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that-foul-legacy-lover · 9 months

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Blessed Heir of the Abyss (Abyssal Prince Childe x Reader) Part 5

Synopsis: After centuries of conflict, Teyvat and the Abyss are attempting to make peace with one another. To solidify new alliances and let go of past grudges, the Abyssal Prince Tartaglia will choose a spouse from the people above to rule over the Abyss with him.

That spouse happens to be you, an ordinary, Visionless citizen of Liyue.

Chapter Four: Of Stone and Scales

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Warnings: Descriptions of illness and pain, allusions to crying and fevers, coughing, SLOW BURN

~ * ~ “What a conundrum this is…” Through the haze and smoke of your fever comes a gentle press against your forehead, the touch of soft and delicate hands ghosting over your skin like a butterfly’s wings. They’re cold- too cold, at first, and you flinch away- but the chill turns soothing against the heat of your sickness, and you let out an instinctive sigh of relief as the neverending pain recedes, even just slightly. The same careful touch holds the back of your head and lifts it upwards, prompting you to sip from a small ceramic bowl. You comply without a thought, barely tasting the sharp bitterness of the liquid as it slides down your throat, and those wonderfully gentle hands settle your head back down onto a plush pillow before pulling away. Your brow furrows as panic rises in your chest, wanting desperately to reach for and take hold of this singular moment of comfort, to bask in its sunshine forever. Please, stay. “Honestly, what were they thinking, bringing a mortal from Teyvat to the Abyss? The elemental whiplash…” A steady voice cuts through your distress like a knife, and the knot in your stomach unravels. Just barely you can place the sound of footsteps on wood, delicate clinks of glass and pottery, and dried leaves being crushed together. “…It’s enough to make an Adeptus seriously ill, much less a human.” In the sludge of your consciousness you open your mouth to speak, only to fail and let out a few awful, wracking coughs. Fail… yes. That’s all you seem to do now. The murmurings pause, soft taps of shoes growing a bit louder, and a cool hand rests on your arm, now speaking directly to you, “Rest, my friend… you’ll need your strength.” They squeeze your arm; once, twice, and what little vision you have fades as you drift down into a murky ocean of silence. A child laughs, her swing creaking, and a tiny green flower blooms from your fingertips. Everything blurs together as you return to nothingness. It’s the light that you sense first, shining through your closed eyes and filling the void with colors. You groan, shifting and pulling the covers over your ears in an earnest attempt to snatch a few more minutes of sleep, the bed cushioning your sore, aching joints. But the light merely shines brighter, birds twittering and giggling at your plight, and with a hiss of annoyance you relent to their joyous whims. Your eyes crack open and stare into the morning Harbor sun. With a gasp you fling yourself into a sitting position, only to double over as you cough and hack, tears springing to your eyes from the force, breath coming out as sharp wheezes. “Ah, you’re awake- Oh dear.” Someone hurries into the room to sit beside you, pressing a hand to your back and rubbing it up and down. “Let it out, my friend, you’ll feel much better afterwards.”

You take the advice in stride, coughing and coughing until your head spins and your shoulders shake and you’re absolutely sure that you’re going to faint- but you don’t, and slowly the coughs fade away until you can breathe, gratefully inhaling a lungful of air. “There… how do you feel?” You turn and blink in surprise for what seems like the hundredth time this week, gaze landing on a familiar, green-haired figure. “D… Dr. Baizhu?” His snakeish eyes shine with delight, golden and amber and fire-colored, “Ah, you remember me! Good, that means your mental faculties are intact, at the very least.” “How couldn’t I?” You let out a laugh, hoarse but happy. “You’re the best pharmacist in Liyue! Zhongli talks about you all the time- he always recommends your herbal remedies if I have a sore throat.” Baizhu chuckles quietly, “He does, does he? Well, I certainly won’t disagree with him on that.” The jewels hanging from his glasses glimmer, and you have to stifle the urge to reach out and bat at them like a cat. There’s a squeaky yawn from a table across the room, and Baizhu glances towards the sound with a smile, “Ah, Changsheng.” He walks to the table, picking up a scaly white bundle in his arms. “I don’t think you two have met. This is Changsheng, my treasured companion- Changsheng, say hello to our guest.” The sleepy little snake raises her head, and you give her a small, hesitant wave. “Ah,” You jump slightly at her voice, her tongue flicking towards your hand. “This one is sick, aren’t they?” Baizhu nods, eyes darkening, “Yes, they are.” He sits beside you again, Changsheng slithering up to his shoulders and peering at you curiously. “Your mind seems to be undamaged, but…” he sighs. “…I am uncertain about the rest of you.” You stiffen, fingers weakly curling into your blanket, “Dr. Baizhu… What exactly happened to me? Why am I in Liyue? And why-” You’re abruptly cut off by a cough, and Baizhu hurriedly pats your back.

“The short story is that the energy and atmosphere of the Abyss caused you to fall ill,” he explains carefully. “Mortals of Teyvat and the Abyss do not mix- it’s an entirely foreign land to us, and the sudden change between above and below was too much for your body.” Baizhu’s expression turns grim, “The stress of your particular situation also did nothing to help.” “Oh,” You swallow thickly, your throat like sandpaper, then straighten your back with some effort. “What’s the cure, doctor?” “Rest, mostly. Preferably somewhere familiar and nonthreatening.” Baizhu smiles, a small pair of fangs peeking over his lips. “And please, call me Baizhu.” He sighs, quietly, “You’re quite lucky that you were only down there for a few days, my dear. Give it a week, and I likely wouldn’t have been able to save you.” You glance up curiously, “That reminds me, er- how did I get back to Liyue, exactly? Did someone have to drag my unconscious body up here?” “Ah, well-” “Your Highness!” The door bursts open, and Enjou ducks his head to float into the room. “Are you alright?! I apologize for not coming to your aid sooner, I fell asleep.” “Enjou?!” Your mouth hangs open in shock, then you burst into laughter that quickly devolves into coughing. “You- ahem- you brought me here?” “That he did.” Baizhu nods, holding you as you hack out a lung. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting to see an Abyss Lector at my door, especially not at 1 AM.” “I am sorry about that.” Enjou bows his head. “It was an urgent matter, doctor.” “My dear sir, there’s no need to apologize! I’m very glad you got here when you did.” Enjou nods, hovering beside Baizhu, a bit awkward and out of place. He’s still wearing his glasses, you notice, and take a few quick glances between the Lector and the pharmacist. They almost mirror each other, in a way, with their glasses and elegance and worry for you.

“So, when do you think I can take them back to the Abyss?” Enjou breaks the silence after a few moments, and Changsheng lets out a low hiss. Baizhu clicks his tongue and shakes his head, gently stroking Changsheng’s scales, “Not for a while, I’m afraid. This whole situation is, frankly, a mess.” He gives Enjou a stern look over the top of his glasses. “They will need at least a couple of weeks to recuperate, and no less.” The Lector nods silently, his warm glow filling the room, “I will… see what I can do. The others of the Court are not going to like this.” “Enjou,” your voice is soft and scratchy. “I don’t want to die.” His tear-shaped eyes gleam kindly, and he delicately pats your shoulder with his claws, “You won’t, I’ll make sure of it. I’ll talk to the other members of the Court- they might be old fools, but they’re not entirely unreasonable.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, “I’ll agree with the old fool part.” Suddenly there’s a few quick knocks on the pharmacy door, and Baizhu tilts his head over his shoulder, “Ah, I might know who that is…” His quiet footsteps trail away, leaving you and Enjou in the bright, sunlit room, and you stare at the beams of light filtering through the windows. You’ve forgotten how beautiful it is, to see the dust float in the sun, casting patterns onto the floor, the comfort of being home warming your aching bones. The room smells of sweet flowers and bitter herbs and mint, and your eyes slide shut as you inhale, just barely able to catch the scent of rain and lilies from outside, splashes of bright colors dancing and swirling about. Familiarity washes over you, and you smile. “I should apologize for earlier,” Enjou’s voice pulls you out of your daydream, and you look up at him curiously. “I called you “Your Highness” in my panic over your state. I am sorry.” The Lector bows to you deeply as he speaks, somehow making himself seem smaller despite being twice your height. “Oh, it’s okay! To be honest, I was too busy choking to notice.” You smile tiredly. “Thank you… thank you for remembering, though. And for bringing me here. And for being nice to me.” Your thoughts spill from your mouth, one by one, a swift current rushing down a river.

“But of course! It is my honor to assist you, truly.” Enjou’s aura flares a bit brighter at your words. “And if it is of any help, I also apologize for my colleagues’ behavior so far. Including the Prince’s.” His voice lowers to a hiss. “He despises this as much as you do, but that is no excuse to treat you so poorly.” You feel your cheeks grow warm- warmer than they already are- and quickly cast your gaze to the blanket, thoughts tangled and muddled together, “Thanks, Enjou.” is all you can mumble, the thought of Tartaglia sending a fresh stab of fear and anger into your heart, your fists tightening around the fabric of your covers. “My dear,” Baizhu calls from the hallway, poking his head in with a satisfied smile, and the harsh fire in your chest dies down to an ember. “You have visitors.” As soon as he speaks a brown and crimson blur rushes towards you, dashing past Enjou and leaping onto your bed, “YOU NINCOMPOOP!!!” Hu Tao throws her familiar arms around you, already bawling her eyes out. “The first time I let you go somewhere without me and you almost end up dead! I may be a funeral parlor director, but your funeral isn't one I want to plan anytime soon!” Her grip tightens as she sobs into your shoulder, signature hat tumbling to the ground. “I didn’t exactly plan it!” You gasp through her stifling squeezes. “It just sort of… happened.” Your own hug feels weak and frail in comparison to hers, even more so than usual, and Hu Tao slaps her hands onto your shoulders, shaking you back and forth. “That is no excuse! Swear to me that you won’t die! Promise! Pinkie promise!” “Okay, okay! I promise!” Your head spins as she abruptly stops shaking you to look you right in the eyes, her fiery pupils filled with flowers and tears. “Good! And you better keep that promise, or else I won’t have anyone to sample my cooking or watch me destroy Xingqiu in poetry!” Hu Tao grins at you, but her eyes are dead serious, and you gulp nervously and nod. “And YOU!” Her head snaps towards Enjou. “You’re one of those creeps that took my best friend away! Why, I ought to lock you in a coffin and-” “Hu Tao!” You grab her arm, half coughing and half giggling. “He’s a friend, too, I swear!”

“Really?” She observes Enjou up and down, from the tips of his crown-like horns to his feet hovering off the ground. “Hmph, if you say so… but I’m keeping an eye on you!” Enjou raises his hands helplessly as she glares, glancing from you to Hu Tao and back again pleadingly, and you muffle a snicker. “She’s not the only one,” A deep, smooth voice emits from the doorway and you perk up, a wide smile spreading across your face as you meet Zhongli’s gaze, his presence casting a blanket of calm serenity over the room. “I will also be watching you closely, Lector.” Enjou straightens his back and bows, “Ah, hello Mor-” “Zhongli. Just Zhongli.” The man in question strides over, sitting in a chair by your bedside, long legs elegantly crossed. “I’m glad to see you are alright, little one,” Zhongli murmurs. “Well, mostly alright.” “It’s nice to see you too, Zhongli,” you whisper, and his gloved hands brush over yours to hold them firmly, heavy and comforting like the stones of Liyue Harbor. The corners of his lips are just barely turned up, but his draconic eyes glitter with warmth- for a moment, he almost appears tearful, but it quickly settles into pride and relief. “Gah, quit hogging, old man!” Hu Tao quickly latches onto your other arm, plopping her chin onto your shoulder with a pout. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up with them while I’m busy helping our clients!” “He will?” You crane your head towards Hu Tao, blinking in confusion. “Of course, silly-billy! Baizhu says that you have to stay and recover for at least a few weeks- right, doc?” She glances up as the bespectacled pharmacist moves to stand beside Zhongli, and both he and Changsheng nod. “It’d be best for your health, my dear.” “Oh,” you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, feeling lighter than air. “That’s good, then.” Like the flick of a switch you fall back into a familiar routine, Hu Tao launching into a detailed play-by-play of what you missed while you were withering away in the Abyss, including her rap battle with Xingqiu and Captain Beidou taking everyone out for a joyride on the Alcor- not that it was very joyful without you, she insists. You bite your tongue to stifle a laugh when she goes off on a tangent about how Yanfei dropped her enormous law book on her foot when she received news of your departure- “Nothing broke, but it sure felt like something did!”- and Zhongli lets out a low chuckle at the funeral parlor director’s antics, a hand on your back in case you start coughing again. At some point Enjou tilts his head and excuses himself, bowing once to you and once more to the rest of the room before floating away like crackling fire.

