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mystic-deep · 3 years

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“Whipped Cream” - Part 3 | Nanami Kento fem!reader

♡ ♡ ♡ description: Taking cooking classes seemed like a nice way to relax and sharpen your skills, too bad the teacher hates you.

♡ ♡ ♡ warnings: nsfw, explicit content not suitable for minors, oral-giving and receiving, fingering

♡ ♡ ♡ notes: Part 3 took forever because of a busy week, I really apologize for that! Part 4 will come out sooner, hopefully tomorrow if everything goes well haha. As always, please excuse any mistakes!

♡ ♡ ♡ previous parts: Part 1, Part 2

♡ ♡ ♡ word count: 2.6k

Saturday at 5 PM, you stared at the message so many times it felt like it was imprinted in your retina. Just the day and the hour, because he must have thought that no other details were necessary.

You couldn’t concentrate the whole day and because of that you ended up messing your end of the week report. That translated in staying overtime and missing your Friday cooking class. When you sent Nanami a message telling him you probably couldn’t make it, he bluntly replied that you need to contact their secretary because she is the one who handles the schedule. Funny, he had no problem contacting you when it came to setting up a meeting for that lesson.

You were so tired when you reached your apartment that you didn’t even bother with dinner, you just took a shower and rolled into bed. Despite your hard day, you simply couldn’t fall asleep. What in God’s given name made you think you could pull this off? Starting an affair with your teacher, like some high school fantasy, except you weren’t a teen anymore and you knew the consequences. On the other hand, you were both adults and it’s not like a relationship between the two of you would be so scandalous. Except, this wasn’t a relationship, and you needed to remind yourself that.

Sleep finally took hold of you and you woke up on Saturday morning feeling like you had wrestled a bear. So much for a good night sleep to help with your complexion. You had cancelled all previous plans you had for the day, despite the whining of your best friend whom you were supposed to meet in the afternoon, and focused on getting ready for your lesson. You weren’t this nervous even on the day of your prom.

Bath, scrub, face mask, the whole deal and you hoped his dick was worth all this effort. When it came to clothes, obviously you chose a skirt this time around, because weren’t you such a nice girl, and a light coloured buttoned shirt. You wanted something simple, classy, that fitted your body well enough but wouldn’t scream ‘I want you to fuck me on your desk’, although that was the plan.

When it was nearly a quarter past 4, you grabbed your bag, coat and car keys and headed out the door. The car ride took longer than usual, due to the whole Saturday traffic, and you were starting to get impatient.

If you had any confidence that you could actually pull this off, it all disappeared the second you set foot in the elevator that would lead you to the lobby. Seeing your reflection in the metal doors made everything feel very real and you actually thought of turning back. Yet as the doors opened, you stepped out and took a deep breath. At the end of the day you were also here to learn what you had missed on the previous classes, thus you could just do that and refuse the extra lesson.

With that thought in mind, and new found confidence, you moved towards the reception desk, surprised that you didn’t find anyone there. Actually, the whole place looked empty, such a contrast from the busy week days.

You walked to your classrooms and when you reached the door you gave it a light knock.

“Come in.”

Nanami’s voice startled you, as though you were surprised that he was actually there. You opened the door slowly and peeked inside, finding him reading the newspaper with his glasses on. The image kind of shocked you, it seemed so domestic that your mind couldn’t help but wonder how he would look sitting like this at your kitchen table, early in the morning, with his blond hair slightly messy, a large cup of steaming coffee in front of him. You shook your head, pushing such silly thoughts aside. Daydreaming of something that will never happen wouldn’t do you any good.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Don’t be silly.” He took off his reading glasses and folded the newspaper neatly. “You are surprisingly on time for once.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment before stepping inside and closing the door.

“Place feels kind of empty.”

“That’s because I don’t have my employees work on weekends.” His what now? Seeing your surprised expression he continued. “I own this school.” Well that explained the expensive car.

“Now then, let’s not waste anymore time, we have two recipes we need to make.” With that said, you put your apron on and work began.

For almost an hour and a half you worked on your Paris Brest and then on the perfect poached eggs. It made quite a difference to have such a skilled cook by your side giving you instruction left and right. His attitude was different from your previous classes but maybe this was also because this time you were keen to listen and learn.

It was quite a nice atmosphere and you felt yourself relax while doing what you enjoyed most. Time seemed to pass by in an instant and now your dessert was in the fridge while the two eggs that you had made were eaten with toasted English muffins that Nanami had baked himself earlier that day.

After everything was done, you two began to clean the dishes. He explained that the cleaning lady that usually took care of them at the end of every class will only be back on Monday morning and he didn’t want to leave them in the sink.

“Seems everything is in order now.” He placed the very last bowl in the cabinet before turning to look at you. “I think it’s time we start our extra lesson.”

You stood there, almost petrified, as his hands reached for your apron and slowly took it off. A mix of emotions washed over you as he took you gently by the wrist and you followed him into the nearby office.

With a click, the door was locked and his lips were now hungrily devouring yours. You leaned back on the closed door as your arms wrapped around his shoulders for support. Your worries seemed to disappear as his hands began to trace every single curve of your body. When he pulled away from the kiss you were both out of breath, a glimpse of hunger reflecting in your eyes.

“Are you sure about this?” He looked at you with just a hint of concern and you nodded shortly. You wanted this, no doubt about it, but would you be able to handle the consequences?

“Why me?” Your words took him by surprise and he pulled away just slightly.

“Why not you?”

“I’m not joking, I need to know-”

“If you can trust me?” He let out a small chuckle and his hand gently caressed your cheek. “You remind me of someone. I felt it the second I saw you in my class and if life taught me anything is that I shouldn’t ignore my instinct.” With that he pulled away and reached for the door knob.

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, I’ve told you that last time. You can just walk out the door and-” He didn’t get to finish his sentence, your hands grabbing the collar of his white shirt, pulling him in for a deep kiss.

Every single part of you wanted him. You wanted to know how he felt like, how he tasted like, you wanted him to know what you tasted like. You didn’t bother asking him whom you reminded him of, it didn’t matter. This wasn’t going to be a relationship, no point in complicating things.

“Well, you sure answered my question.” He looked amused when you finally pulled away, yet that amusement was quickly replaced by a serious expression.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.”

“Did you already forget the rules?”

“I really want this...sir.”

With a quick movement he pulled you to the couch. He positioned your body so that your hands were gripping the back pillows while your knees were resting on the cushion. His hands came from behind to cup your breasts and he began to massage them gently through the fabric.

“I see you chose to wear a skirt today. Isn’t it a bit chilly outside?” He seemed amused as his right hand rested between your thighs while the left continued to knead your chest. His hands were quite skilful, just a few touches and you could already feel your panties sticking to your wet core.

“I’m giving you extra points for wearing something that would give me...easier access.” His hand ventured furthered up your thigh and brushed against the fabric of your panties, making you shudder from head to toe. God, he was moving so slow, it was almost torture.

Just as you were about to ask him to touch you more, he retrieved his hand and practically ripped your shirt opened. He harshly pulled on your bra, releasing your breasts before cupping them and twisting your nipples between his fingers. The movements were so sudden that you let out a shriek, a feeling of painful delight washing over you.

“Not so loud.” He whispered in your ear, voice low and filled with lust. You wondered if there were other people in the building. He said that the other employees didn’t work on weekends but you were sure there must have been security guards. You needed to keep your voice down no matter how much you wanted to scream his name.

His hands left your breasts, moving down to grip your waist before moving down further at the hem of your skirt. He pulled the material up to reveal your ass and you felt your face turning bright red. You turned to look at him and caught his hungry expression as his eyes were fixed on your clothed crotch.

“Pulled them down.” You blinked, your mind not being able to register his words. “Pull your panties down.” You sucked in a breath and with shaking hands you let go of the couch frame before moving to pull your panties down to your knees.

The cold air from the room made you shiver, or was it perhaps the way he was now inspecting you with his eyes. You never felt more exposed, sitting with your legs spread, pussy twitching hoping for any kind of attention from his part. As though he could read your mind, he parted your legs even further, burying his face between them.

When you felt his hot breath on you swollen lips you thought you were going to scream in frustration. He didn’t make you wait long, his mouth eating you out like you were his favourite desert. You let your forehead rest on your arm and bit your bottom lip to stop yourself from moaning loudly. His tongue began to vigorously lap on your juices as one of his fingers pushed inside of you. He began to pump his finger in a slow rhythm, stretching you as much as possible before adding another digit.

“So close...please. Please, sensei.” You didn’t even know what you were saying, words and gasps were just escaping your lips uncontrollably. Feeling your walls clenching around his fingers, Nanami let his tongue push against your clit, causing you to whimper.

The hand that wasn’t working on your hole moved up your body, caressing your breast before twisting the nipple. By this time you were moving your hips back against his hand, furiously meeting his thrusts. He suddenly pushed his digits further, deep inside of you and sucked harshly on your clit, sending you over the edge.

Every single muscle in your body tensed and you knew that if you could scream, it would shatter you. Your climax came with hushed sobs, tearing through you like lighting. He retrieved his fingers from inside your hole as your eyes opened, still bleary with tears. You looked at the wall, trying to adjust your vision, before glancing back at his devilish smile. He must have felt damn proud to make you cum like this.

“That was good, you came beautifully for me.” He brushed the sweat away from your forehead before placing a gentle kiss. You watched him as he pulled back, his hand reaching for the zipper of his pants.

He didn’t have to say anything, your heart pounding in your chest as you moved your position. You were now on your knees on the soft carpet, waiting eagerly for him to release his cock. He held himself with one hand while the other reached for the back of your head, giving you a little push.

You took that as your sign and licked your lips before moving your face closer. You opened your mouth and he guided himself deep inside of you. Your pussy was dripping and you found yourself pumping your hips in time with his movements. You felt that he was close, his thrusts becoming almost frantic.

He pumped into you a few more times before letting out a groan and erupting into your mouth. You eagerly took all that he had to offer, and despite the gagging reflex, you managed to swallow everything. He looked down at you with the same devilish smile before pulling you off of him slowly.

“You did good, for most part.”

“I think I did perfect, sir.” You tried to stand up but your knees felt weak so he offered you his hand.

“Cheeky already? Although I suppose we’re finished for today.” You agreed, feeling satisfied for now.

After getting yourself cleaned and rearranging your wrinkled clothes, you both sat down on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder while his hand rubbed your back. You could have fallen asleep just like this, although you knew it was only a matter of minutes before you had to part.

“What do you think of your first lesson?”

“Didn’t learn much, did I?” His hand reached for one of your cheeks and he gave it a light pinch.

