to rise to godhood again was to let HC go, to finally allow him freedom from the weight of being tethered to someone like XL. And yet, any thoughts of breaking his vows to HC dry up in his mouth. He has thought of so many ways to say it, so many ways to cut HC loose of him without bringing HC any more pain, but he cannot bring himself to say any of them.

The hand in his grasp turns, and laces their fingers together. His bride's hand is strong, XL observes as though from a distance, unflinching and sure.

"Hello, gege," HC says. His voice is deeper than XL remembers, richer and more vibrant than anything he has experienced for decades, if not centuries.

"Ah, San Lang, I'm sorry, " he manages to force out through his shock. His laugh is pitchy and uneven even to his own ears. "I'm afraid I'm not quite prepared...!"

"It's okay, gege." A thumb carasses his knuckles tenderly, and XL's throat tightens. "I already have everything ready for us."

#hualian #hua cheng #xie lian #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #take this drabble i wrote in my notes app during lunch break that went off the rails #i got gripped by the thought of XL ascending into the midst of a wedding procession only for him to realize it was *his* wedding and #couldnt control myself #given that this is almost 1000 words i really may clean this up and make a proper fic of it

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magnusbae · 1 month

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Hi! What about "Can you stay with me?" (and if you'd like it my bonus prompt is "drunk") 💗

The initial draft was written while I was quite literally fainting late at night & the second one fully rewritten while I am dazed and out of it. I would say that I was method writing Obi-Wan who is indeed very much drunk in this one, dearest anon. Thank you for the prompt~ 😊💖

+++

Obikin || 4,004w || Drunk Obi-Wan is agonized by the prospect of his freshly knighted Padawan leaving him behind— and more. 😌 Some flavors of gentle lime in this drink, very light, very sweet. 🍋💖

▾▾▾

"Can you stay with me?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi sounds properly pathetic and he knows it. Grasping at Anakin’s Tabards as he is, mind swirling in hazy circles around the notion he was doing his very best to avoid thinking about for the past few months. It is not long now that Anakin would look at his Master and see him for what he really was. Perhaps even today. Inebriated as he is, he makes for a good serving of disillusionment. All Anakin needs to do is look, and see, and then…

It seems inevitable—his Padawan will leave.

Former Padawan. Anakin is no longer his Padawan, and that is the heart of it, isn’t it? The severed braid was the firs step. Them having each a battalion of their own, stationed light years away from each other with only the occasional joint mission, a second. The third and final step would be for Anakin to finally open his eyes and look, and see.

It won’t be hard to unveil the carefully crafted Jedi Master facade Obi-Wan had cultivated for the past decade. No, it won’t be hard at all. If Anakin were to stop glorifying him, stop shaping him to be what ever form of idol he had needed for while growing up, if only he were to take an unbiased look at him…

There will no longer be, Kenobi and Skywalker.

For the naked truth was, Anakin had outgrown him, had become more powerful and capable than his Master. There’s little left that Obi-Wan could still offer, still teach. He should be proud. The only one still refusing to see it, is Anakin himself. Once that revelation comes to pass however, it will be complete. A true break, as befitting the Jedi way. Obi-Wan finds no peace in the thought, no completion nor satisfaction in the successful completion of his Padawan’s training—a symbol of his own Mastery.

Not when it means losing him. Not then.

Given his state of drunkenness, words slurred and feet unsteady, he thinks that it’s worth putting to question whatever or not he was a good Jedi at all, least of all a Master. Try as he might, he finds it hard to ponder further. His choice to look inward is as always an avoidance, an escape. An easy detour from looking outward, from looking at Anakin. Anakin who’s eyes he can feel like a physical touch, boring into his very soul.

Obi-Wan’s avoidance is nearly as strong as Anakin’s natural magnetism. One is counseling him to avoid looking, save himself the pain of witnessing the exact moment in which the realization dawns upon the boy. The second, stronger still, demands his undivided attention on him, demands him to look. Demands him.

Obi-Wan looks up, he meets those eyes, his demise.

Anakin’s eyes widen and he blinks, endless blue clearing as if coming out of some sort of shock.

“Can I—” Anakin splutters “—Obi-Wan, even if the council explicitly ordered me to go save the entire karkin universe just now, I wouldn’t be leaving your side— stars you’ve any idea what you look like right now?

Obi-Wan’s tongue is heavy but he parts his lips to answer, something clever to be sure, he always finds something to say.

“No, never mind.” Anakin cuts in before he could speak. There’s such decisiveness in his tone, such confidence. His former Padawan stands tall, his arms are strong and sure as he handles Obi-Wan closer, making him lean more of his weight against his chest. It’s broad and firm. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things, should not be aware of those things. It is a further evidence that his Padawan is well and truly grown. Further evidence of his own failing as a Jedi, as a Master, as a…man. Obi-Wan should not be inhaling and smelling home. Should not be leaning closer, itching all over for more, more.

“You’re so wasted that I am surprised you’ve even recognized me at all.” Anakin continues talking, as if the universe is not shifting beneath Obi-Wan’s feet as it is him who finally looks with his gaze unbiased. “The drunken messages though, those you will be seeing tomorrow” there’s dark mirth in that dear voice. “I bet you wanted to send them to— someone else.” Anakin glances at him, eyes narrowed.

Obi-Wan’s offenses at Anakin’s assumption he could ever not recognize him dies over under his gaze, dark and rich, his eyes are captivating. Before Anakin, he did not know that a blue can hold such multitudes. Both the clear morning sky, and the moon lit sky. Beautiful. They loosens his tongue as well as any truth serum would. That or the bottle he had finished on his own finally soaked through.