Hu Tao sticks her tongue out as he leaves, and you flick her on the forehead, movements still clumsy from sickness. “Oh, and you have to come to Wuwang Hill with me and Chongyun! I’ve heard that there are some departed souls still hanging around, so I want to-” “Director,” Zhongli’s calming voice breaks through her chatter. “It may be best to wait until they’re feeling a little bit better.” You nod sheepishly, “Sorry, Hu Tao. I don’t think I could make it to the Harbor entrance right now, much less Wuwang Hill.” “Aww.” Hu Tao looks sulky, tugging at the ends of her long pigtails. “But the city’s sooo boring! I’m sure we can work something out-” “Excuse me.” Enjou hurries back into the room, and Hu Tao puffs out her cheeks, annoyed at being interrupted again. “I know this is most likely a bad time, but…” The Lector hesitates, and you frown in concern. “But what, Enjou?” He sighs and meets your gaze, reluctant and apologetic, “His Highness is here. He wishes to speak with his spouse.”

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bittersweetresilience · 4 months

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more soulmate au meta for i always have a soulmate au brain

watership down

the reason i wanted to do a nonlinear narrative was threefold. first, it reflects the tangle of amélie's psychology and the memories that have shaped her over the years. second, it allows for more parallels and foreshadowing, and for tension to rise and fall across scenes without being constrained by the timeline. third, it rules.

from the first chapter, i headcanon félix as left handed, so when he uses his right hand to enact violence on himself, it's really his father's.

amélie and félix are both victims. of abuse, of lack of knowledge, of lack of agency. but i'm just getting started with the relationships in this complicated family tree.

i named the fic after watership down, the book about rabbits, because this is a story about rabbits, and running, and family. amélie reads this book in chapter two. she's on chapter six, where dandelion tells a story.

All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.

félix will remember this story.

onto the family reunion! félix calls émilie tante because she married into france. adrien calls amélie tante because it doesn't occur to him that he should speak english. all four of them were raised multilingual, so it doesn't matter anyway.

émilie prefers nicknames like love and darling while amélie goes for sweetie because émilie focuses on what the target of her affections means to her and amélie focuses on what they are like.

the books amélie references in chapter three are wuthering heights, don quixote, and to the lighthouse. unlike félix and adrien, she and émilie are used to speaking aloud.

No secrets between soulmates, right? That’s what Maman always said.

adrien says this in dead air.

We’re soulmates. No secrets between us.

and émilie says it here. of course, we know how that turns out for both pairs of twins. except félix and adrien's communication fails because they are kids in bad situations, and for amélie and émilie, well. they're different people, and the mistakes add up over the years.

now for the heavy-handed foreshadowing! we can see the seeds of the future from the beginning, with émilie's interest in dolls and archaeology. and amélie being an aromantic queen. amélie is willing to go with émilie, even if she doesn't know where they're going. and émilie is more concerned with her desire for freedom than with the consequences for other people, well practiced in getting away.

but of course the discussion of birds and eggs has everything to do with what we know is going to happen. émilie loves her sister, and ultimately she is a person who does messy, reckless things in the name of love. even if the bird will die, she gives the egg to amélie as a gift because it's pretty.

You’re a gift, Félix.

from orbital departure. speaks for itself, i think.

in the last chapter, amélie mentioned émilie's smile used to comfort her. here we see it happening. did i mention i love nonlinear narratives? for now they are just kids, and amélie is enough to keep émilie from her choices.

She turns back toward Amélie, and the featherlike shadows on her face recede.

but the future will come, and the worst of its consequences we've already seen.

finally, the entire waterside scene was a reference to félix's story in garden of dreams. perhaps amélie told him about this day, and let it become part of his weave.

#🌃#sentitwin soulmate au #miraculous ladybug #amelie graham de vanily #emilie agreste #ml fanfic #ml meta

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fistsoflightning · 11 months

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crackling tension

for wolcredweek day 3 - trust/heart

this is excavated from an old fic i discarded, but is sort-of a prequel to ‘let it all be said’! somehow, it was more coherent than the stuff i wrote yesterday even before editing :pensive:

The room in Meghaduta that Vrtra had provided them for the night was almost luxurious, which was not that surprising when Zaya remembered that they were in a palace, rather than the Andron or an inn. Through some manner of alchemy—the same kind that kept the alchemists living at the Great Work from overheating, they assumed—the room was far cooler than the humid air outside, the difference and relief heightened by how much Thavnair had been on fire in the past day.

(It was also very nice to be crashing somewhere that was accustomed to accommodating Au Ra, especially after a day’s worth of fighting; the washroom counter had a number of sponges and scrubs made for scales that they had eagerly took into the bath, and on the bed was a set of pillows that would make lying on their side comfortable and hopefully save Thancred from any undue stabbing. There had been a note laid atop them, written in a deep red ink—but Thancred had picked it up first, made a funny noise, and pocketed it before Zaya could bother to look up from where they were rearranging their pack, their belongings a disaster from the rush to Thavnair. Something to bring up later, when they had time to spare.)

All the cool air and comfort provided hadn’t done shite for their headache, though. A bad enough omen on its own—all the smoke from the flames of Vanaspati was liable to give them a migraine the same way the reagents in the Great Work had a few moons back—but joined by the vertigo and the sudden wave of emotions not their own the moment they arrived in Thavnair to see burning skies, Zaya was inclined to believe it was the Echo screwing with them.

Which was fine now, since they weren’t in the middle of a battlefield or a crowd of people anymore—useful, even, given how the best plan they had was to hope whatever remained of Elidibus could speak with them—but it would be nice if the Echo would just drag them into the memory already so they could rest.

Zaya bit back a groan when the ache at the base of their skull flared, white hot as they curled their fingers tight, a dull throb in their knuckles from the strain. Alone, they might have shoved their head into the pillows and stayed there until the worst had passed. With Thancred’s arm draped over their waist, though, his hand pressed just above the base of their tail and heavy with sleep, there wasn’t much they could do without bothering him more than they had already.

Counting his steady breaths while waiting for the reprieve was easier than counting their own, when they managed to uncurl one of their hands from the sheets and gently press their palm against his chest, right over his heart. In, out, rise, fall—accompanied by the faint tempo of his heartbeat beneath their hand, it was easy to wait out the long seconds of pain. Zaya exhaled in relief when the aching receded into discomfort only to fail in biting down a hiss when it returned near immediately and shot up the sides of their head, hand reflexively gripping Thancred’s shirt in their momentary lapse of control.

They must have accidentally scratched him, with how fast he rose from sleep. “Good gods,” he hissed, face still pressed halfway into his pillow. One of his eyes cracked open to squint at them, still hazy with exhaustion.

“Sorry,” they mumbled, tongue cotton in their mouth, and reached back for a pillow to shamefully bury their head beneath only for Thancred to stop them. His eyes were clearer when he sat up; Zaya snorted at how his disheveled hair before immediately regretting it, jaw clenching at the bright spike being driven up their neck.

“‘Tis hardly your fault I sleep lightly,” he said lowly, bringing their hand to his mouth and briefly pressing his lips to their knuckles before letting go. He adjusted the silk ribbon tied around their horn, then brushed his thumb against the line of their jaw and asked: “Still feeling dizzy?”

Zaya shrugged, nudging away his hand to turn onto their back—it wasn’t comfortable, crushing their tail like this, but they needed both their hands. They raised their hands level with their forehead, index fingers outstretched as if ready to point, before gently rotating their wrists in opposite directions and motioning their hands towards each other.

Thancred’s eyes pinched at the corners with worry, the sheen of their limbal rings reflected as he searched their face—his work had taught him to misdirect, and to school his face, but his eyes were always so expressive when he looked at them (which Zaya liked) though often the emotion was in some variation concern (which they didn’t). They were still working on that, not making him fret so much.

He reached out again to touch them; they shivered when his thumb brushed just below the base of their horn, his hand warm against the scales of their neck, and again when he pressed it against some tense muscle. “May I try something?” he asked, and when they nodded sedately in his hold he smiled faintly. “I fear I’ll need you to sit up, bluebird.”

#ffxiv #wolcred #thancred x wol #wolcred week 2023 #wolcred week #thancred waters #c: zaya qestir #s: bound by faith #elie writes #another to add to the pile of fics i might finish eventually

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pamelaabegail · 9 months

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Of Wishes and Washing Machines

Blog I: Snow Fall: The Avalanche at Tunnel Creek

“Sana po magka-snow sa Pilipinas,” little Abby wished as she blew the candle on her birthday cake while smiling from ear to ear. It brought her hope and joy - believing that her silly desire would soon come into reality.

It became a tradition for little Abby to utter those words whenever her birthday comes. Unfortunately, the universe failed her every year but that didn’t make her falter. She held onto her wish for a long time and as if she was Ned Stark from Game of Thrones, “Winter is coming” became one of her life mottos.

But then she grew up and life hit her (not with snow, of course) it hit her with reality. Hard. She found out that living in a tropical country means that it is impossible to experience the cold season where the snow can fall freely and the kids can finally play and have a snowball fight.

Not to be dramatic but it kinda broke her heart just like how little Abby’s dream was torn into pieces, thrown in the void.

Good thing, grown up Abby didn’t let her little self down. Instead, she made a promise that she’ll keep wishing the same wish on her future birthdays despite its absurdity. She treated it as an inside joke that only she can understand, healing the inner child in her as well.

On second thought, maybe she should stop wishing for it, because as the other says “Be careful of what you wish for.” Especially after reading the article titled, Snowfall: The Avalanche at Tunnel Creek by John Branch. To summarize, it was all about a woman, a professional skier, who got buried under the snow due to an avalanche which made Abby reconsider the wishes she sent to the universe.

While reading the said article, Abby teared up, her heart ache as she felt the woman’s fear that time. It was written in a third person point of view yet it gave her an experience as if she was there when the tragedy happened.

In this passage, “But snow does not recede. It swallows its victims. It does not spit them out.” The author used words that made the snow or the avalanche itself look alive that doesn’t just tell but also shows how terrifying the disaster was which is a key factor for storytelling. Abby, being a writer herself, knows how important “show don’t tell” is when it comes to influencing the readers’ emotions.

Rather than writing it as a news article, the writer chose to tell what happened through story narration and for Abby, it felt like she was reading a novel - a unique way to compel people into reading without being bored and distracted.

Apart from that, Abby was also enthralled not because of what happened to the skier but because of how detailed and descriptive the story was. It also gave her a visual which helped widen her imagination. For other individuals who don’t usually read, this strategy might be a big deal for it aids them to picture the written scenes.

Going back, Abby thought that maybe she should really stop wishing for winter to come. Snow may look like heaven but too much of it is a death in waiting.

“It was like being in a washing machine. I didn’t know which way was up. I didn’t know which way was down. I couldn't see anything. There was a time I couldn’t breathe,” the professional skier said.

Abby is already and has been in a washing machine for so long but she hasn't realized it. Yet. However, her precious snow didn’t do it, life did.

08/16/23

written by: Pamela Abegail

#commentary #academia #digital publishing #snowfall #literature

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stolen-pen-name23 · 3 years

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EMIMH12, here

11 or 12 for some disaster trio? If you're still taking prompts 🥰

Hi there!! Thank you for the prompt!! //From these angst prompts.

Here's some post-deception, disaster trio angst for ya!

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Obi-Wan’s comm crackles to life and he warms at the blue glow of his grandpadawan.

“Ahsoka, it’s good to—”

“Master!” Ahsoka cries. “Obi-Wan are you there?”

“Yes, little one, I’m here,” Obi-Wan says, his senses jumping to full alert. He analyzes her expression — the way her markings are raised in alarm atop widened eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You need to come here!” she exclaims.