“Well then I apologize, I promise to be stricter for our next lessons.” His words might have sounded like a joke but the intensity of his gazed made your stomach do flips.

“You should go home.” You nodded and slowly got up from the couch.

He stood as well and went to unlock and open the door. As you stood in the door frame you gazed up at him and hoped for a kiss goodbye but he made no movement. Once the door was opened your relationship went back to a normal student-teacher one.

“I’ll be seeing you on Monday. No more excuses.” His face was stern this time, as to make you understand that skipping classes was no longer accepted.

“On Monday, and for the extra lesson-”

“I’ll text you.” That was all and you knew the conversation was over. You said your short farewells before you grabbed your coat and bag and left the classroom.

You reached your apartment and threw all your clothes in the laundry basket, feeling the need to take a shower but at the same time wanting this sticky feeling between your legs to last longer. After each meeting with Nanami you ended up craving more and more of his touch. You couldn’t wait for the next private lesson, but until then you had to play nice and attend the classes during the week.

As the hot water washed over your body your mind drifted to Nanami’s face, how concentrated he looked when he was giving you instructions, how relaxed he looked while reading the paper, how pleased he looked when you finished the desert. Your eyes suddenly popped open and you let out swear. You had forgotten the desert in the fridge-all that work and you didn’t even get to taste it.

#jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami kento x reader

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ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years

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Day 22: Hallucination

(We have a message for you.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 22: Hallucination

Word Count: 1787

Relationships: Loceit (minor relationship? kinda)

Warnings: Mentions of mental illness, mild mention of trauma effects, cursing

A/N: okay,,,, ngl i have no idea where this came from. this idea is so dumb and not even really whumpy but i did it anyway lmfao. hey, at least it gave me an excuse to describe the characters in some of my timelines! anyway yeah i love these character designs, no matter how silly/unrealistic they are. they are my babies and i will take them to my grave

“Thomas, can we talk?” his best friend’s voice comes from beside him, speaking up in the silence after the two of them had finished watching a movie. It was comfortable, quiet, just a lazy day today, so they’d come over to hang out and forget about the stress of video-making. Thomas looks up with a cocked eyebrow, asking a question with his eyes as Joan sighs.

“You… maybe you should see someone,” Joan says, their voice low and concerned, and Thomas doesn’t get it. See who? Like, a doctor? He isn’t sick. So he tells them so, asks what they mean, and they duck their head contemplatively. “You need to see a psychiatrist, or psychologist, or something. I know the videos are fun, and we have these awesome characters. I get it. But you… you think it’s real. You think the sides are real. That’s-- That’s not healthy, Thomas.”

Thomas just laughs, doesn’t even look up as he scrolls through his feed. His phone case is beaten up where it rests in his hand, and Joan shakes their head worriedly. ”Thomas, I’m serious.”

This causes Thomas’ expression to drop immediately, and he turns to them awkwardly. “Wait, you’re serious?” Thomas asks, confusion welling up easily in his head. What are they talking about?

“Yes, I’m serious! You stand here and talk to nothing for hours on end! You think they’re real, and they’re not! You need help, Thomas, please,” Joan begs, rearing back to sit taller in an unconscious show of authority. They don’t want to be mean about this, they really don’t, but if Thomas is in denial about the sides’ existence (or lack thereof), they can’t be sugarcoating everything. They need to be straightforward, because they care about their friend, and to see him hurt would be awful.

“Joan, they are real. You just haven’t been here in person to see them yet,” Thomas says gently, acting as if Joan’s the one who’s being irrational here, and Joan doesn’t think it’s an overreaction when they groan loudly. If Thomas believes that the sides are real and are defending their existence this fervently, then there might be something really wrong with his head, and the worry in Joan’s demeanour is insurmountable.

“Thomas, stop! They aren’t real! They’re in your head. They are in your head. They’re just characters that we made up for a YouTube series, nothing more,” Joan stresses, tries to break through that glass wall of denial that Thomas’ mind has built around itself. From what they know through random Tumblr awareness posts and late-night research, this sounds like a defense mechanism, something Thomas himself isn’t even aware of. But… aren’t brains only supposed to do that after severe trauma? Did something happen to him that Joan doesn’t know about?

“Hey, there’s no need to get upset. I understand, you haven’t seen them yet, and don’t realize that they aren’t just characters. Do you want me to show you?” Thomas asks gently, places his hands up but low in a placating gesture in an attempt to calm them down. Joan isn’t angry, and they wouldn’t lash out or anything, but they are troubled with the thought that there may well be something going on in Thomas’ head that they won’t be able to fix.

“Thomas… please, just. Please stop… don’t do this to yourself, okay?” Joan pleads with him, desperation simmering just beneath the surface ready to boil and spill over at a moment’s notice. The slightest nudge of the heat could send the water hissing to the ground, send tears from their eyes and shouts from their lungs, and they don’t want to accidentally say something they’ll regret. They aren’t angry with Thomas, but they are frustrated, and seeing their friend in this state is taxing in itself.

“No, it’s okay! I’ll show you, ready? Please don’t scream, alright? It’s scary the first time, but once you understand, it’s fine!” Thomas exclaims, happy and careless and he isn’t even listening to them. Fuck, does he need to be, like… forcibly taken to a hospital? This isn’t okay, he’s not okay, and they don’t know what to do anymore.

“Hmm… Logan, Ethan? I need you!”

For a moment, nothing happens, just as Joan expects. Thomas stands there, smile never wavering a single bit, and Joan sighs as they reach up to lay a hand on his shoulder. But before they can, before their eyes, a mist seems to envelope the floor. It’s not a moisture, but more like a haze, where light is distorted and twirling in on itself as if caught in fractals and thrown away from itself. It hurts Joan’s eyes to look at, so he doesn’t, and two people jump up out of the disturbance despite all logic and reason.

“Wha-- What the fuck? Is this a joke? Please tell me this is a practical joke, Thomas, and you just suddenly got really good at doing magic tricks. What the fuck?!” Joan forces out helplessly, bewildered and urgent. They’re…. they’re here. This has to be a trick. It has to be, but it… they look exactly like Thomas. These aren’t some random actors who just happen to share a resemblance with their friend, they could be clones, identical copies without a single mistake in sight.

And.. well, to Thomas’ credit, they do look similar to the characters they have created together. The one that’s clearly Logic has straighter black hair with blue streaks rather than brown, and his irises are a striking silver leading into an electric blue closer to the pupil, but otherwise he looks mostly the same. The only other big physical difference is his body type, which while slim and long and appearing to be tall in an odd sort of optical illusion, he’s actually quite a bit shorter than Thomas is. He’s wearing a soft-looking dark blue sweater, black leggings, and some fuzzy socks as opposed to the character’s typical outfit, but there’s no mistaking him. This is Logan… the real Logan?

The other one (obviously Deceit) is also similar enough, with hair that is a rich, warm chestnut brown, but there also seem to be literal strands of gold braided and looping through the very lightly curled locks. It’s almost mesmerizing, although not as much so as his eyes, which are just as heterochromatic as their beloved character. The right one is the same shade of light grey as Logan’s are, and the left one is a reptilian eye. Not the fake snake eye contact that they’d managed to find online, but a realistic one, a deeper gold and a darker black with depth and texture. He’s short too, somehow even shorter than Logan is, but he’s still quite intimidating despite that. His half-serpentine smirk is soft but empowering, and somehow cancels out a lot of the cuteness of his unexpected outfit. Rather than his signature bowler hat and cape, he wears a black beanie and a huge, thick black hoodie. Sweatpants long enough to cover his feet are draped over his legs, just as comfortable an outfit as Logan’s and Joan realizes that it’s late and they might have been about to sleep. Wait, do sides sleep?

But more than anything, they both have one feature that really stands out, a feature that makes Joan really believe that they might actually be real, that this isn’t just some elaborate prank. For Deceit, it’s the scales. It’s not makeup, not flat colour; they’re real snake scales, a shimmering, pearlescent emerald colour that refracts the light like diamonds. They’re beautiful, they really are, and Joan is almost sad that they haven’t done Character Deceit the justice he deserves, now that they’re faced with Real Deceit.

For Logan, it’s his eyes. Yes, the colour really is pretty if abnormal, the clear silver like liquid metal seeping and blurring into bright sapphire in a ring around his pupils. But that’s not the only thing, because Logan has what looks to be technology in his eyes, power buttons surrounded by slowly spinning lines radiating from the center almost like a circuit-board. They seem like they’re being projected slightly past his actual eyes, like he has a bright blue hologram playing in his vision. It’s… certainly in the realm of science fiction, so it really is aptly fitting, despite how Joan’s brain refuses to accept that this is actually real.

“Wait, you said his name is Ethan? Deceit’s name is Ethan? That’s not what we decided on…” Joan says, and it’s honestly all they can say through their confusion. This is too difficult to process, too perplexing to understand right away, and Joan seriously needs to sit down before they pass out in the middle of the floor. Thomas huffs a laugh as they plop down on the couch, hand rubbing hard at their face to try and clear their head, and he just sits on the edge of the couch beside them.

“Joan, this is Logan and Ethan. Logic and Deceit. They’re real, and they obviously look… differently to how we designed them, but they… this is them. You can take all the time you need; I certainly had to,” Thomas chuckles, gaze distant for a moment as if in the midst of reliving a faraway memory, and Joan just groans and drops their head into cold, waiting palms.

“Thomas, you know to refrain from calling us here when it’s after one. We’re busy at night, you know that,” Logan speaks up from where the two of them are still standing in the middle of the room. Deceit-- Well, Ethan just shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets, looking down at the floor in an attempt to hide his knowing simpering. What the hell is going on? “Hello, Joan.”

“Yeah, sorry, guys. Just wanted to introduce you to Joan, finally. You can go now,” Thomas reassures them, waves goodbye and smiles when they return the sentiment (including Joan, too, which is simultaneously a thoughtful show of kinesics and mildly terrifying), and then they’re sinking back through the odd fog on the floor that has stayed there the whole time the sides have been standing here. It goes with them, leaving the normal appearance of the carpet to be on display, and this all feels like too much to deal with right now. Joan just wants to go to bed, if they’re being honest.

“Wait… are those two dating?” Joan asks incredulously, a previous comment stuck out in their mind just waiting for the loose thread to be pulled, and Thomas glances over at them. He just laughs silently with sly eyes, body shaking with unvocalized laughter, and Joan picks up the pillow next to them and yells into the fabric.