“I will always—” His voice comes out so thick that he coughs, starting Anakin from his dark contemplations, whichever those might be. His eyebrows furrow and he quickly snatches a cup of something clear off of a passing robo-waitress’s tray. Irritated with the distraction, Obi-Wan accepts it and drinks if only to make way for the words to follow. He will not let it go. Not now that he’d started. “I will always recognize you, Padawan Mine, drugged, beaten, or otherwise preoccupied— I will always—” “Drugged?!” Anakin cuts in again, arms tightening around Obi-Wan and strangling the annoyed huff at being cut again “You did not mention anything about being drugged, what the kark’ Obi-Wan?!”

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry, similar to how being drugged would feel. His mind swims and all he sees is Anakin. There’s warmth in his chest, there’s a burn in his gut, there’s a tug in his—

“It’s hard to tell” he says sheepishly, embarrassed, eyes straying away from Anakin’s strong jaw and up, up to the lights on the ceiling. He should not be thinking of how Anakin’s proximity is enough to replicate a strong drug. How out of orbit he feels around him as of late. “They all start the same, so…”

Anakin is hardly listening. Instead he is surveying the club with a look of fury that is bordering on homicidal, freeing one hand to rest it on his lightsaber. There’s the distinct feeling of Anakin stretching his force signature out, covering the room, no doubt attempting to locate anyone within their proximity who might have dared drug his former Master. Oh if only he knew that he was the culprit all along.

Obi-Wan snorts, finding an odd sense of humor in it.

Anakin’s gaze darts back to him, sharp and accusing. He looks so handsome under the colorful, dim lights. He looks so…

“Ah-nakin.” Obi-Wan sighs out and shuts his eyes lest his spinning head forces him to sober up in the most un-jedi manner.

“Stay with me,” the request comes so easy, what was it that he was so afraid of? It’s so easy, too easy. Frighteningly so, to reach and touch Anakin’s forearm. There’s skin beneath his touch, warm and human, tense muscles beneath. “Ah” Obi-Wan sighs out in realization. Anakin had rolled the sleeves, so very unofficial for a Jedi and yet so very Anakin of him.

Master Windu would have hated it. It wouldn’t surprise Obi-Wan if this was exact reason why Anakin did it to begin with, after all, he was most adept to handling heat and was not bothered by it even while all else were. Obi-Wan really should have reprimanded the boy more often, should have stopped Anakin from executing all those harmless little vendettas of his while growing up.

If only he did not find them to be so endearing, so amusing. If only he was a better Master, a proper Master. He would have.

His brain is foggy and he had already forgotten what was it it that he had hoped to achieve by touching Anakin, only that his fingers are circling his wrist and touching the spot at which he can feel his life pulsing. What a terrible habit it is, being intoxicated while negotiating. You should only ever drink enough to appear drunk, never more. How is he to get what he wants, when he has no ideas what it was?

Obi-Wan’s eyelids are heavy when he tries to blink them open and focus on Anakin. There’s the signature frown, so familiar Obi-Wan can’t help but smile. Anakin is chewing his lips, a compulsion he had never managed to rid himself of. He looks torn between the need to locate and deal with the ‘enemy’, and…. Obi-Wan.

The way Anakin looks, that should not be reminiscent of the targets Obi-Wan opts for charm as the main form of negotiation with. Should not stir the excitement of a hunt, of a game to be won. Obi-Wan should not use his looks to achieve his goals, he should not use them to get what he wants, he should be a better man than that.

Obi-wan is not a better man.

Licking his own dry lips, he let’s go off of Anakin’s wrist and reaches for Anakin’s cheeks. There’s a tremble in the touch, his, Anakin’s? He is not certain.

“Dear One, you can chase your enemies tomorrow.” He speaks in a hushed murmur, he hopes he sounds soft and alluring “Tonight, will you guard this drunk Master of yours?” he looks up, through his lashes, breathing shallowly, feeling hot, hot, hot all over.

Anakin let’s go off of the lightsaber. It’s an answer enough to what he had picked. It still is deeply gratifying to feel the boy’s hand cover his own, guide it until he wraps his arm around Anakin’s shoulders. It’s an awkward angle, with Anakin being taller than he— he cares very little for it when Anakin wraps an arm around his waist.

“Let’s go.” He is tight lipped and determined, guiding Obi-Wan out and into a speeder that is parked not far off. If Obi-Wan was even slightly more aware, he’d realize just how much attention the pair of them had draw, how all of the eyes had followed them out. Sometimes he forgets, how famous they had become during this accursed war. Sometimes, he is glad to not remember.

Anakin is terribly efficient at getting them to the Temple. One blink of an eye they’re flying through the busy highways of Coruscant, the next he is tossed unceremoniously onto a bed that feels and smells familiar. His bed.

They’re in his quarters. Their quarters until very recently. He is breathing harder and he does not dare to think of why. If he does not think, it does not exist. He is self aware enough only to feel how disheveled his robes feel on his body, how messy his hair is, how hot his skin feels all over. He is a mess.

“Dear one?” he questions. He refuses to acknowledge how his own tone drops, refuses to admit he is rolling his vowels in a way he knows thickens his accent in the most attractive of ways. He doesn’t know why he is flirting with Anakin Skywalker when the boy is barely out of his knighthood and is Anakin. His Anakin, his Anakin on whom he just looked in a way he really should not be looking at, through his eyelashes, with a heavy, wanting gaze.

The redness of Anakin’s cheeks is evidence enough that he hears and understands the situation well enough. That he is very much aware of what his Master is doing. That he is… perhaps affected.

Obi-Wan swallows, trying to push himself up to his elbows. He needs to sober up, he must tell him that he is merely jesting, that it is all a little tease, a little laugh, nothing more, just….

Anakin cuts him to it. Before he can excuse, or joke, or explain.

“Not while you’re drunk.” Anakin bites, sounding frustrated, lips swollen red from biting. Obi-Wan startles, surprised.

What did Anakin just say? Imply?

Blatantly threw straight into his face, more like.

Yes, but not while he is drunk.

Absurdly, a swell of pride fills his chest to the brim. Anakin’s manners and chivalry surprises him, pleases him. He had raised him well after all, he did not fail him, at least not in this.