“Where is here?” Obi-Wan asks, already gathering his things.

“Mine and Anakin’s quarters. Hurry!”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Obi-Wan repeats.

“It’s Anakin. Something’s wrong. His skin is so hot and he—”

“Is he sick?”

“Yeah, but he—”

Obi-Wan stops gathering his things and frowns. “Then maybe you should call a healer. I don’t think he’ll want to see me,” he says, trying to keep the tightness out of his voice. Ahsoka is not deserving of his or Anakin’s ire.

“Master,” Ahsoka says, and Obi-Wan can hear the desperation in her voice. “He won’t wake up.”

Obi-Wan’s heart stutters.

“He won’t wake up?” he repeats quietly.

“Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka whimpers, dropping the title from his name altogether. “You have to help him. Please.”

“I’m on my way, Padawan,” Obi-Wan says. He tears out of the archives, garnering a glare from Master Nu. He doesn’t care. He can apologize to her later. Anakin needs him now.

Obi-Wan hasn’t spoken to Anakin in days. Anakin had all but sealed off their bond, leaving Obi-Wan entirely unaware of his physical and mental state, though Obi-Wan has his guesses about the latter.

He runs through the halls of the Temple, just like Anakin used to — no matter how many times Obi-Wan told him to stop. He reaches Anakin and Ahsoka’s quarters and punches in the lock code.

It doesn’t open.

Obi-Wan doesn’t pause to feel hurt by Anakin changing the locks up on him. Their petty disagreements don’t matter right now. Instead, Obi-Wan centers himself and coaxes the lock open with the Force. The door slides open and a balm of warm air immediately settles over him.

Obi-Wan’s eyes land on the couch where his former padawan is currently laying. Ahsoka is crouched down on the floor so that she is at eye level with him. Obi-Wan crosses the room and drops down right next to her.

This close to Anakin, Obi-Wan can feel the heat rolling off of his skin. His eyes are closed.

“Anakin,” he says in the same stern voice he used when Anakin overslept for one of his classes. It is even less effective now than it was then. Anakin’s eyes remain closed.

He shakes Anakin’s shoulders and pats his cheek. He still fails to receive a response. Obi-Wan rests his fingers on Anakin’s neck and grimaces. His heart rate is elevated — a sure sign of illness — as if the high temperature were not already enough.

“Wake up, Padawan,” Obi-Wan says softly.

“He’s been complaining of the cold,” Ahsoka says. “That’s why it’s so hot in here. He just kept turning up the heat. I thought… he’s always cold, I just thought… And then he got sick and it made sense, but I didn’t know how sick until he wouldn’t wake up.”

“It’s alright, Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan soothes. “Anakin’s not exactly good at conveying when something is wrong.”

“Wonder where he gets that from,” Ahsoka mutters.

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes before returning his attention to Anakin.

“How long has he been like this?”

“He’s only been unconscious for an hour, but he’s been sick for two days,” Ahsoka confirms.

Two days. Two days and Obi-Wan didn’t even know about it. Were they really so beyond mending that Obi-Wan could no longer sense when Anakin was in pain?

He places a hand on Anakin’s burning forehead and closes his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Ahsoka asks when he doesn’t pull his hand away.

“I’m trying to heal him,” Obi-Wan says through clenched teeth.

“Master! You aren’t a healer, that’s dangerous, you should—”

“I just want him to wake up. When he wakes up I’ll stop.”

“But—”

“I need to wake him up,” Obi-Wan says firmly.

If Ahsoka wants to protest, she stops herself. Obi-Wan sinks into the Force — its embrace warmer than any room where Anakin had control of the thermostat. He pulls upon the strength of the Force — the strength inside of him — and focuses on transferring it to his former padawan. His palm starts to burn as energy flows through him to Anakin

Dizziness starts to slow his progress, just as Anakin stirs beneath him. Obi-Wan opens his eyes and pulls his hand away.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan questions hopefully. “Can you hear me?”

“‘Wan?” Anakin slurs. His eyes are fever bright and brimming with tears. “Thought you were dead.”

“No, Anakin,” Obi-Wan reassures. “It was just a mission. It’s over now, I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” Anakin says weakly. “You were shot and you fell and I saw it and…”

“Hush, we need to get you to a healer, alright?”

“Don’t wanna.”

“I don’t care.”

“Are we both dead?” Anakin asks. “That would make sense. I can’t feel you.”

Obi-Wan’s heart clenches.

“Your shields, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers. “You’ve shielded yourself from our bond. You just have to let me in.”

Anakin’s face scrunches up. “Oh. Okay.”

Anakin blinks. His shields are gone.

Obi-Wan gasps as the overpowering essence of Anakin Skywalker saturates the space around them. Anakin rarely lets his full Force presence shine through his shields, even when they aren’t fighting. Even Ahsoka flinches at the sheer intensity of it all. Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temple in discomfort.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathes his name. “Anakin that’s enough. Please.”

“You’re alive,” Anakin says with a soft smile. Pure, unadulterated happiness rolls off of Anakin in waves. “I can feel you.”

“Yeah and we can feel you too,” Ahsoka says sharply. “Can you tone it down a bit, Skyguy?”

That pulls Anakin further out of his daze. “Hey Snips!” he says enthusiastically.

“He’s delirious,” Ahsoka says. “We need to get him to a healer.”

“I concur,” Obi-Wan agrees. “Easy now, Anakin.” Obi-Wan pulls Anakin’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him to his feet. Ahsoka steadies his other side and together they hobble over to the halls of healing.

“What happened to him?” Vokara Che asks as they practically burst through the front doors.

“He’s sick,” Ahsoka supplies. “Obi-Wan got him to wake up, but he’s really out of it.

“Yes, I can sense that,” Vokara says, wincing at the sheer power still coming from Anakin’s unshielded presence. “Bring him here.”

Obi-Wan and Ahsoka drag him over to a bed and lay him down. Vokara begins assessing him.

“His fever is dangerously high,” Vokara Che says. “I’m putting him on fluids and fever reducers. He’ll be fine, but he really should have been brought in sooner.”

Ahsoka shrinks into herself.

“This is not your fault, Padawan,” Obi-Wan says quickly. “Anakin is an adult. He should know his own limits. It is not your fault that he did not seek medical attention.”

“Wonder where he gets that from,” Vokara mutters before exiting the room.

Obi-Wan sighs. “I wish people would stop saying that,” he says, more to himself than to anyone.

“We only say it 'cause it’s true,” Ahsoka says, the beginnings of a smile curving one side of her lips.

“Oh, shut up.”

Obi-Wan and Ahsoka settle themselves into uncomfortable plastic chairs beside Anakin’s bed. Obi-Wan wonders for a moment how Anakin will react to seeing him when he is not in a state of delirium. He considers leaving, but the larger part of him that cares for Anakin’s well-being more than his own wins. He cannot bear to leave without first seeing his former apprentice awake and on the mend.

Of course, it does not take too long for that to happen. The fever reducers injected directly into his bloodstream have served their intended purpose and Anakin’s eyes crack open slightly. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka perk up.

“Master?” Ahsoka questions. “Master, are you feeling better?”

Anakin groans before looking at her. “A little. Not really.”

Obi-Wan hums and Anakin startles, seemingly just noticing his former Master for the first time.

Anakin’s eyes narrow and zero in on Obi-Wan.

“What are you doing here?” Anakin questions menacingly.

“Anakin,” Ahsoka chastises, before Obi-Wan motions for her to stop fighting his battles.

Anakin blinks. His shields are back up.

Obi-Wan recoils at the sudden loss. In a heartbeat, Obi-Wan would have taken back the turbulent ocean waves of Anakin’s presence — crashing into him over and over — if it meant he did not have to suffer the emptiness left behind in his wake. But every tide is destined to recede at some point or another.

“I’m sorry, Anakin. I’ll leave you to rest,” Obi-Wan says. “I do hope you feel better soon.”

He does not await a reply, fearing that it will only strengthen the emptiness.

Obi-Wan walks away, holding onto the hope that the Anakin that was so happy to see him alive is still in there somewhere — smothered, but not destroyed by the pain of his deception.

#my writing #thanks for the prompt!#angst #post deception arc #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano

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rumblelibrary · 3 years

Note

I'm not sure if you have already done something like this before, and if you did, please let me know, I'd love to read it, BUT I was wondering if you could do a little thing, maybe with Sebastian Zöllner, where he is like totally behind on every fucking deadline, work is just piling up, he got into stress with his ex, the dishes are not done, he should go take out the trash, you know, everything is just piling up and he just cracks under the pressure, severely doubting his worth as a person. And his friend, the reader, gotta try their best to build him up again, telling him all the things they love about him, and it slowly turns into a love confession without them noticing.

Is this too elaborate, does that make sense for Seb? Idk. To me it does? Like he's always very...Seb around other people, but deep down I feel like he's always under this pressure to live up to his own and others expectations, wanting to be big and famous and perfect in a way.

I'm so sorry, brain go brrr.

Never Enough [Sebastian Zöllner x Reader]

Word Count: 4k Warnings: bad habits (heavy smoking and drinking), self deprecation, depression and some fluff in the end. A/N: I loved this prompt, I love to write Sebastian so thanks to you once more for giving me this opportunity

He should have probably realised something was wrong when the ashtray was vomiting cigarettes out from its dooming position beside the laptop.

He nervously used the left part of the one he just ended to scavenge some space and just pressed it along the others.

Or maybe when after another sip of the same cold coffee mixed with cheap gin he felt the walls of his stomach revolting and stirring against him, threatening a much bigger damage.

Or, again, when he felt like calling back Elke because he was so alone and he was hungry and tired, and she might hate him but he could pull some puppy eyes and maybe it would work. It usually did.

The truth was that he shouldn’t have taken up so many jobs, but the bank account was crying and he needed them, he needed the money.

But again: writing about the umpteenth girl- artist performing naked on a famous historic location?

Or do we have to talk about the way somebody splashed some colour here and there on a canvas saying it is the catharsis of his young mind against the social construct?

Please, may God spare him from the man calling himself landscape artist because he takes pictures of naked girls on a field.

Charged up with this amount of nothingness, he could just write and delete, write and delete, words count going quickly up to 400 only to go back at 0 in a snap of his fingers over the buttons, because he couldn’t just tear them down. He had to give them some hope, a glimpse of potential he couldn’t see and he wasn’t even aware it existed. Each of them disgusted him, but he was specifically asked to be entertaining and not a killer with his words.

So he kept swiping up videos and photos of these artists, trying to find one thing, one holy grail to get attached to and finally write one good optimistic line in the middle of the words he had to pull up to keep a moderate tone.

He rubbed his temple running over his hairline, which by the way was perfectly fine, before his hand reached down and he touched his t-shirt pulling on the neckline to gather some air, he was wearing his pyjama still, white stained shirt on blue tartan pants. He raised up the shirt and bowed his head down giving in a long inhale from the inside and just cringed to himself.

He looked around as he couldn’t stand up, if he did then he will get only more distracted and these articles needed to be ready for tomorrow.

He noticed the spray against the mosquitos on the floor, those little bastards always hiding under his desk to bite his ankles, he picked it up and sprayed it over himself like it was perfume hoping to ignore the need of a shower for few more hours.

His eyes scanned the small studio flat he was living now: the dishes sticking out of the sink, the noisy fridge buzzing. The one table that was also his work desk filled with used mugs, stained plates covered in cigarettes and leftovers, empty packages of his favourite brand discarded everywhere: from the bathroom up to the couch and to the small bed he owned. Damn, if he run out of cigarette it will be hard to ignore how he also run out of food.

The space was dark and gloomy, some of his stuff still packed up, the fake pop art panting of him and Elke staring at him reminding him of his other loss.

He didn’t touch the bed in days, he just slept on the seat or on the couch.

His attention was attracted by his phone buzzing.

He sat up straight as it was her, it was Elke.

Did she sense his discomfort?

“Elke” he picked up the call in a second.

“Wow, a quick answer, did you have your phone already in your hand or it happens just so late at night?”

Her sarcasm did’t go past him, but he just thought how long it was since he heard a human voice and not the recording of some idiot calling himself artist.