#whumptober2019 #no.22 #hallucination #ts sides #sanders sides #thomas sanders #thatsthat24 #joan #thejoanglebook #ts logan #logan sanders #ts deceit #deceit sanders #loceit #tw mental illness mention #tw trauma mention #tw cursing #this is like... the least triggering fic out of every one i've done wow #jasper's writing

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gaasaku-fanfests · 5 years

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Misfits (part 1 &2)

Title: Misfits Author: clem-chan Rating: T Word Count: 27 388 Summary: Marrying a CEO in the midst of a romantic scandal to pay for med school is not the happy ending Sakura imagined for herself. The arrangement that started as constant bickering soon becomes so much more... If only her husband was hers to fall in love with. GaaSaku. Modern!AU Warnings: There is a light make-out session hence the T rating. There's also mention of child abuse and childhood trauma. Minor ships: light KankuKiba, very light ShikaTema, mention of NejiTen.

Author's Note(s): Two little things to mention: First, I wanted to keep this accessible to all, so I have cut out more raunchy scenes which will be posted in the AO3 version of this fic soon. Second, I have this headcannon where Gaara and Sakura are just two misfits. :P So, that's what this story is about: two misfits forced together. XD Hope you enjoy it! ^_^

Trope: Arranged Marriage

. [warnings are for overall fanfic, not individual parts.]

PART 1

Gaara Sabaku focused on the clock over her grandmother's office.

It throbbed. Time passed. He ignored everything else.

In his peripheral vision, his grandmother's mouth was blurry, her lipstick stretched, a floating cloud of red, as she shouted at him. His hand closed around his wrist watch, and he narrowed his eyes at the little hand moving slowly on the wall.

In 15 minutes, he would excuse himself to his meeting with new investors.

In one hour, it would be time to prepare for his interview: make-up, change of clothes, a microphone clipped to his tie.

In one hour twenty minutes, he would be on air answering questions about his recent acquisition of a dying familial company. What were his plans to revive it? He had prepared a stiff answer outlining five main business strategies.

"Are you listening, Gaara?" Chiyo Sabaku snapped and slapped the newspaper on the table in front of him.

Slowly, Gaara turned his head toward her, his pale eyes reluctantly glancing away from the clock. His grandmother's cheeks were rosy, her neat beige suit uneven across her shoulders from her gesturing. His brother, Kankuro, cleared his throat and nudged his thigh, widening his eyes at him. Gaara blinked back at him, until Kankuro mouthed: "answer her."

"Yes," Gaara replied, and Kankuro nudged him again. "Yes, I'm listening, obaasan."

Chiyo glared at him, breathing sharply from her nose. She pulled at her suit jacket sharply rearranging it over her small frame. Stiffly, she walked back to her desk and sat down, surveying her two grandsons with a twisted mouth. The title of director of the hospital gleamed in front of her as she laced her fingers together.

"Well, let's discuss how we will fix this."

"It's not that bad, obaasan, I mean..." Kankuro drawled out and he reached over the table to spin the newspaper toward him. "We can only see his hand on her back, and... Well, good for you little bro. That's clearly some tongue action."

Gaara grunted.

"Shut up, Kankuro," Temari said icily.

She hadn't moved the window since Gaara and Kankuro had arrived. She stood still, her arms crossed over her chest, her back rigid, her face only a shadowy profile.

"Well, obviously, you're all blaming me," Kankuro said dryly, "but I didn't know he would lose his tongue and hands along the way when I asked him to pick me up."

Temari turned toward them, her eyes narrowed at Gaara.

"You should have called me," she snapped.

"You were with that lazy bum of yours," Gaara shrugged, and he glanced back at the clock.

"Why you little..."

Temari walked promptly toward her brothers and grabbed the newspaper. She hit her brothers' heads with it rolled tightly. Gaara and Kankuro grimaced, trying to cover their heads.

"OI! CALM DOWN!"

"Temari..."

"Enough!" Chiyo shouted with her palms raised.

She sighed and massaged her temples.

Temari hissed insults at her brothers before taking her place by the window. Her body stiffened in an angry cold posture. Her golden skin shimmered in the high sun, her teal eyes piercing through them.

Kankuro tsk-ed his fingers combing through his hair.

"If this is how you react whenever we mention that-" he started sardonically.

"I said enough!" Chiyo repeated with a tired voice.

Her chair spun toward her degrees and prizes hung across her wall. She had built the hospital from the ground, just as Gaara had built his company from the gaping hole of his father's dishonour. She sighed.

"Gaara, bring out your girlfriend into the spotlight and we say it was her."

Gaara shifted in his seat.

"She broke it off with me," he said dully, his eyes following the new turn of the little hand on his grandmother's clock.

Soon. Soon.

Kankuro swore under his breath and he glanced curiously at his little brother.

His face was expressionless, but his jaw was clenched. Like when he was lying. Kankuro closed his eyes, grimacing, praying Temari wouldn't notice.

Chiyo clicked her tongue, her brows furrowed.

"You should have told us. There's this scandal, and the chairman's elections are two months away... oh, dear me. Why did you buy off this little useless company, huh? Do you think you can afford to make mistakes right now?" her voice boomed, and Gaara shifted again in his seat. "The board of directors are already angry with you, and now this!" Chiyo slapped the picture with a disdainful hand heavy with jewelry. "I think it's time we consider arrangements," she concluded bluntly.

Kankuro picked at the leather of the armrest, glancing sideways at Gaara. His little brother didn't react, his eyes drawn again and again to the clock.

In eight minutes, he would excuse himself to his meeting with his investors...

"You're not arranging his life, obaasan," Temari said breathlessly, and Kankuro looked over his shoulder at her.

She was biting her lip, her face pale, her dark lipstick slightly smudged. They were the elders, but somehow Gaara had carried the family crest alone ever since he was a child.

"He doesn't have a choice!" Chiyo shook her finger at them. "Caught kissing, like a teenager. Tsk, you don't think investors will turn away from him now? Unmarried, and unable to provide a clean image of a serious reliable man… This family is nobility." her voice was shrill, and the siblings all bowed their heads, flinching. At their father's funeral, the few who did show up said: 'This family was nobility. What a shame. Poor children, they'll grow with nothing but disgrace.'

"We can't afford the scandal. We bury it with a real marriage announcement and call this his wife."

"Obaasan, please! He's still young!" Temari protested, but Gaara stood up buttoning back his suit jacket.

"I'm not a child anymore, Tem," he said and smoothed the wrinkles, readjusted his tie. "I appreciate the concern, but she's right. Arrange it, obaasan, pick someone who needs my protection, fame and money."

"But..." Chiyo faltered, now standing up too. "We should consider the noble families..."

"No," Gaara said coldly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "This is how I want it. Now, if you would excuse me, I have a meeting with my investors."

-X-

Sakura Haruno waited, tensed muscles that snapped and spasmed. Her bun was too tight at the base of her nape. Her clothes felt like irritating wool against her skin, rubbing her raw. And always the thinning grating voice: 'you don't belong here.'

The waiting in front of the director's office was empty, pale grey armchairs were spread across the room, small tables by their right side. It was airy and elegant, and Sakura wished she had removed the hot pink nail polish half-chewed away. Or chosen a softer colour that could blend with the room. A neutral colour. An expensive manicure she couldn't afford.

Sakura winced and reached for the glass of water the secretary had placed to her right.

She had buried the letter of summon in her purse, but the words still spun in her head, the numbers wailing, harassing her above all. Her mind was loud, divided, despite the calm and serenity of the waiting room.

She had arrived 30 minutes early for her appointment with the director of the hospital, and she wished time would stop, so she could finally have enough time to breathe. Come up with the money. Pay off her crushing debts.

Biting her below lip, Sakura rubbed her hands on her thighs smoothing again her dark skirt. Her nails dug into her thigh when her leg started shaking. She tried to straighten her back, her fingers jerking to quell the urge to nibble on her thumb. Her back still in a rigid position, Sakura craned her beck to look at the secretary half-hidden behind the tall reception desk.

The door of the director's office opened briskly.

Sakura sprung to her feet, clutching her purse, her eyes widened in surprise.

A young man in a suit emerged, his eyes on his wrist watch. His red hair was unruly, but the rest of his appearance was calculated, from the colour of his tie to the one of his pocket square in his breast pocket. A woman and a man hurried after him.

"You can't possibly agree to this," the woman shouted, and her heels clicked rapidly, loud.

Her blond sandy spilled across her neck, slipping out of hair ties as she shook her head. She put her hand on the man's arm as if to stop him or comfort him, but he didn't seem to notice. The other man trailed behind his hands deep in his pocket, his steps reluctant, his dark eyes drifting across the familiar touch, as if he were a stranger.

Sakura felt herself blush at the loudness of the woman's voice, her partner's indifference and the other man's uncomfortable silence.

"Hn, this is final," Sakura heard the red-haired man replied in a dull voice, as they brushed by her.

Sakura bowed quickly.

The secretary stepped close to her, her hands delicately joined in front of her in a gesture of respect.

"Director Sabaku will see you now, Haruno-san."

Sakura startled, tearing her glance away from the trio waiting sullenly by the elevators. She cleared her throat readjusting her purse strapped over her shoulder.

"Thank you," Sakura smiled and bowed her head.

Sakura's fists shook as she followed the secretary. She squared her shoulders. She straightened her back, smoothing distractedly her skirt one last time. She had dressed up in her best clothes. There ought to be a way out.

You don't belong here.

If your tuition is not paid in its fullest by next Friday...

The director's face was drawn, carved by wrinkles that jerked. Her usual warm brown eyes bored through her. Sakura bowed stiffly, her hands growing cold.

"Sakura, sit."

Sakura sat down slowly in the closest armchair, smoothing her skirt under her. She cleared her throat when the silence between them stretched, and all she could hear was the ticking of the clock above the director's office.

"How are you, Chiyo-sama?"

"Enough with the niceties and the small talk," Chiyo snapped and stood up abruptly. "I want you to tell me what happened."

She paced, her mouth quivering with mumbling to herself.

"The school-"

"The school didn't send me anything other than this ridiculous letter stating you're to be kicked out of the faculty, and your student visa cancelled."

"I didn't get a scholarship for next year," Sakura said quietly with a forced smile. She squared her shoulders. Again. Rigid back. She was uncomfortable. Maybe she was even delusional about becoming a doctor in a strange land.

She had lived one day at a time, counting and recounting coin. There was nothing left to count now.

"I'll find the money another way. It's just the delay..."

"You have a student visa, Sakura," Chiyo interrupted her frowning at the letter in front of her. "At the end of this semester if you're not enrolled at the university, you have to go back home. There's nothing I can do."

"I'll find the money, Chiyo-sama," Sakura injected more firmness, more confidence in her voice. "If you could just plead with the board of directors..."