His pleasure must bleed into the Force as Anakin regards him with a dark, baffled look. It’s so dark, most would find it intimidating, but for Obi-Wan it’s… dear. He can see the gentleness in that look, the care. There’s warmth in the force when Anakin insist on tucking him in, fingers methodical in the short, careful gestures. Tucking him in as if he was a child. Him, his Master. Former.

Obi-Wan was tucked in only once in his lifetime, at least as far as he can remember. His first night in the Jedi Temple. So tense he was, so out of his depth, that the he was taken pity of, tucked in with a quiet promise of everything making sense soon. It helped.

It had never happen again.

“Ahnakin.” he tries to protest, tries to pull a face of offended indigence. It’s hard to do when he is practically shining within the force. A single look from his apprentice is enough to quiet him down.

“Master.” Anakin replies, and there’s a little eyeroll there. His cheeks are still flushed but he seems as determined as Obi-Wan to not address the Bantha in the room. “You really should be more careful” he lectures him in a way Obi-Wan can distinctly remember doing a few years back, when Anakin had gotten drunk for the first time.

He leaves then, without a word. Obi-Wan’s throat closes and there’s a pang of pain in his heart. No this. He remembers now. Him. Leaving. That was the whole reason, that was why—

“Master?” Anakin sounds concerned, a glass of water and a container of what looks to be painkillers in his hands. “Are you sick?” a few strides and he is by Obi-Wan’s bed again, placing he glass and container at the bedside table. He looks well and truly worried.

Unthinking, Obi-Wan sits up. So sudden that he does feel sick from the motion. He ignores it. He reaches for Anakin’s face with both hands, cupping his cheeks with a grip that is too strong, too desperate. A Jedi should not hold onto things with such fervor.

All it takes for him to lean is to Anakin, is to stop resisting if only for a moment. Anakin’s pull was always there, stronger and stronger until it had become a daily challenge to ignore it, to pretend he does not feel it. All it takes is to stop resisting and his lips find Anakin’s, pressing against that plush softness, inhaling his exhale and finally, finally feeling anchored, inside the orbit he was always meant to circle.

He tilts his chin, leans in, knowing his beard will scratch pleasantly against the smooth jaw, kisses in deeper—

“Mahster—!” Anakin gasps into the kiss, a pang of shock and uncertainty clouding the force around them, sipping through the open nerves of their broken bond. He does not want to take advantage of his Master, does not want him to end up hating him, does not want him to wake up and be disgusted, appalled— but he wants, he wants so badly.

“Oh, Anakin.” Obi-Wan breathes out, unsure if it’s endearment of relief that fills him up with warmth, with lightness. One thing he is certain of, no one had ever been, or will be, as sweet, as kind, as dear as Anakin is to him. “I could never hate him.” There’s a drunken lisp to his voice, he needs a moment to correct himself. “You.” He manages, meeting Anakin’s eyes and not blinking, not wanting to miss a single moment. Wanting to see the exact moment in which Anakin realizes he is serious, that he is the most honest he’s been in years.

Anakin seems to be realizing it too, his eyes widening and cheeks coloring a deeper red than before, he bites his lip.

“I might be…” Obi-Wan’s gaze drops to Anakin’s lips and he thinks about… “intoxicated…” he forces himself to look up, away from temptation, away from sin. “Drugged, possibly.” He is still not fully certain if he is, or it truly is just Anakin with a touch of alcohol. “But I am very much aware that…” he smiles before completing the sentence, it widens so much further with the words to come “…my Padawan simply cannot take advantage of his Master…” there’s really no need to be using this many terms of belonging, especially when they are outdated and irrelevant, but he just cannot… “On the contrary, I am the one who should be deeply ashamed for…mnnn-”

Anakin’s lips quiet him up, he was never a patient listener, never could hear his Master finish a thought. This is the most effective he had ever been at cutting Obi-Wan’s line of thought, by far. He kisses him in a way Obi-Wan would have never guessed him capable of— it’s soft, sweet, patient. A tender thing, careful, loving. Obi-Wan gasps. Thinking, dazedly of how Anakin will grow to be an amazing lover, so attentive, a beast holding back his fangs in favor of gentle lips…

The thought sets a burning coil of arousal deep in Obi-Wan’s gut.

Not good. Beyond not good. He should….

The thought is present and yet he licks at Anakin’s lips, asking for permission. He is granted one without resistance, without hesitance. Anakin’s lips part and he can taste him and oh, oh. Obi-Wan groans, muscles tensing as he shifts to sit straighter, moving a hand to Anakin’s nape and pulling him closer.

He nearly chokes when the boy sucks on his tongue, arousal shocking him into near soberness.

“Anakin…” he knows, there’s not enough alcohol in the universe to convince him that this is not going too far, he knows and yet…

He kisses Anakin again, a little hungrier, a little more wanting.

He must stop this madness. To think that he had started it, to think that he had taken advantage of his trusting, sweet—

“No, Master.” Anakin answers, and Obi-Wan wonders just how much of his shields is truly left if his thoughts can be read so easily, so plainly. “You’ve asked me to stay, and I will stay.” That assuredness is back, firm and leaving no space for argument. This is the same man who leads men on a battlefield, who commands, who leads. Obi-Wan finds it impossibly, undeniably, devastatingly attractive.

“You will sleep.” Anakin decides then, tearing his eyes away from Obi-Wan long enough to gesture at the lights, turning them off with the force. “And I will stay with you.” His eyes land back to Obi-Wan, dark mirth dancing in what Obi-Wan can still see of him. “To keep you safe, Master.” He is teasing him, the little devil.