“No, I was thinking of you”

“Yes, sure, look I have sent you an email with the bills of the time you were here, the ones you have left to pay and it is only fair that you pay at least half of them”

“Sure” he just said it because he wanted to go past the point of money, he wanted her back. Maybe he could crush at her place, feel her hands through his hair, shower, sleep some good sleep and the articles will come around in few types “Elke, I was thinking we might…”

“I just called you for the bills”

“I know, but maybe we could have” his eyes darted at the top right of his laptop screen to see the time “a drink together?”

She huffed a laughter as he frowned lightly “I know you Seb, if it is money or sex what you’re looking for that door is closed and it has been for a long time”

“I know” he murmured as he let out a breathy sigh, a dooming sense of loneliness creeping over him like a giant spider ready to wrap him up and eat him “I just hoped…”

“Don’t hope Sebastian, you’re already an hopeless cause”

She hung up on him and he was left there, he kept that same pose with his phone against his ear. His eyes trailing once again over the empty page of his document on the screen, on the chaos surrounding him.

He nibbled on his bottom lip before running his tongue over the pained area.

He pushed the phone back down on the table with a tremble of his jaw and a shaky hand.

She was right.

What he did of his life anyway? He lost most of his occasions in life, he was now in his thirties and he concluded nothing of what he hoped to be, he failed in all the departments both as an artist and as a critic.

A jack of all trades is a master of none, and maybe only the first type of the famous quote could be applied to him.

He couldn’t even take the trash out or he couldn’t remember the last time he ate something that was vaguely resembling of fruits or vegetables. It is all good when you imagine yourself as a bohemian rooting against the world, when you convince yourself that’s only the proof you needed to know you are fighting well against a system of art that privileges banality and marketing over real artistic value and that, one day, all your struggles will be worth it.

Even Picasso was poor for a long time in Paris.

Damn, maybe to be in a situation like this in Paris would sound more romantic.

But the truth was: he never imagined to have to do it alone, that life would feel so overwhelming, that there wouldn’t be anything but extreme struggle, anger, loneliness and a terrible diet.

For a moment he wished to be a baby again, to be the bright boy he was and let mommy take care of his needs and his dirty shirt and empty stomach. He wished that maybe somebody noticed him before, that somebody saw his talent and helped him to pull it out instead of leaving him to do it on his own only to come late to every step.

And now it is too late, he is lost in the sea of terrible paid jobs and anguishing relationships, let’s not forget maybe he indeed had a receding hairline and he was doomed to get bold .

He squeezed his eyes as a soft sob took over his lip, hand running over his forehead as he pulled on his hair justifying his tears with some physical pain. He shook his head as he tried to gain back some composure, hand flung over to pick up his coffee mug and giving in a long gulp of the coffee, the same one he swore before to not touch again, only to almost choke on it, couching it out only to pick up the bottom hem of his shirt to clean his laptop screen.

He fucking hated to write on a computer, the old typewriters inspired him but that damn ink was too expensive now for his sore pockets.

He smirked to himself as he kept doing it, finding good excuses to call himself off any responsibility. But maybe Elke was right, well she surely was, she had two degrees, maybe he was really a lot cause. He frowned as he wiped slowly the screen with his already stained shirt, the wetness sticking then against his skin as soon as he let it go giving him another shiver.

He didn’t have even the strength to cry, he could only accept it was over.

The curse that he shouted out loud when he heard knocking at the door, smashing him out of his thought spiral, generated an immediate anger reaction from him.

“Fuck, shit, if it is the fucking neighbour, I swear I will kill her cat or that rat she has as cat, fucking hell”

He grumbled as he stood up moving across the table not caring about his state, he only wanted to crawl back into a ball and maybe nuzzle a bit somewhere.

When his death glare appeared after the door opened in a powerful swing his eyebrows lifted immediately finding you on the other side.

He blinked, one of those sleepy blinks where somebody closes his eyes and then opens them really wide to make sure it is not made up in their brain, that one.

His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at you

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You should wash your mouth with holy water Sebastian” you said shaking your head raising your arms to show him some paper bags “I am bringing food and body shower”

He shook his head “Are you calling me stinky?”

“I am” You quickly replied moving past him into his place ignoring his groan.

He stood by the door slowly closing it, he was sure that old bitch was looking through her peephole, only then he stared at you try to make your way into the filthy kitchen. He was really embarrassed about his antics, but surely this time he exceeded some record.

“I am speechless Seb, I helped you with the moving and this place seems to have taken over you” you said as you knew he was in some rut when he kept such a long phone silence.

He was usually always texting, sending memes or one sentence texts.

You cared about him, deeply, you knew he was full of flaws and little quirks, but that’s what made him special. Nevertheless, you were worried about the state of the place, how it showed the way he let himself get dragged through the days. So he observed you, better to say, your back, the way you moved around opening the window to let fresh air inside, turning on a lamp to make some light that wasn’t just the blue one of the screen. Pulling out commodities and food from your magic bags like some sort of Mary Poppins of struggling writers. How you poured soap in the dirty load of dishes and pans, the way you marched securely to his desk to pick up that filthy mug and you frowned just sniffing at it.

“Is that poison?”

“Rat poison” he corrected you.

You shook your head as you cleaned a glass and filled it with water and among the groceries you pulled out a banana.

“Have this now, it will help” you said and he took the glass with one hand and the banana with the other like his brain was shut down.

He stared at you as you leaned your head slightly on side, he went through bad times after the break up but you had never seen him in such a helpless state.

He was chaotic but he always loved to keep up his appearance, to give that handsome and damned kind of vibe.

“Sebastian” you called him as his eyes spaced out and now where back on you “Are you alright?”

He observed you, he stared at your face like he was trying to recognise you, truth it was he kept pushing himself to say yes, say yes, say it is all good, make a joke, a remark, keep it up. You don’t need his burden, you don’t need to hate him like Elke and others do.

Just say yes.

“No” he said as his lips trembled and you watched his ironic mask fall right in front of you as he looked away hiding his tears, real tears, not the ones he can play out whenever he needs.

Just as quickly as you gave him the banana and the water you took them off his hands afraid he might hurt himself by dropping the glass in particular.

"Seb" you called his attention as he sobbed moving like a bird trying to hide his face against his own shoulder.

You took his now empty hands dragging him toward the couch and kicking off the pile of dirty clothes and discarded books on top of it to make him sit down with you.

"Talk to me"

He didn't, the man that was never out of words, even in the times he should have been, was now silent as a tombstone staring away from you as you gave a gentle squeeze to his hands. It pained you to see him in such a state.

So weak, so helpless like a lost child.

"I can't help you if you don't talk"

Sebastian shook his head still staring at the wall.

"You can't help me"

"Is it about writing? I can proof read you, it will be a moment"

He shook his head again making, hair bouncing from side to side.

"No, it is not important if I write or not"

You frowned at that comment.

"What the hell?" you just blurted out "Seb you're a talented writer, you're passionate, funny, witty, why shouldn't it be important?"

He looked up at you shaking his head "I can't write, I can't put together two sentences"

Your eyes travelled onto his side profile, truth to be told he looked worn out but he was still handsome like only Sebastian Zöllner could be. He had that chaotic charm, even with a wrinkled suit he was fearless, strong, poignant. You couldn't avoid him, he owned every place he stepped in and you could feel his gaze run through your bloodstream.

When he asks a question, he meant it, it was a test run into your bones and you loved every second of it.

His lips tightened as he diverted his gaze finally to you. You knew his relationship with Elke was important, he cared about others even if he didn't show it daily like most people do.

"Is it Elke?"

"No, she was just right"

"About what?"

He gulped, his throat dry as he pulled his bottom lip in his mouth grinding his teeth over it like playing something through that gesture.

"About me"

"Breakups are always shit, don't you even.."

"No Y/N" he interrupted you, he was serious, maybe his voice trembled but he wasn't lying or playing some role "I am really a lost cause, I mean look at his place"

His hand waved around the small flat like a drunk orchestra director.

"It is pure trash, I haven't finished unpacking, I didn't have food until you came, I am unable to look after myself, to look after the people that I care about. I worked so hard to be an artist and then I became a critic and now I am so knee deep into my own shit that I have more debts than entries, more failures than successes, more haters than friends"

He gulped down, the waterline of his eyes dangerously red and he sniffled up as he let out a little weak whisper "I just wish I could disappear"

"No"

It came out of you like a lighting bolt, it surged out of you before you could even elaborate. Like an order. A command.

"Seb, you're now in a rough patch of life, but you have always worked hard and well as a writer"

"I am a writer because I failed as an artist"

"You're a writer because you know of what you're talking about, because you're able to see the difference between marketing and passion, between hard work and laziness, because you respect that profession and it makes you the best critic"

"I just want to destroy them all because I am envious, Elke always said I am fuelled by my own envy”

"I have read pieces of yours only encouraging the rightful and bringing down the real frauds"

He shook his head as he was just fixating on the wrong, on the flaws, on the problems.

You huffed cupping his cheeks to force him to look at your eyes.

"Look at me" you said not admitting replies "you are talented in what you do, you are one of the best in your field and you're not on some big magazine only because they know they will have to put up with your shit: with the fact you always meet the people, you look at art pieces in presence, you touch them, you research the colours, you scrutinise everything to the bone"

He took your hands hating to be held like that but he squeezed them in his owns.

"And yes, you're allergic to ironing clothes and washing dishes is your personal nightmare, and yes, you give out many temper tantrums and have a terribly dark sense of humour, you are a failure at time and money management, you love filthy rich stuff and smoke like your life depends on it"

He stared at you, he listened quietly as you knew him from so long and many people, Elke included, wondered what you gained from helping him or just being around him that much. He often teased his ex about being jealous of you and she always said that it was like being jealous of a mortgage.

"So you agree?"

"I agree to say you are flawed like all of us, that you are just the perfect balance to your writing, you're what you write. You're passionate, you give out the two hundred percent of what you can give, you are like this, you go all-in in everything you do, there's no compromise, no mid way, no foreseeable change of direction, you speed up into the darkness and don't look back. You are bold, you take risks, you let people hate you because you do not compromise with who is son of who or who is the director of what gallery, you judge people over their real qualities. Because you talk to them in their face, because you don't hide that yes, you want to be great, because you're handsome and charming and smart, nobody can outsmart you in your field, not even that idiot you hate that much"

"Golo Fucking Moser" he murmured

"Golo Fucking Moser" you repeated with a chuckle "you don't have anything to envy to him beside the bruises he probably has on his knees for bending down to anyone"

He chuckled at that comment.

"And also, you're more attractive, that pisses off Seb, it is unfair to the poor man”

He leaned his head on side as you wouldn't normally shower him in compliments, he had enough ego for that, but you had never seen him like this and you wished to never see him again in such a state.

"You find me attractive?"

"Well for sure you're an eye candy" you joked

"I mean it"

You rolled your eyes blushing a bit and huffing a chuckle "I do, alight? It is universal knowledge"

He looked at you as he still held your hands in his, his thumbs making soft shapes over the back of your hand.

"That I am attractive or that you find me attractive?"

You groaned looking away with an embarrassed giggle “okay, okay, I see you're back in yourself, let's eat now"

You moved to stand up but he didn't do the same remaining sat in his spot.

"Tell me"

"I pumped your self esteem enough, now let me go"

He chuckled softly, he never really thought you'd be interested. He usually shows off so many bad traits that he has to tone himself down and really try hard to attract someone. It is all an effort on his part to appear better or at least less quirky.

And then now look at you, appreciating even his shit show.

"Y/N" he murmured giving you a soft squeeze. You kept silent not daring now to meet his gaze. He bowed his head trying to reach for your eyes with his gaze and he looked up at you, a smile that wasn't provocative over his lips.

You pulled back yanking your wrists off his grip to move straight into the kitchen corner.

You begun pulling ut some fresh vegetables and bread, you also got some cheese knowing he loves it, wanting him to have a good dinner.

He followed you almost immediately and soon you found his arms grasping you once more in a hug, his chest pressed against your back, his forehead on your shoulder.

"Seb, you..."

"I know, I stink, just give me a moment" he said and you obliged him gently caressing his arms around you.

You hated to be in the friend zone, but you wouldn't be able to survive to lose him forever or to have him joke about it.

Now he was quiet, tender like a hurt pup.