Chiyo threw her reading glasses on the desk and leaned back in her chair. Sakura snapped her mouth shut. She had never noticed how small and frail the director looked, half swallowed by an armchair and her title. Her head bobbed back against the headrest of her armchair, and she moaned.

Chiyo bent over swiftly, her arms back on her desk, her fingers laced together.

She filled the room once more.

"I'm sorry, Sakura. I'm being harsh with you because of my grandson," she clicked her tongue and shook her head. "He caused me quite the headache this morning."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Chiyo-sama."

The director cocked her head to the side, her glance piercing. Sakura blushed under her scrutiny, her hands curling swiftly to hide her hot pink nails.

"Sakura… Are you in a relationship with anyone?"

Sakura blinked, surprised by the gentle tone.

"No," she laughed nervously, glancing away as her face burnt. "I only have time for my hospital shifts and studying."

"Any family back in Konoha?"

She shook her head.

Director Chiyo leaned back on her arm, knocking her knuckles on her desk. She still watched her intently. Sakura shifted in her seat, involuntary, limbs folding back uncomfortably on themselves. She was small, a small girl in a big room. In a big world.

"I'll make sure you have all the money you could ever dream on. You can finish your studies, be the doctor we both know you can be."

"Chiyo-sama!" Sakura gasped.

Chiyo held up a finger.

"If you marry my grandson."

"What?" Sakura stammered, colours draining from her face.

"He's a CEO who has made one too many mistakes lately. He needs someone like you to appear next to him and improve his image. You make sure he looks like a good reliable man, and I make sure you finish your studies."

"Chiyo-sama… I…"

"I'm not going to lie," she interrupted and her chair rolled toward the wall behind her where her whole life was displayed. "He was caught on camera kissing a lady. I'll spin this around for the family honour; this was you and, he's married to you."

"I can't get married," Sakura said dully in her native language.

Chiyo turned her chair back toward her, her brows furrowed.

"Now, you listen to me: don't throw your future away. You have nothing." she waved her hand in front of her and Sakura blanched, wondering if she would ever look like she belonged. "You're smart, but you have no family crest, no money, no family. You could have everything, if you say yes. How do you think I got to sit on this chair, huh? You think, I said no to using a man's title or influence? If a woman isn't ruthless about what she wants, she never reaches her full potential." Her featured softened. "Just meet him, first, and then decide."

"I'm running out of time… If by next Friday..." Sakura muttered, frozen into place.

"Well," Chiyo said with plucked lips. "I suggest you meet him and decide quickly."

-X-

Gaara Sabaku, his name infiltrated her thoughts as Sakura lay in the darkness.

Director Sabaku had written his name neatly above his phone number on a piece of paper with the hospital's header.

"Think about it," the director had repeated when she had walked her out of her office. "Think about it." Her glance had cut through her.

As always, Sakura's mind was divided, two clear pieces that fought ruthlessly against one another: she couldn't do this. She would do this. There was the meek girl, terrified, crushed by loneliness, that trailed after the woman she had become. Squared shoulders, no glance back to the past, she reminded herself sternly.

Sakura rubbed her temples.

She had received a second eviction notice. It was now Tuesday and the passing time was now rushed, leaving her chasing behind a dream breathless. She needed money.

She needed to belong here. As a doctor. As anything else than the meek girl with the big forehead and giant dreams who was bullied.

Sakura rolled and tossed in her bed, her sheets tangled around her, then kicked off her bed, pooling on the floor. She groaned and rubbed at her face, sitting up. She moved her hands away from her face and glanced at her ring finger. Her hands trembled.

She couldn't do this.

She would do this.

As a doctor, Sakura couldn't afford trembling hands.

Sakura bent over her bed on all fours to pick up the bed sheets from the floor. She wrapped them around her, lying back on the bed. She unlocked her phone, biting her lip as she typed his name in a search engine. She scrolled down her heart throbbing, her breath caught painfully in her throat. The majority of headlines showed him in a blurry photo half-turned away from the camera. His head was bent over a petite woman, his eyes closed. From the woman, she could only see a shadowy figure wrapped in a long coat, a delicate hand cupping his cheek.

Could this be me? Sakura wondered involuntarily.

She didn't sleep.

She stared at the ceiling.

She stared at her ringless hand.

She stared at her medical textbooks, the eviction notice placed on top of it, the letter from the university about her tuition folded next to the pile.

Could she be that ruthless about her future?

Yes.

***

PART 2

For their meeting, Sakura had chosen a busy coffee shop near the hospital.

Her leg bounced and she bit at her thumb.

Sabaku Gaara walked it at 10 o'clock sharp, and Sakura instantly recognized him as the young man who had dashed out of Chiyo-sama's office before her appointment. His deep red hair was as unruly, locks falling across his forehead, and over his pale eyes.

She stood up on shaky legs. Square your shoulders. Straighten your back. Chin up, she urged herself, but his appearance had knocked the wind out of her, leaving her unstable. It was the intensity of his sunken stare, the fatigue etched in his features, the way he wore a designer's suit, and people stared at him. Some recognized him, and a hushing uncomfortable silence fell over the coffee shop.

"Are you Sakura?" His voice was low, deep. Bored.

"Yes, nice to meet you, Gaara-sama," she bowed, and he merely sat down, unbuttoning his suit jacket with a precise flick of his wrist.

He looked at his watch.

'Rude,' she thought, annoyed. He hadn't even used a suffix for her name.

Sakura sat back down slowly, her lips pinched. She reached for her cup before remembering it was empty. He watched her with unsettling eyes. She pretended to drink, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Her eyes darted to the pieces of red ink on his forehead, half-hidden by his hair. 'Oh dear god, is this really a CEO?'

"This is unbelievably awkward," Sakura said nervously to fill the lapsing silence, "and not just because you go around kissing mysterious women."

"Dancer," Gaara said, and betrayed nothing. "She was a dancer, and I was quite drunk."

"You mean a stripper?" Sakura blushed.

Gaara raised an eyebrow at her.

Sakura gulped, her hand playing again with the empty cup. He followed her gestures with indifference, immobile, immutable. He was a man in a shield.

"Do you want some coffee, Gaara-sama?"

"I don't have much time," he replied stiffly, and he closed his mouth abruptly. "I apologize. My brother told me not to say that."

Sakura cleared her throat. 'What a weirdo...' she thought.

"Alright, I'll go straight to the point: If we do this, we need a contract," Sakura said thickly.

"A contract?" His head tilted slightly. "Other than a notarized marriage contract?"

"Yes, I marry you under some conditions."

Gaara nodded sharply, and gestured for her to go on before glancing at his watch.

"Have you drafted this contract?"

Sakura reached for her purse and rummaged inside. She heard him shift in his seat, and she wondered if he only moved, only betrayed things when no one was looking. She finally pulled out a crumbled piece of paper. She smoothed it over, her tongue poking out between her lips.

Gaara shifted in his seat again, his lips pinched, his brow twitching.

"Isn't this a medical assessment form?" he pointed at the header. "Does my grandmother know this is how you use the hospital's supplies?"

Sakura cleared her throat, her face flushed, and began to read: "Number one, I won't do the pageant wife thing. I work at the hospital. I'll show up next to you when I can, not when you need me to. If I'm working, I'm working."

Sakura paused looking up at him. He still stared at the piece of paper, his lips thin and his jaw set.

"Do you have any questions or…"

"I'm waiting for you to finish," he replied coldly, and he tapped on his wristwatch with one index while his stare remained on her.

Sakura tensed, uncomfortably jerking back in her seat. Squared shoulders. Straight back. Chin up.

"Number two, you touch me without consent, I saw your head off."

"I don't think you can include threats in a legally binding contract. Try to reformulate the sentence accordingly."

He was unshakable.

He was the voice in her head telling her she didn't belong.

"Number three," she pushed on, and her words rubbed her raw. "I won't be your housekeeper or your cook."

His lips curled back in disgust, he designated her contract vaguely.

"I'm certain housekeeping is not a possibility for you."

"Number four," Sakura snapped raising her voice above his. Her heart pounded. She would be heard. And she would not bow if he weren't going to bow back to her. Squared shoulders, straight back, chin up. "You pay for my tuition in full, and you give me the same amount as my scholarship per year until I'm done with school. Then, I become a doctor and I pay you back."

"Hn." Gaara neatly pushed his suit jacket aside and took out a business card from his inner pocket. "Here."

Sakura blinked at the card and took it with both hands. Inwardly, she kicked herself. There she was again being formal to a rude man without manners.

"What's that?"

"The email of my executive assistant," Gaara said and stood up, his eyes on his watch. "I'm not signing anything that isn't typed out on an acceptable piece of paper, and reviewed by my legal team."

Gaara buttoned back his jacket suit and readjusted his cuffs with precise movements. His movements ticked like a clock, a unhurried precise rhythm.

"You're leaving?" Sakura stammered and in spite of herself, she stood up too, the card shaking, wrinkling in her grasp.

"Yes, we're done, aren't we?" Gaara looked at her sharply.

"What about you?" Sakura frowned. "Don't you want anything? You're just..." she flinched under his cold stare. "You're just alright with marrying me?"

"I need this marriage. You also need it. What more is there to discuss?" Gaara said with disinterest and glanced once more at his watch. "My assistant will send you the non-disclosure agreement."

"Hey!" she called after him, half-sitting back on her chair.

Gaara turned back toward her.

"What is it?" he asked calmly, but his mouth twisted with impatience.

She licked her lip, her fists tightening by her sides. Squared shoulders, straight back, chin up.

"I think I'll add a STD test as Number five."

-X-

The camera wobbled, then settled showing Tenten sitting in her kitchen. She propped a piece of cookie in her mouth, her eyes narrowed at the screen. She munched slowly, brushing off crumbs from her lips with long fingers in the same absent-minded manner.

"He's hot," Tenten said simply, scrolling down the official pictures of Gaara. "Not hotter than Neji, but still hot."

In her own corner of the screen, Ino snorted, and pushed her thick hair back in a gesture that was so familiar, Sakura's heart lurched.

She missed home.

She missed her friends.

Sakura smiled wider, her face, her heart aching, as she nodded and nodded. And smiled and smiled. He wasn't her happy ending, but being a doctor was.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?" Ino asked again, her blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What do we know about this guy? Maybe he's a serial killer."

The webcam gave her usual intimidating glance a grainy quality. If she were here, she would know immediately know how Sakura was feeling. She would toss her hair and talk and talk until Sakura cracked. Until she followed what she said as she always did. Tenten would hum to herself and pile up ice cream on the table, carelessly handing them spoons, to shut up Ino, and to comfort Sakura.

"Hmmm... Sakura can take him, right, Pinkie?" Tenten asked.