“How will it even…” Obi-Wan doesn’t want to mention how narrow the bed really is, Anakin would know, with his constant complaints about how leg room and…

“Don’t worry about that.” Anakin answers, confidence so cocky, so boyish that Obi-Wan huffs a surprised laughter, breaking into giggling when Anakin practically falls on top of him. They struggle like that, laughter mixing, limbs tangling, hair in a mouth and fingers against sides— Anakin captures him then, they’re on their sides, Anakin’s back is firm as he pulls Obi-Wan all the way to himself, forming….

“Absolutely not!” Obi-Wan’s voice raises and breaks a little, attempting to wriggle out of the trap he inadvertently fell into. There’s still some pride life in him. He will not permit this Jedi Knight, his former Padawan no less, big spoon him, 16 years his senior and former Master. Force be his witness, he will not allow it.

Anakin makes a suffering, exasperated exhale when Obi-Wan manages to slip out of his grip— only to be yanked back by the force. All he manages is a choked gasp of protest before the air is knocked out of him, his back hitting a firm chest a little too hard. There’s a vindictive sort of satisfaction in hearing Anakin chokes out a surprised exhale too, clearly, he did not account for the impact being this strong.

“Karkin’ hell…” he hears the boy muttering and snorts out, laughing even while Anakin wraps his mechno-arm around him, pulling him back into the not-as-offensive as before little spoon position. Fine, he thinks. He’ll allow it, just for this one night….

His eyes close and he shudders when Anakin’s nose press against his nape, he can feel the slow, deep inhale— can feel the content exhale that follows.

“Finally.” Anakin breathes out, as if he was waiting for this moment longer than the few minutes just now. Like he needed it, himself. Like it was not Obi-Wan, pathetic and alone, messaging his former Padawan while drunk beyond reason that led him here, but his own needs, own wants. Like he needed this too, him. Like he needs him. Obi-Wan.

“Oh Force…” Obi-Wan calls upon it without realizing, without meaning it. Only the force can stand witness to this moment, judge it, measure it. Guide him, tell him right from wrong. “Force.” His voice trembles with it, realizing for the first time that Anakin does see him, in truth, does and still…

“It’s fine with it.” Anakin remarks, nonchalant, amusement coloring the timbre of his voice. “You don’t have to shout at her, I don’t think she like it very much” Anakin refers to the Force differently every time, Obi-Wan suspects he does it simply for the joy of throwing off the younglings.

It unsettles Obi-Wan as well, he will not admit that much, though. Anakin’s connection with the force was always stronger, always different than anyone else’s. If he’s saying that the Force is not finding this offensive…. Obi-Wan will trust him. Anakin enjoys messing around at times, stretching the truth about how the Force works, but he’d never lie about this, not to him.

Obi-Wan’s body relaxes so completely that he practically sags into Anakin, relief, so much relief. It feels…. Good. There’s rightness to it that even without the Force humming pleasantly in his ears, he’d recognize. Like sharing a sleeping cot in the war zones, minus the blood and gore and pain… it feels secure, it feels…good….

He feels himself being lulled to what he suspects will be a long and restful sleep. Such a luxury as of late. “Mnh..” He jolts a little when a hand moves across his side, resting at his hip bone and then back up to his side. He should not permit Anakin this much leeway with him and yet…. He likes it… oh he likes it.

So he doesn’t comment it, allowing him to continue, to stroke him and care for him, and hold him. He is not leaving.

Sleep comes ease, as easy as an inhale. One moment he is aware of all that surrounds him, the scent and warmth, the weight and touch. The next he is sinking into the open embrace of rest. Distantly, he feels the touch of a Force Signature he knows as well as his own. It is the only half of it, after all. Accepting it, is as easy as breathing too.

There’s a distant shift, even in sleep he can feel the bond snapping back into place, like moons falling into a familiar route, circling a singular sun. Maybe it was not Anakin who was the sun around which Obi-wan was revolving all along, but their shared….

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marchtooctober · 7 days

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It's been some time since i posted something 😅

My contribution for prompt "Desperate"

@dailytwiyorprompts

▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎

“Yor.”

“Yesh?”

“Your scarf. It's falling off.”

“Oh… Shorry.”

It was one of those dinner nights of Loid and Yor, a regular practice that is part of their cover as Mr. and Mrs. Forger. Loid managed to pull off the date smoothly at the cost of another intoxicated Yor. At this point, he's now surprisingly used to it after so many times.

But maybe, this is the last.

“Thish too hard.” With struggling effort, Yor tried to fix her scarf.

“Let me.”

“N-No it'sh alright…” She mumbled.

Loid grabbed the scarf and wrapped it around Yor. As he adjusted the cloth, he felt Yor's warm breath on his hands. The sensation made Loid feel fuzzy inside, as if the warmth has spread all throughout his body. Then he quickly pulled back his hands, quite abashed.

“Thank you.” Said Yor and turned away.

She walked a few steps ahead while tapping her cheeks.

Loid wondered if he made a mistake. He didn't want Yor to be wary of him. But he couldn't help himself.

“L-Let ush cake some for Franky and Anya.”

Despite the messed up sentence, Loid understood.

“I don't think we can buy cake at this time. It's already late. I'll just bake one tomorrow if that's alright with you.” He replied.

“M'kay.” Said Yor and continued walking.

It's deep in the night and only a few people are still out, just like them.

The cobblestone pavement carpeted with dry foliage, the leafless trees line up the path. Howling of chilly wind signifies the near ending of fall. And it won't be long before winter comes, and a lonely one at that.

No matter how much he yearns for an ordinary life, Loid will never attain it. The so-called “home” where he wants to be, is a place very far from his reach.

“Loi? Where are you? Loi!”

Yor's voice took him out of his grim reverie. He rushed to her.

“I’m here. Hold on to my arm and walk carefully.”

Loid held out his arm but Yor declined.

“I’m fine. I jush thought you gone shomwere.”

Hearing those words, Loid swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to worry. I… I’m here. I’m not going anywhere..” Replied Loid and smiled bitterly.