"Thank you, you know you can count on me too, right? For anything” he said and you chuckled softly “I know, you’re my favourite avenger”

He nodded brushing his crisp beard against your cheek and after few minutes stuck in that hug he dropped a kiss on your neck "love you”

He pulled back giving you a smile as he picked the shower gel you left on the counter bringing it with himself to the bathroom with a soft hum.

You smiled a bit bitterly to yourself as you guessed it was meant in a friendly way, but today it was alright. You could endure it. Also that kiss, he always did it when he was drunk, at parties or in the taxi back home after a viewing. It was his cuddly way to say things without saying them, without rambling, and you appreciated that silent language.

Maybe now he was drunk over his own feelings.

Just like you.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams @charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone @rhymerhymerhyme @thehuiabird @lilith-blackrose @unbeatablecurlgirl @obsidianlaszlo @alindeluce @zemosimp05 @baronesszemo-blackwood @nocapesdahling @everythingbeginsineternity-blog @archangelproperty

#sebastian zöllner #sebastian zöllner x y/n #sebastian zollner x y/n #sebastian zollner x reader #sebastian zöllner x you #sebastian zöllner x reader #sebastian zöllner headcanon #sebastian zollner #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #daniel bruehl #ich und kaminski #ich und Kaminski fanfiction #tw: depression #tw: self deprecation

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popopretty · 3 years

Text

Storm Bringer Spoilers (10)

A small part from the Epilogue where Chuuya and Dazai met up with Dr. Wollstonecraft. It was from one of the translation requests I got long ago and this part is fun, everyone is so adorable, so here it is.

Feel free to retranslate if you want. Just note that I am not a native speaker in either Japanese or English so I make mistakes sometimes.

Chuuya went back to the pier, and as he was about to get on his bike, a black car slowly approached him. The window at the back seat slowly came down and the person inside called out, "Chuuya".

That was Dazai. It was a rare sight. He had his black suit and his tie on, the formal attire for guests greeting.

"Work is in five minutes."

Chuuya and Dazai were standing under the gangway of a luxury passenger ship.

That was a ridiculously expensive fancy liner. The ship that Shirase had boarded before that was incomparable to it, both in size and materials. Its paint was chalk-white without a spot, the five-story guest rooms were decorated like the finest hotels. No matter where the passengers went, they would be accompanied by a skilled guide on board. The ship was also known for its navigational capability. Even when it sailed at twice the speed of an ordinary ship, its turbulence was less than one tenth of a normal one.

That ship was called "The Boswellian".

The government's passenger ship that only high-ranking government officials were allowed to board.

The gangway was lowered and delegation descended in front of Chuuya and Dazai's eyes.

First were the guardsmen in black suits. They cautiously looked around at all directions. The bulges around their waists showed that they were all carrying guns.

After that came some bearded men who looked like officials. Old, capable, with gray brown eyes that showed no hints of what they were thinking. Their clothes were of top-quality. A man carrying a cane with a golden spiral pattern on it was pushing the crew who was trying to help him off board with the tip of his cane, so crudely as if he was chasing away a stray dog on the street.

"The noble demons of England have showed up." Dazai murmured in a voice that only Chuuya who was standing next to him could hear.

Those people were high-ranking officials of the British government who came here for the post-incident investigation, the “Assassination King incident" that occurred through multiple levels of state secrets. A team of investigators were dispatched to Japan to investigate this serious case that went beyond a normal criminal case, and report to the government. And Port Mafia had come forward to welcome the team and cooperate with them in the investigation, as a party to the case.

Illegal organization Port Mafia is in charge of welcoming the investigation team of the British government.

It was an odd situation, but there was a certain rationale and calculation of the Boss behind it.

First of all, the one who had the whole picture of the incident this time was neither the Ministry of Foreign Affairs nor the police, but Port Mafia. As from the beginning, the European governments had been trying to hide it completely from the Japanese government. Also from the Port Mafia side, they also had a reason to keep a close eye on the movements of the mighty British government.

That was because they suspected that these people might try to eliminate every person of Port Mafia who was involved in this incident to cover up the "Assasination King incident" that arose from the state secrets.

Obviously, Port Mafia had no intention to reveal the truth and the secrets of the case. But it was hard to tell how much the British would believe in words of a criminal organization. That was why Dazai was sent to greet them. If they really had the intention to eliminate the people involved, Dazai would have to negotiate to stop that from happening. If the negotiation failed, then Port Mafia would have to eliminate the investigation team before the other party had the chance to eliminate them. That was why Chuuya was accompanying him. Depending on the other party's actions, this might turn into an interstate war that involved the whole Port Mafia.

“Well, let the fun deception game begin.”, Dazai said excitedly as he headed towards the investigation team.

The guard men immediately reacted to the person approaching, their hands reaching for their waists where the guns were.

“Thank you for coming all the way here, ladies and gentlemen of the great British Empire.” Dazai's attitude changed completely as he greeted the guests with a fluent and courteous voice. “You must be the members of the investigation team? I know this is sudden but may I ask who your representative is?”

“Representative?” the guardsman whom Dazai directed this question to looked rather confused and tilted his head. "This is the technical advisory unit of the investigation team so if you say representative, I think that might be Dr. Wollstonecraft...”

Dr. Wollstonecraft?

Chuuya tilted his head. He had heard that name somewhere before.

“Aa!” Dazai seemed to get it right away. “I heard that name before. That’s the skilled engineer who designed Investigator Adam Frankenstein, right? Hmm... you must be Dr. Wollstonecraft then?” Dazai followed the gazed of the guardsman and called out to the most dignified and oldest man in the investigation team. He had a shaggy white beard, a receding hairline, and two medals for achievements in the military science sector pinned to his chest.

The old man noticed Dazai’s voice and laughed out cheerfully.

“No no, I’m not Dr. Wollstonecraft. I’m just tagging along. Doctor is... Look! She's getting off the ship right now.”

Dazai and Chuuya followed the old man’s eyes and looked up at the ship’s gangway. At the top of it, an oversized travel suitcase was left there unassisted. Wait...

“Okay. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Wollstonecraft... Oh so this is the said country? It looks bigger than on the map.”

The small figure that appeared from behind the suitcase, no matter how you looked at her...

“... How old is that?”

That was a little girl.

Blond hair, white blouse. The suitcase was big, but she was also small enough to be completely hidden behind it. She wore a big pair of round glasses that covered half of her face. And on her chest were more than twenty medals for achievements in science.

“Hey hey...” Chuuya made a drawn face.

“Oh! It's getting interesting.” Dazai laughed happily.

The little girl struggled down the gangway. She was holding the oversized suitcase, or rather, clinging onto it as it dragged her downwards.

“Heave ho! I am.. heave-ho... Dr... heave-ho! Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley, heave-ho!”. The girl spoke every time she got off one step, still clinging on to the heavy luggage. “People call me the girl with a genius brain but, heave-ho, those are people who don't have the ability to see the essence of things. Heave-ho! My achievements are thanks to my special skill that make any designs possible. Heave-ho! And because I am a genius.”

“Hey, aren't you going to help her with that heavy luggage?” Chuuya couldn't stand it anymore and asked the bearded old man next to him.

“Hahaha. Doctor is the type of person who doesn't want anyone to touch her luggage.” the old man laughed cheerfully. "Even Her Majesty wouldn't be able to take that from her. Because if we do so, she will start crying and screaming, just like a kid who has gone back 10 years in time."

“If she goes back that much, isn't she gonna end up in her mother’s belly again...?” Chuuya said with a tired face.

“Also, she may look like that, but Doctor was really looking forward to this trip. That case is filled with her favorite essentials for this trip. No-one will be able to take it from her.”

“Old man! Don’t go around talking about me like I am just a normal little girl! I might be short but I will be a full-grown decent adult very soon.... heave-ho!”

Dr. Shelley finally got to the end of the gangway. She wiped off the sweat on her face and fixed her clothes with her hands. “Phew! Nice to meet you again, people of Japan. Well... you are Chuuya-kun right? Thanks for taking care of Adam.”

Upon hearing Adam’s name, Chuuya's face looked like he just shallowed a bitter thing down his throat. "I am not sure." , he then said. "The one who was taken care of was me."

The little girl fixed the big glasses to the middle of her face and stared at Chuuya.

“He died saving me... Doctor, Adam is your best work, right? I'm sorry for breaking it.”

“Hmm.”

Doctor Shelley observed Chuuya from the left, from the right, then stared at him closely from the front. Like she was observing an interesting research subject.

"You are right, Adam is my greatest work." , she said with her arms crossed. “Rather than sending him to a good-for-nothing island country like this for investigation, I’d have him in the lab and continue the research to upgrade him.”

Chuuya listened in silence. His expression was not looking at something in front of him at that moment. What he was seeing was some scenes of the past.

Doctor Shelley cleared her throat like a child then continued, “The best thing about Adam is that, he is equipped with the intelligence to think and judge the situation by himself. In other words, Adam chose to sacrifice himself out of his own will, his own judgement.” Dr. Shelley smiled. “Because you are worth it. I believe in Adam. I appreciate your apology, but it’s not something you need to worry about.”

Chuuya opened his mouth, trying to say something but he couldn't put it into words. Just like a child who had forgotten his way home, he just stood there with a stunned look on his face.

Seeing Chuuya like that, Dazai giggled as if he couldn't do anything about it.

“First off, from the beginning I didn't like the idea of using Adam for such a worthless investigation.” Dr. Shelley crossed her arms, looking sullen. “The government is always like that! They send out machine investigators for missions and when they are done with it, they just blow it up together with all the secret information. Even though we could have got the best test data from interacting with different cultures from those solo missions! Just because it's for the sake of human's life, they think that they can neglect science like that?”

To Chuuya and Dazai’s surprise, Doctor Shelley ordered her subordinate for “that” and had a black tube the length of an arm brought to her.

"That's why, such an ill-natured person like me had installed a detachable sub-processor and non-volatile memory. Without telling the government.” She took out the thing inside the black tube. “In here.”

The thing inside the tube that had the length of an arm, was actually an arm.

That was Adam’s right arm, the arm that Chuuya sent flying and stuck into the ground when he was escaping from inside of the Demonic Beast Guivre.

“This is...” , a question mark appeared on Chuuya’s face. “After the incident, I searched the scene but couldn't find it anywhere. Why is it here?”

“I mean, it's rather obvious to do this, isn't it?” Dr. Shelley put her finger on her huge travel suitcase. After her vital signals were verified, the auto-lock was released.

The figure that came out from the suitcase took the arm. And he said as he was attaching it to himself, “Do you want to hear an Android joke, Chuuya-sama?”

Chuuya stood still in shock. He kept his mouth open in surprise. Finally, he took a breath slowly through that mouth. A deep breath, as deep as he could. Then his expression changed as if he was about to burst.

And he laughed, "Hahaha...!"

#bsd #storm bringer #sb spoilers #bsd spoilers #spoilers #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #mary wollstonecraft #bungou stray dogs

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charming-charlie · 3 years

Text

Washed Away pt. 5

Title // Washed Away pt. 5

Pairing // Evan Buckley x Reader

Warnings // Mentions of death and a missing kid.

Summary // Who knew hanging out with Buck and Christopher for a day would lead to a life or death situation?

Word Count // 2.5k

Prompt // Hi! Can i request a fic where you were with Buck & Christopher when the tsunami hit? They could be dating or crushing on each other. If nothing comes to mind, then it’s completely fine to ignore this request! Have a nice day!’

Author’s Note // This is the final part of the Washed Away series. || Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

Tagged List // @aprildecker-blog @coffeewithoutcaffeine @daddysfavoritesexkitten @chenfordlove @comeasyoudar @carnationworld @averyhotchner @evanbuckos

The sun had set. The day was over, but that doesn’t mean the situation is. You and Buck had been wading through the water for hours, heading to the last place someone said they saw Christopher.

Exhaustion was starting to settle in. You were sore all over too. It felt like you just finished running up and down a flight of stairs non-stop while carrying a bookbag full of weights. Your shoulders hurt, your legs felt like they were going to give out any time soon, and your body was so dehydrated from soaking up and drinking in a lot of saltwater that you pretty much felt delirious.

Finally, civilization was within reach.