Sakura nodded again, and she moved her computer, so her face would blur momentarily.

"But, there's still an issue," Tenten added her mouth full. She licked the chocolate off her fingers. "You don't even know if he's a real ginger."

Ino wrinkled her nose, and Sakura laughed, a fake nervous laugh that was high-pitched, deformed by the microphone of her laptop.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Ino asked.

"Okay, I'll be crass: you haven't seen his dick, and whether it's acceptable."

"Tenten," a muffled voice said sharply with a hint of amusement.

"Jesus, Ten," Ino giggled.

"Oh god," Sakura gaped.

Shakily, she passed a hand over her forehead.

"What? Act all puritan if you want, y'all, but I've never seen any of you buy clothes without trying them out first. That includes you, Neji," Tenten yelled, her eyes shifting beyond the camera. "So, you should... you know, try him out first."

"I can't believe you're already married, you clown," Ino huffed, speaking at Tenten. "She can't just ask him to audition for her husband's position!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not surprised you aren't married. Neji's friends I have introduced to you were boring." Tenten turned her head away from the camera. "Love, do you have any non-boring friends for Ino?"

"I'm not getting involved in this," a man's voice answered. "Tell Sakura congratulations on her engagement."

"Neji said you should definitely find out if he's real a ginger," Tenten turned back toward the camera and winked, despite her husband protesting in the background.

"Oi, Sakura, does Gaara have a brother?" Ino asked and fluttered her eyelashes at her.

"I'm hanging up!" Sakura shouted as it was their ritual.

"Also, what are you going to do with your hair and that forehead for your wedding?"

"Shut up, Pig!"

"Bye, you guys!" Tenten said serenely.

Sakura logged off and ran a tired hand in her hair.

In two days, she would be married.

In two days, her debts would be paid off.

She reached across her laptop for her phone. She massaged the back of her neck, leaning back on her chair.

"It'll be alright. I'll become a doctor," she said to herself, with the same firmness Director Sabaku had employed with her.

-X-

There was no ceremony, no aisle or flowers.

Her wedding was cold, surgical, the atmosphere oppressive, the notary's office crammed with paperwork.

Gaara and Sakura sat in front of notary Shikamaru Nara as he drawled out the marriage contract, stopping occasionally to yawn. Behind their chairs, Gaara's siblings stood guard with his grandmother and a man who had introduced himself as Kiba Inuzuka.

They towered over her, reducing her to a spectacle.

"Do you, Sakura Haruno, accept to take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?" Shikamaru asked and his eyes gleamed, sharp, contrasting with his slow lingering movements as he pushed the contract in front of her. He held up a pen for her.

She couldn't do this.

Sakura glanced back at Chiyo-sama, and the old woman nodded stiffly at her. Sakura hadn't noticed the white flower pinned to her old-fashioned suit before.

She would do this.

"Yes," she said and her voice crumbled, stumbled over the word.

She took the pen and scribbled her signature at the bottom of the page. She held the pen to Gaara and took it from her with touching her.

"And do you, Gaara Sabaku, accept to take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife?"

Before he had finished his question, he signed, the movements of his wrist stiff and quick.

"Yes, are we done here?"

"Gaara!" Kankuro hissed, and he swatted the back of his head. "I did not bring champagne for nothing."

"Yes, you did," Gaara replied, unfazed, and he stood up, glancing at his watch. "I have a fundraiser that starts soon."

Nimbly, Gaara buttoned back his jacket, ignoring his family.

"For crying out loud!" Kankuro swore, and turned toward his sister. "Tem... Stop ogling your boyfriend, and stop him."

"The fundraiser is important for his image right now," Temari narrowed her eyes at Kankuro before reaching over the desk to readjust Shikamaru's tie.

"Tema..." Shikamaru smiled and squeezed her hand.

"Could you just be careful about your tie?" She whispered at him, with softening features.

"Holy fuck, isn't this just great?" Kankuro rolled his eyes, and Kiba touched his shoulder, grimacing. "My sister is being groped, and my brother is being a dick."

"Watch your tongue, you punk!" Temari hissed.

"How about he watches his hands?" Kankuro shot back, glowering at Shikamaru.

Sakura flinched, her eyes wildly drifting across the building tension in the room; Kankuro and Temari's faces flushed angrily, Kiba and Shikamaru wincing, shifting from one foot to the other, seemingly used to their arguments.

Gaara surveyed his siblings, his face expressionless.

"I'm leaving now," he announced coldly.

"You're not leaving before the rings, Gaara!" Chiyo-sama snapped and the siblings flinched at her thundering voice, reacting as one.

They widened their eyes, and Kankuro stepped in front of his boyfriend, throwing out his arm in front of him in reflex, Temari digging her nails in Shikamaru's hand. Something dark shifted Gaara's features, his eyes ferociously gleaming.

Sakura flinched away from them.

Then, the tension was gone, they moved again, apart, bickering in whispers, as if they had never been frightened.

Gaara approached her again and handed her a diamond ring, his face emotionless. It was an elaborate ring made of twisted bands grouped as one and incrusted with diamonds.

Sakura reached for the ring, smiling thinly, and her heart throbbed painfully.

She put on her own ring.

"Let my assistant know if it doesn't fit."

Gaara walked away without another word, his head bent over his watch.

Sakura held back her tears, already exhausted. She gripped her purse, her arms crossed over herself. She held on herself, full of emotions boiling, swirling, wanting to break free. The back of her throat hurt, her mouth quivered.

She would not cry in front of them.

"Where are you going?"

Temari stepped in front of her, blocking the passage to the door. Sakura recoiled at her boisterous nature.

"I have a shift at the hospital," she replied thinly.

"I'll drive you."

"It's not necessary-" she protested weakly, fumbling for an excuse, anything, that would allow her to break free from her.

"Maybe Kiba and I should do that? We're just much better company," Kankuro interjected, and again Sakura felt she wasn't really there, a part of this moment. She was the pawn between a tugging war led by Gaara's family. Uneasily, Sakura looked past them, but Gaara was already gone.

"No, it should be me," Temari said icily and she brushed by Kankuro, gripping Sakura's wrist. "Come on."

He gave her a small smile, shaking the bottle of champagne.

"Welcome to the family, little sis," he said, and his face grew cold, in an instant.

Kankuro dropped the bottle on Shikamaru's desk, startling him. He snarled at him.

"Enjoy, lazy bum."

Temari walked with big strides, Sakura, shocked, staring at the diamonds gleaming on her finger. Her insides were knotted together. She passed a moist hand on her forehead. Did she truly say 'yes' to a stranger?

"Get in," Temari ordered, and she snapped her fingers at her driver.

The driver ran around the car once Temari had disappeared inside the car, and opened the door for Sakura.

Silently, he closed the door after her.

Sakura's hands involuntarily caressed the leather of the limousine's interior, her eyes widened.

The engine purred gently, and they moved.

Temari's fingers tapped on the armrest, her teal eyes narrowed at her, her face pale, stony.

"I wanted to have a little chat with you since you are now family," Sakura's small smile faltered as Temari's face quivered in repressed disdain. "Image is everything for this family. Get a haircut, better clothes, make-up you can't buy at the pharmacy."

"You disapprove of me," Sakura breathed out, and her nails sank into her arms.

Her body shook. She wanted to lie down and poured out her pain, her anger, her fear. She felt weak, at the hands of these strangers.

"Your image is unflattering to us, and frankly, I don't care about you," Temari answered brutally. "Gaara insisted on choosing someone who was beneath him, that's his choice, but good taste... It can't be acquired. Fifteen years from now you'll still be the girl from the gutter."

Sakura didn't reply, her mind bleeding, severed pieces afloat. One part of her wanted to scream and bash Temari's head in, the other part, wanted to cowered. She wanted to scream herself raw. She wanted to disappear. She knew she was nothing. She wasn't nothing. There was no harmony in her mind, only her mantra. Squared shoulders, straight back, chin up. She was fatally wounded, but she was a doctor.

So, she said nothing. Holding in her pain the same way she would have pressed against an open wound: until everything was numb.

The car slowed in front of the hospital.

Sakura grabbed the door handle.

"Don't," Temari snapped imperiously. "The driver opens the door."

Without hesitation, Sakura hurled the door open, and she heard Temari cursed under her breath.

She turned her head toward her, her eyes flashing with anger.

"I don't know whether you're really full of hate or if you truly love Gaara-sama that much to be talking to me like that..."

"I don't care what you think," Temari replied coldly.

Sakura slammed the door shut, and brushed by the stunned driver. He bowed his head stiffly.

During her shift, Sakura reimagined each aspect of her wedding until her lies were convincing and she could call her friends without her voice breaking.

There were flowers.

Chiyo-sama walked her down the aisle.

Gaara squeezed her hand when he put on her ring.

And her new family was lovely.

They were everything she could have ever hoped for.

#GaaSaku #gaasaku-fanfests #GaaSaku Fic & Art Challenge #fanfic #clem-chan

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ancientbooshartifacts · 5 years