They continued, Yor still walking ahead. Loid stared at her back and felt the unfamiliar sting of guilt. And where did it come from? Guilt out of saying those words? Handful of words added to the pile of lies. But it was necessary, lying for his mission. Yet, he couldn't shake the heaviness of guilt.

There shouldn't be any emotional hindrance. He knows it well. But for a second, he was possessed with selfishness and tried to reach out his trembling hand. Loid simply wanted to hold Yor’s hand.

Suddenly, he quickly remembered that he had no right to do such a thing.

Who he is right now is nothing but a disposable mask. Loid Forger is just one among the many passing shadows of Twilight.

Pain is welling up in his chest. Twilight realized his fault. The suppression of feelings that he didn't want to face.

Is this love after all?

What he knows about romance is mostly from theory but never experienced the real thing. It’s unfitting to someone like him. Feelings and sentiments were never beneficial to him.

Drawn to the flame he can't touch. As a last resort, he called out to Yor.

“Yor.”

“Hmm?”

“Can we take our time walking?”

“Why?”

“B-Because…”

“Okay, Loi… If you want sho. Let'sh walk sowlowly.”

Yor beamed a smile and turned away. Loid was thankful that he was walking behind. He didn't want Yor to see the few tears that escaped his eyes.

This little distance between them is the only thing that keeps Loid from losing his sanity. He knows that even this moment will fade as a memory once everything is over. And he will be left with nothing but a blank canvas for him to paint another fakery.

That's all there is to it.

▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎•▪︎

#spy x family #loid forger #yor forger #loiyor #sxf fanfic #sxf #twiyor #drabble #dailyprompt #twiyor daily propmts #loiyor drabble #yeayeayea i kinda promised a royai fic but that one will take me loooonger #i need to do a proper research first lol #so anywayyy #long live angsty fics #twiyorprompts

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sauriansolutions · 3 months

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FloRid Thoughts...

Riddle has a favorite seat in every class: front row, closest to the teacher. Everyone knows and respects that's Riddle's Spot. No one dares to try to take it from him or mess with it in any way.

Well, except...

One day, Floyd starts leaving stuff on Riddle's desk. Not chewed gum or pencil shavings, or anything like that. Also not folded notes or small, wrapped boxes. Just bafflingly random things.

"Floyd, did you just put a rock on my desk?"

"Yup!"

"... Why?"

"It's for you Goldfishie!"

"What am I supposed to do with a rock?"

"Ehh, whatever you want~"

This starts happening almost every day. One day, it's a spiky seed pod from a sweetgum tree that he found on the ground. Another day, it's two juniper berries picked from a bush outside the classroom. Then, a worn rubber eraser, with pencil marks that look like a frowny face.

By this point in his school life, Riddle has decided the best way to deal with Floyd's antics is to ignore them. He accepts each new item with an eyeroll and some form of, "Wow. I've always wanted a pencil that's been sharpened all the way down to the eraser. Thanks so much, Floyd."

"You're welcome lil Goldfish!" Floyd inevitably beams in response, as he goes skipping away to his actual class, or more likely, to goof off somewhere.

Riddle has no idea what to do with these "gifts." He really should throw them out, he thinks. After all, they're just junk. Just some weird prank Floyd has decided to play on him.

Instead, for some reason, Riddle keeps them. He puts them in a shoebox under his bed, where he doesn't have to look at them. (Except when he takes the box out every day to add a new item.) Where he doesn't have to think about them. (Except on nights when he can't sleep, and finds himself wondering.)

Riddle is a top student, but even he can't take every elective class. Which is too bad, because if he'd taken Cultural Studies of the Deep, he'd have known that symbolic gift-giving is a common way of expressing interest in a prospective mate, in many regions of the coral sea.

Maybe it is better that he doesn't know. Because, much as Floyd may love certain traits of his, Riddle might not appreciate the tiny pencil denoting his short status. Or the fact that the eraser looks just like his face when he's mad (it's even pink!)

But he might appreciate the realization that the rock (also pink), is shaped like a rose. That the juniper berries are the exact same blue-gray shade of his eyes, and the sweetgum ball looks like a small, spiky hedgehog.

What Riddle thinks remains to be seen. It probably won't be long before he starts putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

#twisted wonderland #floyd leech #riddle rosehearts #floyd x riddle #sauri drabbles #writing this gave me a toothache #the fancy proper lad and the sea gremlin just give me so many warm fuzzies #also there's something I love about cultural misunderstandings?#I am probably explaining this poorly

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emile-tb · 9 months

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Baxter Reference!

#tsp #tspud #the stanley parable #tsp narrator #HEY GUYS IM BACK NOW #I’m doing better now but still gonna take it a bit slow with posting #I FINALLY MADE A PROPER BAXTER REF RAAAHHH #I’m actually really happy with how this turned out #my art #EmileTB art drabbles

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popponn · 3 months

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Seeing the esteemed Duke of Meropide eyes a pair of decorations curiously is an amusing experience, turns out. Even when your relationship with him is pretty much an unsaid ‘almost lover’ situation.

“So,” leaning against his working desk, you try not to smile too wide, “do you like them?”

Wriothesley continues to stare and blink at the black and white dog miniatures—intended to be placed on flat surfaces, however, your creativity is your limit, or so the craftsmen of Liyue said. Straightening his sitting posture, he then leans towards the objects that sit on his desk. “…this feels like a series,” he finally says after a long while, taking one of the two dogs. He once again takes in the merry dog figurine in his hand. Slightly bigger than his thumb, carrying a ball with a tail that is depicted to be in the middle of a swishing motion.

“It is. There are actually another eight dogs,” and also another twenty cats that are a story or, perhaps, a gift for another time, “but I don’t know if you will like it… or do you even have the space to keep all ten, so I just buy you two this time.”

“Hey, hey, since when do I seem like the sort of person who is unappreciative of something people give me?” Wriothesley put down the dog, only to take another one up. In between that, a smile and a glance are addressed to you humorously, yet as softly as always. “And also…”

You realize he purposefully trails off. “And also?”