A makeshift help spot was set up near the bakery where you and Buck were headed. Water bottles were being passed out and you reached out to grab one. How could something so common look so precious, like it was made of gold?

You twisted off the cap and downed half of it in three big gulps and handed the rest of it to Buck. He finished off the water, nearly gasping for breath by the end. He was exhausted too. You didn’t even know how long you two were walking and the little help was most appreciated.

The people around you looked worse for wear. You couldn’t imagine the struggles they went through to try and save themselves or what their story could be. You were sure it was similar. Everyone lost someone or something in the tsunami and you knew it was going to be hard to get over that.

Then again, did you really want to?

The whole event gave you a new outlook on life and appreciate what you have. You didn’t appreciate your job enough, but you were grateful now. You were a school nurse and you realized you love those kids that you looked after. You loved Christopher, having seen him and checked on him many times thanks to his worrisome father, and it would break your heart to never see that little boy again.

Now is not the time to think about those things. You didn’t know for sure. Let’s not focus on the what ifs.

For a moment, Buck swore he saw Christopher. He saw a little boy clinging to the leg of some woman, and he let out a relieved sigh, only for his eyes to play tricks on him. It wasn’t Christopher at all.

“Mister, are you okay? You’re bleeding,” a nearby passerby said, and Buck glanced down at his hand.

Sure enough, he was.

There was a cut of some kind, and the two of you didn’t even realize it. You frowned, mentally kicking yourself and cursing yourself out for not realizing Buck’s injury. The ex-firefighter sat down, looking worse for wear and you grabbed his hand carefully while examining it.

You ripped off a strip of your shirt to use as a bandage and Buck’s eyes sort of glazed over. Due to his adrenaline, he probably wasn’t feeling any pain.

“What am I gonna do?” Buck whispered as you tended to him, “how am I gonna tell Eddie?”

You said nothing, because you knew whatever you did say wouldn’t exactly be helpful. However, you were there. Side by side, you were there with Buck and Christopher today and everything Buck did was for that little boy. You never seen someone care so much the way Buck does. He has such a good heart and for once, you were hoping against hope that things would work out in his favor. He didn’t deserve this.

After a bit of a break, including some water to get both of your heads on straight, you two were back to the grind. This time, you didn’t have to walk for long.

There was an old mall or hospital, you couldn’t be sure, that somehow turned into a makeshift triage center not too far from where you and Buck were. The two of you practically dashed over to the building and its tents, being careful since there wasn’t a lot of strength left between you.

Buck was looking in the beds, glancing around for anyone that even remotely passed Christopher. You hijacked a few clipboards, searching for Christopher’s name anywhere you can but you both came up empty.

“Eddie dropped Christopher off with me,” Buck began talking to you and you could hear the defeat in his voice. It sounded like he was fighting the feeling of giving up, but he was on the cusp. “He thought it would get me out of my apartment and… out of my head. And you know what I did? I brought him to the pier. I had him, I kept him safe. And then the three of us were on top of the ladder truck and the water receded, and for a moment I felt like I got this. I had you, I had Christopher, and we would be fine. And now Christopher is gone. We checked everywhere. And now I realize I failed. I’m a failure no matter how you look at it.”

You could hear your heart cracking as you listened to him, and you knew nothing you said would change his mind. He was beating himself up over this situation. He did everything he could, and he was still handed the short end of the stick.

Finding Christopher at the makeshift hospital was the last bit of hope he had and now it was gone. You could see the defeat that wavered in his voice and how it hid behind his eyes.

And if that didn’t help the situation, there was Eddie Diaz, tending to a few patients himself. He wore blue latex gloves, had the navy fire uniform on, and was directing a few people into the hospital. Buck nearly choked back a sob as the realization of what to do next was hitting him faster than a wall of bricks.

He had to tell Eddie, and you were going to be right by his side when he did.

However, Buck dashed behind a white tent, pulling you along with him. Turns out he wanted to hide instead of face Christopher’s father.

“Buck,” you said slowly. Your voice was hoarse from lack of water and from shouting Christopher’s name all afternoon with Buck. You felt like your vocal cords were ripped to shreds at this point, but you soldiered on. Now was not the time to accept defeat. “You have to tell him.”

“How?” Buck answered as he looked at you. His hand slowly slipped into your own, and you squeezed his fingers tightly. “How do you tell your best friend that you lost his son?”

“He’s his father. You have to tell him that Christopher is missing,” you said, knowing this was the only chance he had right now.

Buck shook his head, not wanting to hear it. “No, I need to keep looking for him. I need to find him.”

One of your hands instinctively went up to the side of Buck’s face, caressing him lightly. You still couldn’t believe the man in front of you wasn’t giving up just yet, even though maybe he should. You hated the train of thought you were currently on, but Buck was exhausted, and he lost some blood. Plus, it didn’t help that he was severely dehydrated, much like yourself. The two of you were in no condition to continue searching. You probably wouldn’t make it if you tried. You both needed to rest up and regain your strength.

“Buck,” you heard the voice before you saw who it belonged to and your head whipped around to see Eddie. The man was heading outside to continue helping and he looked a bit surprised to see his best friend standing there. Then his eyes fell on you, and the look of surprise seemed to double. “Nurse Y/N, what are you both doing here? Are you okay? Wait, where’s Christopher?”

There was no time to prepare a giant speech. Eddie Diaz was right there in front of you both, and it was now or never. You let go of Buck as you turned to face the father of one of your favorite patients, ready for what was about to happen. This was a conversation you were dreading, and you couldn’t imagine the internal conflicts Buck must be going through as he mustered up the courage to say what happened.

“Eddie…” Buck interjected in between Eddie’s many questions, and the army vet stopped talking.

For a moment, the two best friends stared at each other, like Buck was hoping Eddie would get the hint without saying anything, but you knew that would be the cowardly way out. If there was one thing you learned today, it was that Buck was not a coward. Not now, not ever.

“Me and Christopher… we were at the beach, and I swear to you…” Buck was choking on his words and you squeezed his hand again for support.

Eddie was nodding, trying to understand, but the look on his face was heartbreaking. It was like if he didn’t hear it, it wouldn’t be true.

“I tried… and I just… but I… Eddie, I just don’t know how to say it. Um, he… he um…” Buck couldn’t get through it. He was stumbling over the words and Eddie’s eyes were brimming with the threat of tears as Buck tried to get the words out.

What made it even worse was that Eddie couldn’t even look at Buck. The army vet was looking behind his best friend, like he needed to avoid eye contact with what Buck was saying.

“Christopher?” Eddie questioned softly, like he needed clearance on what Buck was saying, but your gaze followed Eddie’s. A woman had stepped off a truck, carrying a small child. Your heart almost stopped, and you pulled on Buck’s arm to get him to stop talking.

Eddie slowly walked past you and Buck, and he approached the woman. Slowly, Buck turned around to follow Eddie feeling like this was Eddie’s way of coping with denial.

“Christopher?” Eddie called again, and like music to your ears, you heard the little boy shout for his dad.

The woman was carrying Christopher the entire time, bringing him to safety. Tears exploding out of your eyes once you realized what was going on and you stole a glance at Buck. Buck looked elated, like he was about to cry from relief as well. Christopher was alive and in Eddie’s arms, and there was no greater feeling than that.

“Buck, what happened to you?”

Suddenly, the fire crew of Station 118 popped into view. You didn’t know them personally, but you could venture a guess who from all the stories Christopher was told you during his visits to your little office at the school.

Captain Bobby Nash stood in front of the two of you, and he looked deeply concerned. He looked back and forth from you to Buck before asking, “Are you two okay?”

However, your exhaustion was caving in, along with Buck’s. The two of you practically collapsed to the floor and the fire family scrambled to hold onto both of you. That was the last thing you remembered, passing out next to Buck in the arms of his old crew.

It took a while, but the city was in clean up mode. You and Buck had a nice, extended stay at the hospital, hooked up to fluids and oxygen before given a clean bill of health. You were discharged first, since Buck had some lacerations that needed stitching up but the two of you texted nonstop while he regained his strength.

You went back to your job as the nurse at the elementary school, although you also became sort of a guidance counselor to the kids. Turns out, when you were checking for lice or fevers, they needed someone to talk to and you could just relate to them in a way. You were a familiar face in all the chaos, someone they needed to hold onto in order to make sense of things.

Christopher’s appointments never stopped either. In fact, they seemed to be increasing, only because Christopher wanted to talk to you and hang out with you.

“Honestly Eddie, he’s doing fine,” you spoke to Eddie on the phone about his son. You were sitting at your desk, making your daily calls to parents and Eddie Diaz was no stranger to the phone calls. “He’s in good spirits. Nothing is wrong with him, he’s pretty perfect.”

“You know, I never got to thank you,” Eddie’s voice crackled in your ear, “for what you did. Christopher told me how you and Buck saved him, and you have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

The two of you hung up, although there was promises of talking tomorrow. Talking to Eddie was a recurring thing in your life at this point, and you could use the stability.

“Knock knock,” a head peeked into your office, “these came for you.”

The secretary opened your door and placed a bouquet of colorful roses on you desk. There was a white card attached, looking strikingly clean in the middle of the rainbow of flowers.

You pulled off the card and it only said two words.

Come Outside.

Curiously, you stood up and grabbed your stethoscope, draping it around your neck. You never went anywhere without it now, and you weren’t sure what kind of situation you were getting yourself into. You rounded a corner and pushed open the heavy steel door that led to the front of the school. There, standing in all his glory, was Evan Buckley with the most beautiful smile you had ever seen.

“Thank you very much for the flowers,” you said as you smiled at him in return. “Why didn’t you tell me you were out of the hospital. I would’ve sent you some breakfast or something.”

“That’s part of the surprise. So, surprise!” Buck said happily as he approached you.

You just smiled at him, letting his arms snake around your waist as he hugged you tightly. Your arms draped around his neck and it felt so good. It felt familiar.

As you pulled away, you were greeted with something else. Buck, with no hesitation whatsoever, leaned in and captured your lips in a sudden and welcomed kiss. It was all you wanted, all you were waiting for, and you let yourself melt into his arms as he kissed you with such force and determination, you knew you would be a puddle of goo by the end of it.

“Let me take you out on a date,” Buck whispered against your lips, his lips brushing over yours with each and every word, “a real one this time. Just me and you.”

Your heart felt like it would leap out of your chest and you couldn’t manage to bring any words out. Instead, you nodded as you leaned in to kiss him again.

This was all you wanted. You’ve never been happier. You finally had the moment you wanted with Buck and now, a date on the horizon. With your luck, it would be the first of many, you were sure of it. There was no way you were going to let this man go, ever.

#Buck #evan buckley #buck x reader #buck x you #evan buckley x reader #evan buckley x you #oliver stark #9-1-1 #9-1-1 on fox #9-1-1 fic

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dungeonaspects · 3 years

Text

Campaign Idea: The Heart of The Forest

"The lifeblood of the world has been drained to its last drops, once the heart fails, so do we."

The History

The heart of the forest was a secret for eons, the paths obscured by the will of nature. Within ancient texts and hidden murals the secrets of the heart can be discovered, its powers laid bare only to those that truly searched for answers.

From the heart the cure for all diseases and ailments can be found, age can be reversed, limbs regrown, lives saved. Many perished searching the world for the heart, even more gave it up as a fairytale. Yet one group succeeded, led by a great archdruid.

An avatar of a god had been struck down by a blight that ate away at their divinity, to maintain balance in the world the adventuring party persuaded the archdruid to guide them to the heart. It took many months and many trials to find, the twisting trails of the forest arduous even for the ally of nature.

The hearts guardian would not let them pass, so the party let their desperation take hold. They murdered the guardian, like a common animal. The druid was enraged yet the paladin struck them down, refusing to let their deity die over some beast.

And so the party cut into the heart, taking the oozing blood and feeding it to the god who convulsed before the blight receded, their grandeur returning. The god was grateful to the adventurers, granting each a wish within their power, one was wealth, another a weapon of great power, the third a guarantee from the god that when they die they will come to the gods realm, and curiously the last.

The final wish was for the party to leave the forest safely, recognising that without the druid they would likely die in the twisting forest. The god smiled and exerted their will, straightening the fractured paths and hidden trails. A single road led out the forest, perhaps a three day travel.