Text

Memento Mori

Author: MandyBling

Year: 2010

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Richmond/Denholm

Richmond walks briskly through the lobby of Reynholm Industries, nervously combing shaky fingers through his short blond hair. Standing in front of the lift, he smooths his grey pin striped suit for the millionth time. He has an interview with the the head of the company, Denholm Reynholm. He’s heard stories about this man. His take no prisoners business sense; kill the weak, divide and conquer. Riding up in the lift Richmond goes over his resume’, list of accomplishments, schooling, background... Birth date. He’s shaved a few years off this final line to make himself look more appealing. ‘I can do this. I can be the new blood this company needs. I’ll be the young go getter’, he thinks to himself as the lift takes him higher and higher, to the topmost floor. Once on the correct floor, Richmond goes to the front desk to let the secretary know of his arrival. She presses a few buttons and talks to someone, then gestures him towards the large double doors. He heads in the direction she points and opens one of the large doors slowly. “Come in, son!” a booming voice pierces through the normal office din of noise, causing Richmond to jump slightly. Walking in, Richmond shuts the door behind himself, plastering an over confident smile to his face. ‘Fake it, till you make it,’ he repeats over and over in his head as he extends his hand to the older man. “Hello, Mr. Reynholm. My name is Richmond Avenal.” “I know, boy,” Denholm says with a smile. Richmond notices a twinkle in the other man’s eyes, the genuine smile. Something deep inside himself relaxes, this is not the Reynholm he’d expected. Richmond sits back and begins to relate his resume and accomplishments, but after a time the conversation veers off. What is supposed to be a half hour interview turns into a two hour conversation. Denholm has even brought out a large crystal bottle of scotch that they both have several glasses of. Needless to say, Richmond Avenal gets the job. *** Rising up the corporate ladder is surprisingly easy for a young and energetic Richmond. With Denholm by his side they take the company to new heights. The friendship between the two men grows as more and more money is made. Both of them spending many a late night to get an edge on the competition. Burning the midnight oil one evening, they are both listening to their favorite Huey Lewis and the News CD as they work feverishly to finish a certain project by deadline. The only other sound besides ‘Hip to be Square’ blaring through the speakers is the soft ‘ticka ticka tick’, of their keyboards. A loud bang and then a growl breaks the stream of normal noise, startling Richmond. Looking up from his computer he sees Denholm stand and rub his tired eyes and then his lower back. “What’s the matter?” Richmond asks his friend softly. “It’s nothing,” Denholm replies in a tired voice. “These figures just aren’t adding up.” “Here, have a drink and a rest. Maybe I can take a look. Sometimes fresh eyes help.” Richmond says kindly as he pours Denholm some scotch, handing him his glass as he moves in front of the older man’s computer. He leans down and looks through the figures as Denholm drinks and almost immediately spots the error. With a crow of happiness, Richmond types away and fixes the minor mistake. “What would I do without you?” Denholm asks, as he clasps Richmond’s shoulder and squeezes lightly, letting his hand linger. “You’d lose your own head if I wasn’t around.” he smiles as he straightens up, turning to face the older man and reaching out to grasp Denholm’s wrist. They stand like that for some time, staring into each others eyes. Denholm’s grip tightens suddenly and Richmond realizes he’s being pulled forward. The feel of the older mans lips against his own is unexpected, but not unwanted. As ‘The Power of Love’ rises in the background, so do other things. Denholm pushes Richmond up against the desk they have been using for work; hands start to roam, kisses become more fierce, groans become louder. Richmond and Denholm’s “friendship” becomes much more by the cover of darkness. *** Cradle of Filth is the downfall of their love affair, though Richmond won’t ever admit it. Coming across the band whilst doing research on prams for one of his more unusual clients, Richmond decides to download one of their songs. ‘Cradle of Filth?’ he thinks to himself, ‘sounds disgusting’. He couldn’t have been more wrong. As ‘Tonight in Flames’ flows through his head phones, things seem to click together for Richmond, like a light is being switched on -or rather, off- in his brain. Richmond starts growing his hair out and wearing eyeliner to work. Most of his work mates take little notice to this change but for a few whispers here and there. He’s still blond and thus unassuming. Even Denholm is oblivious. One evening, Richmond stops by a hair care supply shop and purchases some black hair dye. He no longer wishes to have his blond tresses. He wants his hair to match how black he ‘thinks’ his heart is. He follows the instructions on the box to the letter. He wears the gloves, applies the colour-making sure not to get it on his forehead or neck, waits thirty minutes, then showers. Richmond steps from the shower, towel dries his hair, and the uses the same towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. A crooked smile spreads across Richmond’s face as he takes in his reflection, long black locks falling to either side. His skin looks paler and his eyes look a brighter shade of blue due to the colour change. He likes it. He likes it a lot. His work colleagues decidedly do not. Richmond is ignorant of the other employees distaste, of their snide remarks and the rumors being spread. He does notice, however, that work isn’t the same as it once was. People aren’t as keen on his ideas as they had once been. Even in an important board meetings it seems as though people aren’t paying attention to his presentation. He’d applied his make-up exquisitely that day, and it vexes him that no one seems to take note of it, or even the topic at hand. The death of Denholm’s father and Richmond’s subsequent remarks to his mother at the funeral are the last straw and the breaking point of the relationship between the two men. Denholm, in a furious rage, breaks up with Richmond that evening and demotes him to the basement the following day. Tears in his eyes, Richmond watches the flashing lights and wonders why life has dealt him such a cruel blow. *** Time passes as it often does and Richmond becomes more and more morose. He spends many nights at goth clubs, at home lighting candles and listening to sullen music or at work, watching the lights and reading ‘Heat’. Whilst laying on the floor in the fetal position, purposefully blurring his eyes as he watches the lights flash, Richmond over hears Roy, Maurice and Jen talking. There is apparently a party this evening as a ‘Thank You’ to the employees for a job well done. He wants to go, so he does. The party is in full swing later that evening as Richmond enters the club through a side door, so as not to be noticed. He slips to the corner of the bar and orders round after round of Carlsburg, watching the revelers get more and more inebriated. The main person he keeps his deep blue eyes on his Denholm. As Richmond drinks more, he can think of nothing else. He misses the older man so very much. It’s around 3am when Denholm comes to sit next to Richmond to catch his breath from the dancing and order another drink. He turns his head to look at the goth and his eye brows rise. “Richmond?” he says at just above a whisper, placing a hand onto the other man’s shoulder and squeezing gently. Nodding, Richmond reaches out a hand to clasp Denholm’s wrist, a mirror of times past. “I... I’ve missed you.” he whispers back, staring deep into the older man’s eyes. Within seconds, Denholm drags Richmond to the back of the bar, into a hall and towards the bathrooms. He slams him up against the hallway wall and kisses the younger man with force, teeth clacking together with the fierceness of it. Richmond breaks the kiss long enough to speak. “Back to mine,” he stammers out, grabbing Denholm by the collar and leading him to the fire exit in the back. They arrive at Richmond’s tiny apartment after taking a rather long and uncomfortable cab ride, unable to touch one another in the presence of the cabbie. Richmond fumbles with his keys to unlock the door. Denholm is not making this process easy, pressing up against his back, grinding his clothed cock up against him while his arms wrap around the younger mans hips, palming him through his trousers. Finally the lock gives way and they both almost fall through the door. Denholm pushes Richmond towards the bedroom of the still familiar apartment, both pulling off their garments as they move clumsily through. Once in through the door, both men separate, undressing at opposite ends of the room, taking in each others long missed form. Denholm, naked first, crosses the divide and takes Richmond’s face in his hands, kissing him hard. He grabs at the younger man’s pants to help him undress. Once that is accomplished, he grasps Richmond’s hips and turns him towards the bed, pushing him hard onto it. Richmond gasps at being manhandled but had always rather enjoyed Denholm’s rough play. “Yesss...” he hisses through his teeth as the older man crawls over his body, jumping slightly as Denholm’s hand wraps around the base of his large cock. Stroking the other man’s stiff rod, Denholm’s mouth works it’s way up Richmond’s body, licking and biting as he travels. Arriving at his lips, he kisses the man below him, slower than before, savoring the feel and taste. “Turn over for me,” he whispers as he breaks the kiss. “Condoms and lube still where you kept them?” Nodding mutely, Richmond turns over onto hands and knees, reaching up to brace himself against the headboard. He remembers how Denholm is when he gets started, so latching onto the wood of the bed is a wise move. Denholm quickly retrieves the items needed and returns to kneel behind Richmond. He opens the bottle of lube and coats his fingers. Throwing the bottle on the bed, he quickly moves two digits to the puckered entrance and slides the tips inside. Throwing his head back, Richmond cries out a little at the sudden intrusion, long dark hair fanning across his back as he moves. “Denholm,” he moans softly as he feels the other man’s fingers slip deeper inside. Rocking slightly, he meets the probing fingers, thrusting back to quicken the preparation. Denholm growls at Richmond’s movements, excited by his eagerness. He spreads his fingers inside the tight hole to stretch him further, savoring in the sound of hitched breath at the change. “Richmond,” he breaths out as he grasps the younger man’s hip in a vice grip, “I want you.” “You have me,” Richmond moans back, lowering his head back down between his arms, still grasping the headboard, the tips of his locks brushing the bed. “Please... hurry.” Pulling his fingers free, Denholm reaches for the condom; quickly he unwraps it, slipping the rubber onto his cock and letting the package fall to the floor. Taking the lube once more, he pours a rather large amount onto his member and coats himself thoroughly. Lining up the head of his dick at Richmond’s waiting entrance, Denholm thrusts inside in one swift movement, the sensation causing both men to moan. The younger man immediately begins to rock back onto the man above him, urging him to move. “Please,” Richmond whines as he fucks himself on Denholm’s cock. He lets go of the headboard with one hand and swiftly brings it to his own member, stroking to the rhythm of their moving bodies. Denholm comes back to himself at hearing Richmond’s needy plea, grasping the younger man’s hips tight. He starts to thrust fast and hard, knowing that that is what the man below him wants. Pushing in as deep as he can, then pulling out til he’s almost removed himself, over and over again. Richmond sobs as Denholm continues to move above him, reveling in the feel of the other man’s fingers digging painfully hard into his hips as well as the cock inside his arse, driving into his prostate over and over. His hand around his own member speeds it’s movements, rubbing his thumb over the tip to collect the pre-come, increasing the slick slide. Leaning down, Denholm starts kissing Richmond’s shoulders and the nape of his neck. He releases one hip and wraps it around the younger man’s waist, pulling their bodies closer together. “So close,” he whispers in between kisses, thrusts becoming less and less rhythmic. “Come for me,” Richmond breaths out as he raises his head, turning to look at the man behind him. At Richmond’s soft words and sudden eye contact, Denholm comes undone. He thrusts into the younger man a few more times, until he finally lets go, screaming Richmond’s name as his body tingles and twitches with pleasure. Feeling the pulse of Denholm’s orgasm deep inside himself, Richmond loses control as well. Biting down onto his own forearm, still raised and grasping the headboard, eyes rolling back. He comes over his swiftly moving fist as well as the sheets below, the waves of his climax streaking through his body as he rocks back and forth. They both collapse as their bodies calm, Denholm wrapping his arms around Richmond’s thin waist as they fall to their sides. “I’ve missed this,” Denholm says softly as he pulls himself free, removing and disposing of the johnny in the bin beside the bed. “I’ve missed this as well. You have no idea.” Richmond replies, turning to face Denholm and burying his face into the older man’s chest. Breathing in the other man’s scent, Richmond nuzzles close and sighs at the feel of the Denholm’s fingers carding through his long hair. His eyes flutter closed, succumbing to slumber in a matter of moments. *** The morning light shines through the curtains as Richmond’s eyes slowly open, flashes of the previous nights events play through his mind as he stares up at the ceiling. Both Denholm and he have drifted apart in the night and he can hear the other man’s breathing next to him. Richmond realizes that the speed of breath means Denholm is awake. He furrows his brow and turns his head to look at the other man. Denholm turns his own head at the same time and they both look into each others eyes. A scream breaks forth from Denholm’s mouth causing Richmond to return the shout, both yelling at the top of their lungs. “What am I doing here?” Denholm cries as he jumps from the bed. “You don’t remember?” Richmond says with fear and sadness in his voice. “I certainly do not.” Denholm lies, “I’ve got to get out of here” is all he says as he gathers up his clothes and makes a hasty exit from Richmond’s apartment. With a sad sigh, tears prickling his eyes, Richmond turns and curls into a ball, crying himself back to sleep. *** Richmond is at work when he gets the news. Denholm has jumped to his death from atop the Reynholm Industries tower window. Something in regards to ‘irregularities in the pension fund’ had driven Denholm to take his own life. Staying to within the tree line, Richmond comes to Denholm’s burial. He weeps softly as he watches the procession of friends and family, waiting for everyone to leave so he can have time with Denholm alone. Dusk is falling when he finally gets the chance. Richmond steps gingerly towards the fresh mound of dirt and falls to his knees, fresh tears and loud sobs escaping his mouth as he grasps two large handfuls of earth and holds them to his eyeliner streaked face. “I’ll always love you,” he whispers. After a time, he stands, still grasping the two large handfuls of dirt in tight fists. Richmond slips the soil into his pockets and leaves the cemetery. *** The following day, Richmond calls upon one of his goth friends who happens to be a jewelry designer. He tells his friend what he wants and the designer sets to work, the only thing Richmond leaves are the two handfuls of earth. *** Within the week, Richmond returns to his friends shop. The artist produces a long, red tear drop shaped pendant with Denholm’s grave dirt embedded in the center, attached to a black metal chain. He also brings out a jar he had placed the remaining dirt in for Richmond to take home. Richmond thanks his friend and pays for the jewelry. Placing the chain around his neck and tucking the pendant under his shirt, Richmond heads home with his own private memento mori.