With how entertained he is at the handcrafted woods, you think he will praise the craftsmanship. Or perhaps, it is time to recall that musing of his about wanting to keep a pet and how these two will be a perfect replacement. Or maybe, he will make another unpredictable joke one would never thought would come out from his mouth.

Yet, instead of all of that, Wriothesley merely reaches out a hand to take yours while his other hand and focus remain on your present. His tone is far from anything—as if he is simply stating a fact. Despite all that, the squeeze he gives as he intertwines his fingers with yours says enough.

“This is from you,” he states, finally shifting his attention to fully land on you. “There is no way I would dislike it.”

#genshin scenarios #genshin #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley fluff #drabbles #i finally write something for you your highness!!!! tho it's short #i hope i can write a proper fic soon but drabbles are fun in their own way haha #that idle of him wanting pet...i really want to give him a selee for company at least...

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ghcstao3 · 10 months

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john gets stranded in what is essentially the middle of nowhere on a road trip because of his car breaking down out of the blue and a torrential downpour that had not come up once on the forecasts he made sure to check a million times over before leaving for his voyage.

it’s strange, the place he finds himself in. he hasn’t seen another car in ages, surrounded by thick forests and no civilization, save for an old general store he remembers passing just before his car called it quits. the rain and dark skies appeared out of nowhere, almost like he’d entered some bubble isolated from the rest of the region.

in any case, in all his panicked stupidity and the hope that he’d maybe be able to get help sooner, john decides to trudge back the kilometre or so to the shop.

dim yellow lights glow in the midst of all the rain, and he’s mercifully greeted by a fading open sign just as he approaches the door. he pushes in without a second thought, eager to escape the downfall.

inside is about everything he’d expect; essentials, canned foods, toiletry, snacks. hardly anything special, though soap is immediately filled with a pleasant warmth that melts away the shiver that would have otherwise set into his bones.

he doesn’t browse. only moves toward the empty counter and prays someone will show up eventually.

not that he’d hate waiting around in the store. it’s far better than his car, in any case.

but just as john takes a step forward, a throat clears behind him.

“‘bit wet out there, is it?”

the deepness of the voice reverberates through john, startling. comforting. he whirls around to face the owner of said voice, and all he sees is tall, broad, dark as his eyes climb to meet irises the warm colour of black coffee.

“a bit,” john agrees, albeit slowly. he realizes he had never heard footsteps, let alone saw anyone else in the store just seconds before. he’s not sure what compels him, but he adds, “my car broke down.”

the man inclines his head toward john, his eyes almost analytical, considering something about john that has nothing to do with his current predicament. it’s hard to judge what he’s thinking, with the mask obscuring the lower half of his face.

“unfortunate,” the man says. “you’ll have to wait out the storm for help.”

john’s heart sinks. he still had so much travel left ahead of him—and who knew how much longer this weather would last?

disappointment must be clear on his face, as the man’s furrowed brows soften into a polite sort of pity before he lets out a quiet sigh and silently directs soap toward the counter.

“wait here,” he instructs.

the man disappears into another room, returning very shortly with a styrofoam cup of coffee and a set of clothing of which he unceremoniously drops on the counter.

“better you’re in dry clothes while you wait,” he explains. “bathroom is just in the back. i have a call to make.”

john nods, swallows. “thank you,” he says, hesitantly reaching for the clothes, “i really appreciate it.”

the man huffs. he stares at john a few moments too long, john almost feeling itchy under his gaze—though, somehow, in a good way.

“my name’s simon, if you need me,” he grunts.

john nods again, offering a polite smile before turning to head to the bathroom. he pauses after only a few steps and turns back to say something, but the words die on his tongue as he sees simon has all but vanished.

john bites his tongue, shaking his head before he continues on his way.

the patter of rain is still heavy outside, nearly matching the squelch and squeak of wet shoes on the tile. the bathroom isn’t difficult to locate, and john finds it easy to admit to himself that he’s more than grateful to not be in clothes that cling to his skin.

though maybe had his mind not been so preoccupied with a dark gaze and full baritone, john might have noticed that the products lining the few shelves were not in fact all normal. perhaps he would have noticed jars of herbs and bones, bottles sealed with wax and labelled as spells. maybe he’d have seen the array of things considered otherworldly.

but he doesn’t. instead, john returns to the counter and the cup of coffee; to simon once he returns and a shadow that doesn’t quite follow his movements as it should.

maybe having his car stop working didn’t have to be such a bad thing, for the time being.

(part two)

#i should probably make a proper tag for the au ideas huh #anyway mildly supernatural au #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ghost x soap #ghoap #soapghost #ghostsoap #alternate universe #writing #drabble

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miya-rin · 2 years

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whenever someone is in a “please can you pretend to be my boyfriend” situation they will always turn to iwaizumi hajime to stand in, and you were no different.

when you were dragged to a house party by your friends your first year of college, you didn’t expect for there to be so many eyes on you. and it may just be because you looked good in your outfit, but it felt different, especially when you made eye contact with one guy who looked a little older than you, but despite the age gap he stared you down like he wanted to eat you alive.

a feeling of dread washed over you and you scan around the room for something, anything that can help you. and thats when your eyes fall on him.

iwaizumi hajime.

you had never really spoken to him before, only once or twice during your shared maths class, but you didn’t really have a choice at that moment, so you walk up to him.

“hi,” oh shit you’re really doing this, “my names yn.” you’re nervous, incredibly nervous. you’re pretty sure he can see it on your face.

“i know, we share some classes together, are you okay? you seem kinda off.” he looks worried, its a look that you don’t see often from strangers, he actually wants to help you.

“please can you pretend to be my boyfriend?” that catches him off guard, you can tell by the way his drink gets caught in his throat and his eyes go wide.

he was not expecting that.