With that the god left, the party was met back home with a heroes welcome and accolades. They are now a story passed down in generations, the saviours of the gods.

The Hook

What happened next was where things took a turn. The god thought little of their actions, so grateful to be alive that the simple act of letting their protectors get home was without question.

Yet without realising they had broken an enchantment that nature itself had wrought, a protective defence around the very heart of life. The heart sat open to the world, a road now cutting through its maze-like home where any could wander through.

And so people did, some looking for the secret elixir to save their loved ones from death, others looking to save themselves. But then there were those that sought to make coin. Once a merchant company caught wind that the elixir was real they sent a convoy to the heart, the owner beseeching the king to sell them the "useless land" that was the obscure and impassable forest. The king sold it to the merchant company for only one-hundred gold.

The company threw out the commoners that had begun to settle there, before long palisades and guard posts were built around a huge complex that began to envelop the heart. From here the merchant company could bottle and sell the blood of life.

Sold for excesses of ten's of thousands of gold the company built a fortress around the heart, one so well fortified and manned that even the surrounding kingdoms feared the formidable force. It has been almost two centuries since it was first built, the same merchant leader standing atop a monopolised supply of eternal youth, selling it to the opulent to live forever as young and healthy.

However the price had just jumped to two-hundred thousand gold for a single mouthful, the rich elite now struggling to get their hands on the life-giving elixir. And what's worse, the regular users who cannot get their hands on the elixir have begun to age quickly and... mutate. Their hands ending in claws, their hair being replaced with black oozing vines.

But the true kick in the teeth for the kingdoms instead of the kings and queens are that the lands are dying, forests are blighted, crops are failing, even the bounty of the sea is dwindling. The heart of nature may be enduring its last fluttering beats, and the rich simply wish to squeeze the last few drops from it.

Some Ideas

While this is uncomfortably topical I do feel like it could be a good basis for a campaign. You must fight back the figurative (and maybe literal) corruption found within the land to give life to the source of life itself. Will you see the worsening world devolve into chaos as the rich (and often those in charge) fall to madness, could the earth turn to dust?

In terms of motivation players have a few different routes, the selfless:

"I wish to save the world and make it whole again"

The atonement:

"My god/family caused this, I must fix it"

The need:

"My (family member) is dying, and getting hold of that elixir is their only hope"

The selfish:

"That elixir can line my pocket, it can't do that if it's run out"

Or it can be a mixture of the above, someone employed by the merchant company to fix the problem, promising them an endless supply for their dying mother and riches if they resolve the issue. And of course I'd love to hear about different motivations you can think of, these are just a few off the top of my head.

As for how you resolve the issue that's up to you, there's always the mcguffin idea, an artefact that can heal it. But I like the idea that the heart needs straight up power to repair, and the lives of the sentient races are drops in the ocean, it would need a god. The party will need to convince a god to die to save the world.

This can go as smoothly or as rough as you like, you must complete some tasks for the god to "tie up some loose ends", or you need to overpower the god then drag their avatar to the heart and sacrifice them to it. A bit hardcore but will certainly make the players question how right it is to take a life (especially one that could be a good aligned god) to save the world.

We may all know the pragmatic answer but a divine being bound in golden rope, kneeling next to the drained pond below the mutilated heart, and one of you needs to kill the weeping deity, that's gonna be a gutpunch.

I would talk with your players about how dark you want it to go, since this can go in a rough direction. If everyone wants to participate this can be an intense emotional rollercoaster, just make sure in session 0 you know what may make everyone uncomfortable.

Art by Jakob Eirich

Words can't really describe how I feel about this picture, there's something ancient and foreboding about it, but I get this feeling of peace looking at it. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel, but damn do I like it. Thank you

#d&d #dnd stuff #dungeons and dragons #tabletop #rpg #Plot hook #Hook #Quest #campaign idea #campaign design #Lore #deity #gods #nature #corruption #blight #conflict

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Note

Hey there! You mentioned in the tags of the pining post that you wanted to write a lil som-n som-n~~ Prompt of Jaskier and Geralt, number 36? (If you want of course!)

36: Characters are tied together/shackled/forced to share a small space for a long period of time

I absolutely want to write that! Thank you so much for the prompt!

Ah, so this somehow got less pining-y and more angsty? Like, seriously angsty. As in, almost mcd angsty. I hope that’s okay tho

Word count: ~7k

Note: I will post this (and the other prompted fics) on AO3 once I have time to do some editing. But that’s going to take a couple of days

Summary: Jaskier wakes up tied back to back with Geralt. That wouldn’t be so bad. It happened before. But this is the time there is no hope of escape. And they’re running out of time before the vampire who is out for blood them will come back.

Content warning: injury, blood (both explicitly described), heavy angst, gruesomeness (no major character death)

"Jaskier?"

The voice came to him as if through a thick fog. His head was buzzing and it felt like tiny hammers were pounding against his temples from the inside. Simultaneously, the voice coming from somewhere behind him, urgent and almost afraid was too loud.

Jaskier tried to lean away, to put distance between himself and the voice, but all that did was send a strain through his chest, where something – a thin rope that kept him sitting upright? Binding him to something behind him? – cut into him with the movement, tight enough that it was hard to breathe.

"Jaskier! Are you awake?"

That voice was familiar. It was safe. Geralt. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut tightly and shook his head, trying desperately to get that fog in his mind to go away.

" 'm fine," he groaned and blinked against the dark splotches in front of him until they slowly receded. Not that that did him much good. He didn’t recognise the room they were in. The fancy furniture certainly didn’t belong to a room at an inn. The bed that stood at the wall was lavish and fit for a lord. Jaskier was rather certain that he would remember such a bed if he had seen it before. "On second thought, I might be having a problem."

Geralt huffed out a humourless laugh. "No shit." He sounded strained. As if he was trying his best and still failing miserable to keep fear out of his voice. Why was Geralt afraid? Geralt was never afraid.

Jaskier tried to move again, to turn to Geralt, but once again the ropes prevented him.

“Stop moving,” Geralt growled and only now did Jaskier recognise what he was leaning against. He was sitting – or rather bound– back to back with Geralt. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together tightly in frustration and looked down on himself. Sure enough, the ropes didn’t seem as if they would come loose by him wiggling around. He furrowed his brows when he saw something dark and crusty on his doublet. He had seen something like this too often to mistake it for anything else. It was dried blood. His blood.

His stomach churned and he had to suck in a deep breath to stop the bile from rising. It was a shame too. He had loved this deep blue doublet. Which was mostly because even Geralt had seemed to like it. The image of Jaskier presenting two doublets to him and Geralt telling him with a strangely fond look that the blue one fit his eyes would forever be seared into his mind. He could smell on himself that he had donned his favourite perfume – his favourite because it was the one Geralt had complimented once – thinking that maybe just this one time Geralt would notice him in the way he wanted to be noticed. As something more than just the bard that followed him like a stupidly loyal puppy. He remembered how excited he had gotten after that, knowing that Geralt would think he looked pretty when they got to the ball.

Wait.

The ball?

He squinted and searched the room again. It was true, the fancy decoration did look like it would belong to people rich enough to throw a ball. But that didn’t explain why Jaskier and Geralt were tied together and apparently left to rot in a different room from the jovialities. It also didn’t explain why Geralt had even gone to a ball without complaining in the first place.

Jaskier swallowed thickly. He opened his mouth but closed it again fruitlessly, when too many questions stormed his mind – far too many to decide with which one to begin.

In the ensuing silence, muffled laughter reached him through the walls. Laughter and music.

Strangely enough, the thought that shot through Jaskier at the sound was That should have been me.

And that had been Jaskier, he was sure of it. As he listened to the music rise and fall as if accompanying a complicated dance, his fingers twitched as if finding the chords to the sing without having the lute in hand.

There was no doubt in his mind. He knew and had played this song. He could almost see it: The ballroom full of dancing couples, admiring looks and the feeling that maybe later when Jaskier could excuse himself for a while, he would be able to gather the courage to ask Geralt for a dance.

But Geralt’s golden eyes hadn’t been part of the crowd of people watching him in admiration. A sinking disappointment came back, more memory than real emotion. He felt his heart drop as he remembered Geralt turning away and leaving him almost as soon as they had entered the ball room. The last glimpse Jaskier had caught of him had been his face set in a deep scowl and his shoulders had been tense.

And suddenly Jaskier knew which question was the most important one.

“Did you come back for me?”

“Jaskier-“ Geralt sounded strangely strangled.

“Did you? Or are you here with me now because you were forced to be with me? Is it somehow my fault again that we are in danger?”

Geralt remained quiet for a long time. Jaskier was almost certain that he would remain silent, when he felt Geralt shift behind him.

“I did come for you. Just not in time. I – I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

His voice was almost broken and Jaskier was sure that if he had been able to look him in the eye, Geralt would have averted his gaze. Bound as they were, Jaskier could do nothing but press his back closer against Geralt, by however little that was possible and pray that the feeling of Jaskier’s heartbeat against Geralt was enough to remind him that Jaskier was still alive – they both were – and Jaskier didn’t blame him.

Now that he thought of it, Jaskier remembered distinctly how he had seen a head of white hair weaving its way through the crowd towards him.

For a moment his head sped up, before he remembered the eyes of the person that had come towards them. They hadn’t been the honey-gold he had hoped for.

But they had been unusual enough to make it impossible for Jaskier to look away. To make him think that for a little while he could pretend. And those eyes had looked at him almost hungrily. It had sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. He had relished in the attention and obvious interest.

It hadn’t been what – who – he had wanted. But it had been the closest thing he would ever get.

When finally the time had come for Jaskier to take his break, he hadn’t searched for Geralt to ask him for a dance after all.

He didn’t remember if he had been the one to approach the alluring white-haired stranger first of if he had been the one to be approached. It didn’t matter. He clearly recalled following the man willingly – no. That wasn’t quite the right word. Will had had nothing to do with it. He had wanted it, certainly, but thinking back on it now, Jaskier didn’t think he would have been able to leave this man, no matter how strong his will.

But who was he kidding? He wouldn’t have tried to leave anyway. Not when he had looked at Jaskier in the way he had longed for. Not when he had looked so much like the man he wanted to look at him in that way.

He remembered wanting whatever the stranger was willing to give him.

And then he remembered screaming. For Geralt. But not in pleasure. No, that had been the farthest thing from his mind. He had screamed and whimpered and begged in agony. A sudden, sharp, searing pain in his neck.

Now, that pain was little more than an irritated throbbing over his pulse-point.

He didn’t even notice that he let out a soft whimper as the memories of the stinging in his neck came back to him, but he felt Geralt tense and twist as if that he would be able to look at him.

“Jaskier?” Geralt grunted in frustration and flexed as if that could loosen the ropes. It must hurt him. The ropes must cut into him just as much as they did into Jaskier. And yet he didn’t stop, as if in this moment nothing was as important to Geralt than being able to see him. “Jaskier, what is wrong?”

Jaskier let out a dry laugh. “Do you want a list?”

There were too many things that were wrong, Jaskier was sure he didn’t even recall all of them, but at the very least he was here with Geralt.

He didn’t know if that made it better or worse. He didn’t want to be alone. Whatever was going on, Geralt’s presence at his back, his touch although involuntary, made it so much more bearable. But Geralt evidently wasn’t able to escape the bindings. He too was forced to sit on the cold floor and wait for whatever was about to happen. Maybe nothing would happen at all. Maybe they were to stay here until they died of thirst, forgotten by whoever had discarded them in this room.

It was simultaneously the worst and best thing, having Geralt here with him.

Geralt, who was still struggling to turn towards Jaskier.

And he wanted it too. More than anything did he want to be able to touch Geralt, to cup his cheek as he reassured him that he was alright. He wanted to see Geralt’s eyes.

He turned his head and sucked in a sharp breath. The wound on his neck had opened up again at the movement and Jaskier could feel a drop of warm blood trickle down his throat.

Geralt’s movements became even more urgent. It was only when they became harsh enough to jostle Jaskier about and making him cry out, that Geralt became deathly still, as if afraid to move even a single muscle.

“Don’t move, Jaskier. Don’t – I can’t risk you losing any more blood.”