#the it crowd #it crowd #the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #boosh #richmond avenal #denholm reynholm #richmond avenal/denholm reynholm #richmond/denholm

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silenciawrites · 6 years

Text

Day 2: Ayra and Lyssa

I’m not even a little bit ashamed. Have a gross romantic anecdote about my beloved demon children.

Home

“I’m tired of being alone, Father, and I know you are, too… Purifying the world is a hard thing to do by yourself. Let me help you. I know I won’t live long enough as a mortal, but there are other ways—you’ve made demons before, right? Can we make one out of me?”

The ache still lies heavy in her bones and she knows she’d made a mistake getting up so soon. Logically, it had made sense at the time. There was no reason to hide in the hostel any longer, not when she had her own home, her own space, in Novus Aevum—a place where she and the girls would be able to speak freely, a place where she wouldn’t have to playact at humanity any longer.

And besides, the hostel wasn’t hers; she didn’t like it. She was tired and still in pain and if she couldn’t go properly home, she’d wanted to at least be in her own space. She’d wanted to be home. She’d wanted…all right, damn it, she’d wanted Lyssa.

Of course, now she’s regretting it.

“Are your humans asleep?” Lyssa asks, standing in the doorway and studying her. Her blonde curls are coming loose from the attempt at a braid just like they always are; she’s buttoned her cardigan wrong just like she always does. Her socks don’t match. The only thing that’s not like usual is the snap of cold in her voice.

Ayra brushes back her hair with an impatient hand, looking anywhere but at Lyssa. It’s rare for her to feel like she’s made a mistake these days, not when they know each other so well, and she hates it. Especially since she doesn’t even know what it was. “As far as I know. I piled them all into the…into my room. Ebony assures me they’re used to all sharing a bed—apparently it was all they could manage for a while. I suggested the living space, but they preferred that.” She’s talking too much and she knows it. But if she keeps talking, maybe the fight isn’t going to happen. “Besides, they weren’t sleeping much while I was…resting.” And now she’s walked right into it.

Lyssa’s eyes narrow and her mouth goes tight. It probably says something that even that’s cute. “Good,” is all she says, but her tense posture says otherwise. “Strip.”

Taken aback, Ayra blinks. Lyssa isn’t usually that aggressive. “Excuse me?”

“Your father told me three days ago that you were in town,” snarls Lyssa, “he told me three days ago that you were hurt. Strip.”

Finally, Ayra understands. “Lyss, I’m fine,” she says, holding out her hands like a peace offering. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home, I didn’t mean to leave you to worry, but the girls didn’t know I lived here. I was too out of it to tell them at the time. And I didn’t know Father was going to tell you.” One would think, after all, that after five thousand years, her father would know how to avoid scaring Lyssa like that.

Lyssa’s eyes soften. But her voice stays firm, even as a hint of a smile plays around her mouth. “I know. Don’t blame him; I asked what was going on when I felt that power blast outside of town. But I also know that you’ve been healing at least since I knew you were back in Novus Aevum, and you’re still moving like you’re in pain. Strip and lie down. I want to see if I can help.”

Ayra’s hands raise, palms out, like a shield. She can’t let Lyssa do that, she can’t let Lyssa get into trouble on her account. Her father has always been relatively lenient when it comes to Lyssa and her quirks, but one day it’s going to be too much. She can’t lose Lyssa over a fight with a worthless soldier. “Lyss, no, I’m fine, really,” she says. The hurried words tumble out over each other. Part of her knows she’s panicking over nothing, that her father knows what Lyssa is to her and wouldn’t do that to her (but suffering is learning and what would make her suffer more than losing Lyss?) The idea of even possibly losing Lyssa over something so ridiculous…“You know Father doesn’t like it when you use thaumaturgy to heal—that’s not what it’s for—”

Lyssa takes a step forward, then another, and reaches out, lacing her fingers gently with Ayra’s. They’re long fingers, a deep golden colour typical for a Calan, startling against Ayra’s smaller, paler hands. “And you and I both know,” she says, “that your father would turn a blind eye to me using the power he gave me to purify water and heal small orphan children in the name of the Traitor herself, as long as I was doing it to help you. Ayra, he loves you. He won’t mind if I do this for you. And I hate seeing you hurting. Please let me try.”

Ayra stares at their joined hands. She’ll heal eventually. She’s taken worse than this and made it through. But Lyssa will hurt, seeing her suffer. And she does have a point; when Lyssa uses thaumaturgy to heal, Father is angry. When she uses it to heal Ayra, anger downgrades to minor annoyance. And if Ayra can play it off as Lyssa helping her get back to her full potential as quickly as possible, that should offset even that. Her father will know it’s not entirely true, but he knows about her and Lyssa—it isn’t as though she’s ever lied to him about it. He’ll understand.

“If he gets mad at you,” she says, reluctant, “tell him to talk to me.”

There’s something like a laugh in Lyssa’s voice when she says, “I will. Now. Can you get your clothes off yourself or am I going to have to help you?”

Since Lyssa’s version of “helping” usually involves ripping, and Ayra’s fond of this shirt in spite of the damage it took from the fight, she says, “I can do it.”

Lyssa’s eyes stay trained on her as she takes it off, and when she can see again, the tension is back in Lyssa’s face. Uncertain, she sits on the side of the bed and begins undoing the button on her jeans. When she’s fought them off (between the rips and the bloodstains, she thinks these are done for), she leans back and frowns at Lyssa. “What’s wrong?”

“Lie down,” Lyssa snaps, crossing the room in a few long strides. Her voice shakes with anger, but there’s a frozen sort of horror just under it. “Who was he?”

Ayra looks down at herself, and has to admit that she does look rather a mess. “Dead now.”

“Your father has him?”

She’d confirmed that as soon as she woke up. “Yes.”

“Good.” There’s such brutal condemnation in the word that Ayra loses her breath for a second. Lyssa has always been the softer of the two of them, the kinder. She’s only heard Lyss like this a few times. “Oh, honey, look at you.”

“It’s not that bad,” Ayra grumbles as she lies back to let Lyssa have a more thorough look.

“You aren’t the one looking at it,” says Lyssa drily, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting her hand against Ayra’s stomach. “And I know for a fact you aren’t feeling all of it, or you wouldn’t be standing. Here now.”

Ayra grits her teeth and prepares for pain. Perhaps other methods of healing, the ones in the distant past where mortals could wield magick, were kinder, but thaumaturgy damages—and healing with it hurts as much as the wounds themselves. But she’s promised Lyss she’ll let her try to fix this, and suffering is learning. She’ll manage. She always does.

Lyssa’s other hand comes up and cups her face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “Come here,” she says, and leans in. As the agony explodes into her system, as fresh and new as when she’d been hurt the first time, Ayra focuses hard on the kiss, on the shape and texture and feeling of Lyssa’s mouth, on the warmth of the body over hers, anything to avoid thinking about how much everything hurts. She deserves this. These are the consequences. Pain is necessary. Suffering is learning. Pain is learning. Oh oh it hurts it hurts no, no, pain is necessary, pain is learning—Lyssa—Lyssa, please—

“I know,” Lyssa whispers back to her through the Hivemind. Blood Diabolists, being technically alive, aren’t as intimately connected to the demonic hivemind as eye demons like Lyssa, but the two of them have used this connection so often that it’s practically second nature. “I know it hurts, Ayra, darling, I’m sorry. Almost done, I promise. Just try to breathe through it.”

As though that reminds her body of its basic needs, Ayra breaks the kiss to breathe—and in spite of her best efforts, a muffled whimper escapes as a fresh onslaught of pain starts. Lyssa strokes her cheek and pulls her back in. “There, there we are now. Try to relax. There. I think that’s the worst of it.” And indeed, the pain seems to fade with the words.

There’s a moment of quiet while Ayra catches her breath, at last becoming aware of Lyssa’s hand rubbing absent circles on her skin. Lyssa’s watching her again, but there’s no coldness about it this time. When Lyssa speaks at last, it’s aloud, and in a softer, lower voice. “You’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

Even after all these years, it feels strange to hear that, still feels strange to have someone look at her and see only her and not her mother. She’d never seen the woman, not even a portrait or drawing, but all through her childhood she was told she has her mother’s eyes, her mother’s smile, her mother’s everything—and sometimes she wonders if that’s why there are days her father can’t even look her in the face. Ayra’s immediate instinct is still to brush it off, brush off anything about her looks, anything that makes her think of the past, and so she laughs—if it sounds a little breathless, she can attribute that to the healing. “If you spent time with other people, you wouldn’t—”

“Shush,” says Lyssa, amused. “I know what I’m talking about. Now turn over, I want to see if your back is any better than the rest of you.”

From the way she feels now that the first round of healing is over, Ayra knows it isn’t. She turns over anyway, propping her chin on her hands and waiting for the inevitable rebuke.

Lyssa doesn’t disappoint. A low hiss escapes—just from the sound, Ayra’s pretty sure Lyssa’s clenched her teeth. (They know each other much too well.) “Did you even shield?”