“excuse me?”

“just for a little bit, this guy keeps staring at me and its making me really uncomfortable, i get the question was sudden and we don’t know each other but please, i’m begging you, can you go along with it?”

“..yeah sure, i don’t see why not. sit down.”

“there’s nowhere to sit..?” you look at him puzzled as he starts to pat his lap. oh.

“sit. if you’re comfortable of course, it would just make it more believable.”

hesitantly you get on your tip toes and as you are about you hoist yourself up he grabs onto either side of your waist and lifts you up, then places you down until you are flush against him. to say you are flustered would be an understatement. and the way he naturally wraps his arms around you makes it worse, its like he’s meant to do this.

iwaizumi is attractive, you would have to either be blind or an idiot to not admit that, but being like this with him was so…weird, in a good way.

it felt normal, almost too normal, like you two had been friends (or maybe something more) for years. and you weren’t complaining.

“who is it?” his breath is fanning over your neck ever so slightly and his hands were playing with the hem of your shirt. ”the one that’s bothering you.”

“you see that guy in the corner over there, long-ish hair, striped shirt and a sorta scruffy excuse for a beard?” that makes him chuckle, its a beautiful sound.

“yeah i see him, he looks a little old don’t ya think?”

“yeah thats the whole problem, he looks like 5 years older than me.” you turn you head to face hajime, hes staring at you already.

“you know…i have an idea to get him to lay off, its all up to you though.” you know what he’s thinking, you were hoping he’d ask.

“and what would that be?” his face changes, its slight but definitely there, he looks more confident, like he knows what you are gonna say.

“let me kiss you,” his hand snakes up your arm and settles on your nape, “it would sure get rid of him.”

“go for it, kiss me.” and thats all he needs before he gently places his lips against yours, staying still for a second or two before he starts moving, turning his head slightly to get a better angle.

it all feels so right.

you both pull away to catch your breath, having the same idea you look for the man that was staring at you, only to find him gone.

“well,” he starts, “looks like it worked.” he looks proud of himself, but the boyish grin on his face, the blush on his cheeks, and the fact that he is all fidgety now tells you that he didn’t just do it to help you, he wanted to kiss you, so why not give him what he wants?

“im not sure hajime, i think we should carry on, you know, just to make sure he is actually gone.” your hands start to play with the hair above his neck and he gets this wobbly smile across his face.

he likes the sound of that.

“i mean if it would make you feel better then i guess i should, shouldn’t i?”

“absolutely.” you say before you pull him back into you.

you went home that night with a new phone contact and a not-so-pretend boyfriend.

#this is kinda shitty but i am incredibly tired and i haven’t posted anything proper in a few days so oh well #lav.posts♡#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#hq x you #hq imagines #haikyuu iwazumi #iwaizumi #hq iwaizumi #hq iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi imagine #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi x y/n #iwaizumi drabble

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miscellaneoussmp · 3 months

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Holy shit, a proper fanfic? It's more likely than you think. I'm normal about hgduo, I'm so normal about hgduo and that's why I wrote this. Anyways, here's Cellbit throughout the years (cw/tw: blood/violence/death mentioned/referenced throughout, general Cellbit fuckery, highly repetitive narration):

Cellbit is just thirteen. Well, in actuality, he doesn't know his name, and his age is just as obscure when he meets Badboyhalo. The demon teaches him all sorts of things like how to not waste food, words to use instead of swears, and a fun game. 'Fetch' Bad calls it. Cellbit thinks the demon is lying to him sometimes. He laughs every time Bad yells at him for swearing, but he tries not to most of the time. It's not his fault that he didn't see that arrow, or maybe it is? Bad teaches him to be aware of his surroundings.

Cellbit is sixteen, well in actuality he still doesn't know his name instead Bad calls him a flurry of assorted nicknames ('Little one' the demon seems to settle on when he thinks Cellbit is sleeping. In reality, he doesn't sleep). He doesn't know how long it's been when he loses sight of Bad. He thinks he must be feeling empty. Alone, maybe? He doesn't know. He walks off the battlefield with an iron knife in hand and the taste of iron in his mouth.

Cellbit is just nineteen. Well, in actuality, people call him Cell, and he finally knows how old he is as the courts seemed hellbend on proving his age when he sits across from a psychologist. They seem nervous, maybe it's the mutliple armed guards? Who knows, certainly not him. They ask him a very simple question: Why? Cell answers truthfully for once, "A demon told me not to waste food, so I don't." He shrugs like it's the most mundane thing in the world, and to him, it is.

Cellbit is twenty-six when the cargo ship he snuck on runs aground. He tries his best to ignore the looks from nervous brown eyes and pissed off green eyes. He introduces himself with his full name in front of the people who live on this island. One of those people is Bad. It feels nice to know that his oldest friend now knows his name. Cellbit meets his son for the first time, and he thinks the world of the little one.

Cellbit is twenty-six when he thinks he's fallen in love. Cellbit is twenty-six when he makes the worst decision in his entire life. Cellbit is twenty-six when he wakes up with a white streak in his hair. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets engaged. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets married.

Cellbit is twenty-six when his son goes missing along with the rest of the children on the island. Cellbit is twenty-six when he pushes himself headfirst into looking for any clue possible. Cellbit is twenty-six when he meets his sister. Bagi is twenty-six when she finds her brother. Why did she get to be happy? Why did she not find him sooner? She wasn't. She tried, and she was so close. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gives up his knife to Bad. He'll get better use out of it. Cellbit is twenty-six when he picks up a different blade. His mouth is filled with the taste of iron again. He wants his son back. He wants the children back. Rage consumes his very soul. Bagi is twenty-six when she realizes her brother is the murderer. 'Is he proud?' The question goes unanswered. Cellbit is twenty-six when he feels thirteen again. "Do you like it?" He asks, his voice far too soft. "You've gone soft." He hisses to his oldest friend. Cellbit is twenty-six when he confesses murder to his husband.

Cellbit is twenty-six when he enters hell for the second time in his life. Under the red sky feels like home. He feels alive. This time, Bad is his enemy. Cellbit is twenty-six when his son dies. Cellbit is twenty-six when he takes a final ten seconds to say goodbye. Cellbit is twenty-six when he hunts people down for fun with Baghera. Cellbit is twenty-six when he's sure the demon is lying to him. He feels empty again. Cellbit is still only twenty-six when he and Baghera are rescued by their children. A fresh start. Cellbit still feels empty.

Cellbit turns twenty-seven, and he celebrates. He celebrates with his son, his niece, and his oldest friend. They celebrate with fighting mobs.

Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his oldest friend, Bad, forgets his name. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his mentor, Bad, forgets to write a letter. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when the question he asked long ago is answered. 'I'm proud of you, you know that, right?' Cellbit doesn't even know. Cellbit has just turned twenty-seven when the person who knows him the best, Bad, dies. Cellbit doesn't even know.

#qsmp #qsmp fanfiction (sorta)#qsmp drabble #qsmp writing #qsmp cellbit #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp hgduo #qsmp mocking jays #i just i could be normal for five seconds #i hope yall enjoy!!! it's been a while since i posted a proper fic

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a-mere-dream · 2 years

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Arranged marriage where Shen Yuan is send of to be married to Emperor Yue, and he has to be dragged off kicking and screaming.

And he arrives there, desperately trying to wipe off the scowl on his face when he knows, he knows why he was the one chosen to be send, how everyone knows of the king's childhood fiance who disappeared one day and was never seen again, and of how the Emperor has never stopped mourning him, not really.

The fiance who looked a startling amount like him, the servants send to doll him up whisper.

So he's dressed up in red and so is the Emperor, they bow -- once, twice thrice -- and before he knows it, Shen Yuan is a married man.

And then comes the wedding night.

The wedding night, in which he remains untouched, the Emperor having collected all their heavy robes and made a nest for himself in the far corner of the room, explaining sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I was just searching for any trace, any hope, and they took that as interest in you.

And left alone in the sprawling bed, Shen Yuan thinks about his parents, who jumped on the chance to marry him off, who have incredible political power for all that they are, technically, merchants. About how to spurn them would mean them selling their wheat and rice and everything to the kingdom next doors, who always welcome more food for their hungry people. Not a lot of produce gets grown that doesn't pass through his parents' hands.

And so he becomes Empress. He makes friends with his husband, who really is startingly pathetic and a little bit of a doormat when it comes to Shen Yuan demanding things, but is kind and knows how to keep the common people happy, how to keep away hunger and disease and war.

And he makes friends with his servants, one boy -- a young man, really -- in particular, who seems like he takes on more tasks every day, cooking and cleaning and everything that Shen Yuan needs done. He worries a little for him -- doesn't he need rest? -- so he asks, Binghe, come sit, look at this, what do you think? Play a game with me.

And one day Binghe comes in while he and Yue Qingyuan are having tea, when Shen Yuan is making a joke about how lucky he is that heirs are not required, when he's got two major barriers to that task.

And he goes wide-eyed and later asks, in hushed whispers, has he really not touched you? And Shen Yuan never wanted anyone to know, not when it would reflect badly on him, on his worth, but he tells him anyways, because it's Binghe, about how Yue Qingyuan can't bring himself to pretend when he knows it's not true.

And Binghe narrows his eyes, halfway caught between offended that Shen Yuan would ever not be enough for someone, and determined. Determined enough, in fact, to ask for all those vacation days he has never taken advantage off -- months, now -- and leave.

Shen Yuan pines a little, while he's gone, of course without ever noticing he's doing it. There are many mournful sighs over slightly too cold cups of tea.

And then he returns with a man spitting expletives, covered in scars and seemingly missing an eye below that snarled mess of hair.

He looks, Shen Yuan is somehow shocked to notice, a lot like him indeed.

Apparently, the man explains once he's calmed down a little, glowering at him from the corner where he stashed himself in, his old teacher got tired off him, and threw him into a pit. It took him five years to claw himself out of it, but not without leaving some bits of himself behind.

Shen Yuan stares at his thin robes, laying flat on the floor where a leg should be.

This point is when the doors are thrown open and the Emperor hurries in, throwing himself on top of the man without hesitating. Shen Yuan is tempted to retrieve his knife to take part in what looks like a vicious fight, but after one uncertain look at a very satisfied Binghe, he thinks that might not be what is happening.

So they leave the two alone, but not without a hissed order from Shen Yuan to use your words, for fucks sake, since he knows his platonic husband can get a little bit caught up in actions over words and forget that other people might actually like to hear things. That idiot.

Shen Yuan slams the door closed behind him, and breathes out a sigh and sags into the wood. Then loud noises carry over, not all of them of a conversation, and he decides he should actually, uhm. Go. Anywhere. As long as its not here.

Binghe follows him, of course, and they're not even a hall away before the boy asks if Shen Yuan thinks he'll get a divorce now. Shen Yuan squints at him. He sounded rather eager. Either way, he answers that politics fucking suck, and that divorces are Not Done in royalty like this, but that knowing his husband's skill at diplomacy, he'll find a way to do so that makes them come out of this all smelling like roses.

Binghe seems content with that answer.

Shen Yuan sighs a little, and remarks mournfully that now he'll have to get a job, ew. Maybe he'll even, horror above horrors, have to make his own food.

Binghe seems a little less content with that.

And that is the story of how Shen Yuan got divorced and engaged in the same day.

#bingqiu #qijiu #no romance between sy and yqy #svsss #scum villain #little drabble #i think i could make this into a proper fic #about 4k or so. hm.#maybe if i get reminded of this when i have more time #long post #<- i couldn't add a read more on mobile but if you're bothered by that you probably have that tag blocked

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