Well, no. She’d had to cover the girls; she can defend herself, they couldn’t. Can’t. Yet. Once they’ve served their purpose, perhaps she can talk her father into making them demons, too—she rather likes Ebony, and should she be able to keep them, Azaliura’s little time tricks are certainly worth more study. “The girls—”

Lyssa cuts her off. “Were not and are not more important than you,” she snaps. “Ayra, you need to stop taking chances like this! Do you ever stop to think about what happens if you die?”

She tries very hard not to, actually, since it would get in the way of doing her work. But Lyssa wouldn’t like to hear that. “I know what Father says,” she says instead, her voice gentling automatically—Lyssa doesn’t like to talk about losing Ayra any more than Ayra likes thinking about losing Lyssa. “But you would be there. You could talk him down. He listens to you.” Sometimes.

“Absolutely not,” says Lyssa, her voice just as quiet. “If you die, I will not talk your father down. If you die, I will encourage and damn well expect him to ensure that everything happens just as he says it will.”

Really, she should have expected this. If the idea of going on without Lyssa is so hard for her, when she’s at least got love elsewhere in her life, what would it do to Lyss if she dies? “Lyssa…”

Lyssa bends forward and presses a kiss to the back of her neck. Gently, carefully, as though she’s afraid to hurt her. “I love you, Ayra.” They don’t say the words much, rarely need to, because they both know already. But that doesn’t make the impact any less when she does hear them. “We both do. We love you, and you’re the only thing worth going on for. You’re his rock. You’re my everything. Please be more careful.”

Ayra stays quiet, lets the words sit until she has the breath to answer. “…All right. Fine. I’ll try.” She turns over again, tugs the elastic out of Lyssa’s braid so that her hair spills loose. “As long as you promise the same.”

Lyssa laughs, lowering her head until her curls fall like a curtain, shielding them both from the outside world. “All right.” She rests their foreheads together for a minute, and Ayra closes her eyes. “All right.”

“You’ve served me well, Ayra, but you’re still learning, and it cannot be easy for you to be surrounded by these…lost souls. I promised you that you wouldn’t be alone, even there, and I will never lie to you. Come to the desert, to the Black Dunes. I’ll send my newest creation to you there. She’s agreed to travel Vretoaz with you as a demon in exchange for freedom from Nekhril. Her name is Lyssa. I think the two of you will work well together.”

#Silencia writes #originalficfest #drabble #character: Ayra #character: Lyssa #story: Hearrtesverse

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 7 years

Text

The one with all the sass

Summary: You want to learn how to drive a manual vehicle, and Bucky offers to teach. Things don’t go smoothly.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Word count: 1,620 Warnings: Language (reader is a potty-mouth)

A/N: Much of this is done conversation style, hopefully it’s easy to follow along.

MASTERLIST

Number 3: Learn how to drive a manual vehicle.

It was on your resolutions list, one of those goals that stubbornly remained in the top three, year after year after year. Every January, you dutifully copied it onto the fresh handwritten note you posted on the mirror in your bedroom, underlining it three times because dammit, this was it, this was the year you would finally succeed.

Six years later, you were once again within sight of the year’s end, having made no progress, except for drawing angry little stick-figures on the offending post-it note (you swore it was mocking you). After overhearing you complain about your inability to tackle this particular task, Bucky had surprisingly volunteered to teach you the basics. Admittedly, you questioned whether this was a good idea. The two of you were well known among…well, everyone…for a disturbing lack of patience with each other. However, if he was willing to lend a hand, who were you to say no.

So here you were, on a bright, cold November morning, sitting in a faded blue ‘68 Ford pick-up Bucky had nostalgically purchased from an estate sale. A massive (and blessedly empty) parking lot stretched in front of you, leaving plenty of open room for mistakes.

Bucky had driven you out, and after swapping places, he now he sat in the passenger seat, you in the drivers. Bouncing a little on the dusty cloth seats, the rusted springs squeaking indignantly, you got yourself comfortable and turned expectantly toward him.

“Alright, what do you do first?” he asked, sounding irritatingly similar to the older brother you never actually had, but always felt certain you would throat punch if he existed.

“First, I push in the clutch to start – ” your confident recitation was immediately cut off.

“Wrong. First you put your seatbelt on.” Bucky said flatly, eyebrows raised.

You rolled your eyes at him. “Alright yes, first I put my seat belt on.” You pulled the shoulder belt down, the lap belt across, and snapped both into place with a sharp click. “Okay, now I push in the clutch –“

“Wrong. Next you check all your mirrors.”

You stared at him. Well this was going to be interesting.

“Seriously? Is this how this lesson is going to work?”

“Yes, because the basics are still important. If you don’t follow the rules, you could die.”

“And we don’t think that’s just the teeniest bit dramatic?”

“No. We don’t.”

You sighed. Bucky Barnes was stubborn as hell, so if this was his approach to teaching, clearly it would be simpler to humour him. But really, when did you ever make things simple?

“Alright fine, safety first. I brought my safety glasses along, so hang on and let me grab those, and should I get out my kneepads and helmet too, or…?”

“Your sass is not appreciated. Fix the mirrors.”

With a dramatic flourish, you checked each side mirror four times, and wiggled the rear-view mirror back and forth for a full 30 seconds, until you were happy. Bucky watched patiently from the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap, a smirk twisting his lips.

Finally you were settled. “Okay. My seatbelt is on, and I can see for miles in every direction. No possibility for sneak attacks from a rogue Prius. Now – I push the clutch in all the way, and start the truck.” You turned the key, the truck spluttering to life, as you turned to him with a grin. “By the way, you never told me I’d be learning on a truck born before the invention of electricity.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at you. “If you’re gonna mock her, we can stop this lesson right now.”

“Kidding, kidding, she’s remarkable. A beauty. A testament to the ingenuity of the historic American manufacturing machine.”

“I’m sorry, remind me what I said about sass?”

“That you love it and I’m adorable? No? Sorry. Anyway, so now I put it into first.” You grasped the stick and maneuverer from neutral into first gear, Bucky visibly flinching at the grinding squeal the gears make as they catch.

“When you’re done stripping the gears, slowly let out the clutch and gently press the gas at the same time.”

Tossing an annoyed glance in his direction, you gripped the wheel tightly and slowly swapped the pressure, left leg to right, lightly toeing the gas pedal. With an almighty lurch, the truck leapt forward and died.

Christ. You could feel your earlier confidence rapidly leaving the building. Bucky just grinned, shaking his head. “It’s okay, common mistake. Try again.”

Dropping back into neutral, it took another three attempts to get the truck into first gear and actually moving forward.

Whooping excitedly, you gave a little wiggle in the seat as you rolled forward, picking up speed. “Fuck yeah, I’ve totally got this.”

“Alright speed racer, simmer down.” Bucky noted dryly. “You’ve gone 15 feet. Give it a little more gas, so you can switch into second.”

The excitement of momentary success briefly overshadowed perspective, and your foot stomped down on the gas pedal, throwing the truck forward and forcing your seatbelt to bite into your shoulder. Mercifully, you managed to keep it from stalling again, but suddenly you’re going faster. Your heart jumped, hammering in your ears and you felt sweat prickle on your forehead.

“Alright, I can smell the clutch burning, stop riding it.”

“You stop riding it!”

“What? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You don’t make sense!

“What??”

“Shit, I don’t fucking know, I’m panicking! How do I not ride the clutch?” You took your hands off the wheel briefly, putting air-quotes around the phrase “ride the clutch” and Bucky’s voice rose several octaves as he shot a hand out to take the wheel.

“What the hell are you doing, always keep your hands on the wheel! Ten and two at all times!”

Huffing loudly you slapped his hand away and took back control, his panic causing your nerves to snap, and your voice sharpened in response. “Bucky, it’s an empty parking lot, what the hell do you think will happen?”

Bucky looked nervously around – true, it was huge and empty, although there was a row of parking curbs and a couple shopping carts strewn about, all which suddenly became rather ominous targets. “I don’t know, a fiery crash and a slow burning death maybe?”

You roll your eyes, the sarcasm flooding your voice as the conversation between you both escalated. “Oh look, you’re hilarious. Could you maybe try to be a bigger drama queen?”

“I’m not being dramatic, I’m being realistic. Statistically the odds of dying in a car crash are higher – ”

“For fuck’s sake, please stop speaking, unless you can pull – out of your ass please – the statistics for total number of people who died of boredom waiting for the world’s oldest truck to go faster than a speeding snail.”

Neither of you are paying attention to the landscape at this point, although the truck continued to move along at a decent pace, choosing instead to sling colourful insults at each other, growing more and more childish with each turn of phrase. With an exasperated groan (following your standard ‘that’s what she said’ response), Bucky glanced out the window and in the next moment, threw out a metal hand to your left leg, gripping your knee and yanking it toward him, effectively sweeping both feet away from the pedals. The truck jerked to an immediate stop, shuddering before falling silent.

In the silence you freeze, panting slightly, before whipping around angrily. “What the actual fuck Bucky Barnes?! I had it under control, it was a god damn parking curb, what did you think would –” your rant is just starting to build up steam, but doesn’t get any further.

With a thoroughly frustrated growl, Bucky lunged forward, smashing his lips into yours. A smart way to shut you up, you had to admit. Your response was immediate and enthusiastic, heart racing for a new reason entirely, shivering slightly as Bucky’s beard scrapes along your cheek when he turns toward you. With a tangle of hands and tongues, you fought each other for control, before he pulled back to take a breath, resting his forehead against yours, and leaving you both slightly shocked at the turn of events.

“About fucking time,” you whisper. “I swear to god, you’ve been pushing my buttons for far too long without delivering. If I had known I needed to crash your truck to get a response, I would have tried that sooner,” your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him a breath away. “Did you see your life flash before your eyes?”

Bucky snorts, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “I swear to god woman, your fucking mouth,” he mutters with a grin, his hand still holding tight to your knee. “I can think of fifty better uses for it, beyond the ridiculous amount of sass and swearing you seem to have on autopilot. Maybe we head back and agree a few alternatives.”

You’re inclined to agree, it seems like the only logical solution considering you nearly died today, but there’s one minor issue. “I still can’t drive a manual. What the hell happens if I go somewhere and this is the only thing available? What am I supposed to do then?”

Bucky reaches to release your seat-belt and wraps an arm around you, easily dragging you across his lap (pausing a moment to give you a suggestive look), before depositing you in the passenger seat and sliding himself behind the wheel. Effortlessly, he starts the truck, flicks the stick into first, and smoothly takes off, before throwing you a cheeky grin. “I’ll teach you how to ride a bicycle.”

You glare at him.

“By the way baby – put your seat-belt on.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky #bucky barnes

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