“Don’t you mean I can’t risk it?” Jaskier teased, though his stomach twisted into knots at Geralt’s slip of the tongue.

Geralt remained silent for a long while. His reply was but a breath, so quiet that Jaskier wasn’t even sure if he had really heard it or if it was just his panicking mind hearing what it wanted.

“I can’t lose you, Jask.”

Jaskier’s breath got stuck in his throat. He wanted to say so many things. He wanted to reassure Geralt that he wouldn’t lose him, that he would stay with him till the end – which might be nearer than he had imagined. He wanted to ask him what he had meant. He wanted to beg him to tell him that it meant more than just Geralt feeling guilty for Jaskier’s injury.

But no words left his lips. Instead he complied and stilled. He rested his head back against Geralt’s, relished in that contact as if it was something more intimate. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that the way their bodies were pressed together was because Geralt wanted it and not because they had no other choice than to stay like this.

Geralt didn’t move his head away. If anything, it almost seemed as if he was leaning into the contact as well.

It was most likely just wishful thinking, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Jaskier wished he too could hear Geralt’s heartbeat. As it were, he barely could hear his breathing. He knew it was there, but his own ragged breath and his own racing heart was too loud in his ears.

Geralt’s touch wasn’t enough. For years it had been what Jaskier had craved. Every evening, he had wished to be brave enough to breach the gap between their bodies as they shared a bed and press himself against Geralt. Every time Geralt was hurt by monsters or words, Jaskier had to remind himself not to let his comforting embraces linger and turn them into something unwanted. He had dreamed about Geralt not shying away from his touch.

Yet now that he had nothing but his touch, it was too little. His chest was aching with the need to see him; the small crease between his brows as he frowned, the slight upturn of his lips when Jaskier said something that Geralt wouldn’t admit out loud he found funny, the way his eyes would sometimes soften when their gazes met while Jaskier played slow songs by the camp fire.

He needed to see him and yet he couldn’t.

Jaskier had learned to love Geralt’s silences. There was a grace in his ability to move unheard and a beauty in the way he only spoke when he felt comfortable enough to do so. Jaskier had relished in the trust Geralt would show when he opened up and let Jaskier in.

But now he wasn’t comfortable and Jaskier had nothing. Nothing but his touch that was burning him and still could never be enough. He needed more, more proof that Geralt was still here, that Jaskier wasn’t alone in this, that Geralt was alright. He needed to hear him. Be it a rustling of his clothes or one of his grunts.

Jaskier’s tongue darted out as his mind raced, trying to come up with something that would get Geralt to talk.

“You know,” he began slowly. “I am surprised that I even have any blood in me at all. That man…he was a vampire, wasn’t he?”

Geralt grunted in affirmation. Jaskier’s heart skipped at the beat and he held his breath, praying for something more.

Through some miracle, his wish was granted. But when Geralt spoke up again, his words were harsh and angry.

“Congrats on figuring it out,” he almost spat. “After you already let yourself be lured away by him. I told you to stay with the crowd. I told you not to follow me while I searched for the vampire.”

“I didn’t follow you,” Jaskier threw in meekly.

It evidently was the wrong thing to say, for Geralt let out a frustrated grunt.

“No you didn’t. Instead you followed the vampire. Why? Is it really so easy for everyone else to make you want them?” The angry words contradicted his earlier apologetic whispers, though the frustration in his voice stayed the same. Somehow Jaskier didn’t think it was directed towards him. “How could you not notice his eyes? They were gleaming as it got darker. He looked like a freak, he- “ Geralt’s voice broke off.

“He looked like you.” The words slipped past Jaskier’s lips before he had time to realise what they implied.

Behind him, Geralt froze. Jaskier could feel his muscles tense against his back and he knew if Geralt had been able to, he would have put distance between them.

“No, Geralt, that’s not – you know that’s not what I meant. You aren’t a freak. You are my friend. And I –“

“And you are in danger because of me.” He let out a frustrated grunt.

Jaskier huffed. “Really, Geralt? Are we doing this now?”

“Might not get any other chances.” Geralt sounded grim, all fight leaving him. “They are going to come back and finish what they started. And I can’t protect you. I couldn’t before and I sure as hell can’t now.”

“But you did protect me, didn’t you?”

Jaskier’s insides were cold and he knew Geralt must sense his quickly rising fear. Years ago, Jaskier would have said that Geralt was just being dramatic. That there was no way he wouldn’t be able to get them out of this situation alive. But a lot had happened since then. Too many times had Jaskier seen Geralt lying in a puddle of his own blood and on the brink of death. If Geralt said that they would die today…Jaskier trusted him. He trusted Geralt’s skill with a sword. But he also trusted his words.

At least they would be going together.

He closed his eyes, focussing fully on the feeling of Geralt leaning against him. He turned his head, not enough to tear the wound open once more, but just enough that Geralt would be able to feel the motion, that he would know that Jaskier wanted to look at him.

“I’m not dead.” Jaskier forced a cheer that he didn’t feel into his voice. The least he could do was make sure that Geralt wasn’t eaten up by guilt about this. Whichever way this ended, it wasn’t Geralt’s fault. “Granted, this situation isn’t ideal, but I am still alive and able to talk your ear off. So obviously you must have saved me.”

“I didn’t,” came Geralt’s harsh reply, almost like a bark. “I couldn’t. You are not safe.”

If Jaskier had been able to move, he would have put his hands on his hips. If Geralt had been able to see his expression, he would have made a grimace that made it clear what exactly Jaskier thought about Geralt’s self-deprecation

But he couldn’t. So he settled on putting as much challenge into his voice as he could.

“Oh yeah? Then why did the vampire leave? Because I very much remember being sucked dry by one – and not in the fun kind of way.”

Geralt let out an unamused laugh. “He said he left because your perfume was too bad.”

Jaskier really wished he could see Geralt’s face right now. He wished he could see his smile, even though he knew it wouldn’t be there. In any other situation, Geralt would wear a grin as he teased Jaskier about his perfume. Now though, Jaskier was almost certain that he scowled even as he told the joke.

Jaskier’s fingers itched to smooth out the crease of worry that was no doubt etched onto Geralt’s face.

“Oh haha, very funny,” he said instead, trying to put as much teasing into his voice as possible, a vain attempt to get Geralt to smile even now. “Come on. If this is as dramatic a situation as you believe, you could at least humour me. One last story to tell me. So, why am I not dead?”

“Because this vampire is a sick bastard,” Geralt bit out. “Likes to play with his prey.”

“Play?” Jaskier’s voice was squeakier than he would ever admit should anyone ask. If he even lived to tell the tale, that was.

Geralt hummed. “He likes his prey to be awake. So he can hear the screams and pleas.”

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Jaskier’s neck and he did all he could not to shiver at Geralt’s words.

“Alright,” he said, chipped. “So that explains why I’m alive. But what about you? Why didn’t he kill you? Not that I’m not very grateful that you’re alive, of course.”

Geralt hesitated and Jaskier could practically hear him think. When Geralt finally answered, his words sounded almost like a confession.

“Like I said.” Geralt squirmed; another useless attempt to free himself. “They want to see their prey desperate and begging.”

A snort escaped Jaskier that quickly turned into laughter. It was fuelled by panic and was bordering on hysteric, but it felt freeing to laugh nonetheless. Geralt didn’t join in.

“Why on earth would you beg? Remember Dol Blathanna? This is just like it was back then. It ends the same way it began. It’s almost-“

“If you say poetic, I will beg that vampire to kill me first just so that I don’t have to listen to you talk about making this into a song.”

“You wound me, Geralt. But this is exactly what I am talking about. Back then, you practically did the opposite of begging, what with your whole noble sacrifice act.” When Geralt didn’t reply, Jaskier tried to nudge him with his elbow. It didn’t work. “Come on, Geralt. Even you must admit that it’s hilarious that this vampire really thinks you would beg for anything.”

Geralt remained stoically quiet. There was a strange tension in his silence that froze Jaskier’s grin and made his chest squeeze painfully.

“Geralt –“ he began, but was interrupted by the doors flying open.

Without thinking, he turned his head to see what was happening. It stung and he pressed his lips into a thin line, but he barely registered the pain. There was no space for such a trivial thing when cold terror filled him instead at the sight of the white haired man striding into the room with an air of complete confidence.

Though man was hardly a fitting description anymore. Where he had possessed an almost ethereal beauty before, he was now grotesque. The hunger in his eyes had turned into starvation. His smile that had been charming before was too wide and filled with too many teeth. His fingers were more reminiscent of claws than human hands.

Everything about him screamed predator. Death.

He walked towards them in graceful, measured steps as if he had all the time in the world. He moved with the superiority that only came from nobility or a hunter that knew his prey was lying helplessly by his feet with no hope for escape.

A low growl rose in Geralt’s chest and Jaskier could feel the rumble in his back. It did nothing to soothe him.

They all knew that this was it.

Jaskier was staring death in the eyes when his entire being longed to see another pair of eyes instead. Maybe that was the worst part. Jaskier had never put much thought into his own death. But he had always hoped that in his last moments he would be able to look into Geralt’s eyes, maybe even see some hint of affection in them.

Now, he had not even this.

“Geralt,” he whispered. From the way the vampire’s eyes lit up in delight, it had been a pitiful attempt at keeping his desperation hidden from him. It wasn’t important. All that mattered was that Geralt heard him.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt answered, equally quiet, a bittersweet pretence that their would-be murderer didn’t hear every word. “I’m sorry, Jask.”

“I’m not.” Jaskier’s heart was pounding in terror and his palms were damp with sweat, but of this, he was certain. “I’m not sorry that I am here with you. I would follow you everywhere.”

Geralt didn’t answer, but he twisted in their restraints until Jaskier could feel callused fingers touch his hands. The ankle was uncomfortable, but Jaskier clutched Geralt’s hand with all his mind. Geralt gave him a light squeeze that said more than any amount of words could.

For an insane yet peaceful moment, Jaskier thought that maybe this wasn’t so bad. There were worse things than dying with Geralt holding his hand.

“How adorable,” the vampire drawled as he took in their linked fingers with a mocking half-smile. “You two are disgustingly sweet. It’s almost ruining my appetite. Do you have any sappy last words too?”

Jaskier did. There were things he had never told Geralt, that he needed him to know. But he would rather die silent than let this vampire witness him baring his soul.

Instead he ran a thumb clumsily over Geralt’s knuckles, praying that he understood everything that Jaskier didn’t dare put into words.

“No?” The vampire looked almost disappointed. “I would have expected more from you, bard.”

“What can I say?” Jaskier gave him a falsely sweet smile. “I live to disappoint. And I can’t say you weren’t disappointing either.”

The vampire’s face twisted into something ugly and within the blink of an eye he had crossed the room. Jaskier flinched back as the vampire crouched down before him and caressed his face with a mockery of tenderness.

“Oh, quite the contrary, my dear Jaskier,” he said, honey in his voice but his eyes filled with ice. “You could never disappoint. Not when you beg so beautifully.” His fingers left Jaskier’s cheek to trail down to his neck, as softly as a lover would. A whimper escaped Jaskier when the vampire’s fingers caressed the wound his teeth had torn into him before. The vampire looked at it almost in admiration. “Do you remember how you screamed? How you begged your witcher to come save you?” He got closer, until his too sharp teeth were right next to Jaskier’s ears. “I want to hear you scream again.”

Teeth sank into his flesh, tearing him open. Obscene slurping noises and moans filled the air as the vampire drank Jaskier’s blood.

It was an utterly inappropriate thought, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Jaskier remembered the romance novels he had read when he was younger, about how sensual it felt to have a vampire drink from someone. About how they had special venom that numbed the pain.

What a load of bullshit. There was nothing sensual about this and the vampire dragged his teeth through Jaskier’s flesh as if he wanted to make this as painful as possible. If that was his goal, he was succeeding.

Hot fire raced through Jaskier’s blood and he could feel the tips of his fingers begin to tingle and the dark spots from before crept back into his vision.

He was beginning to lose all feeling in his hand and somehow, despite the pain, the fear, the certainty of his impending death, that was the worst part. That soon he wouldn’t be able to feel Geralt’s hand in his.

It hurt. Fuck, it hurt so much, but Jaskier pressed his lips together as tightly as he could, refusing to let a single cry leave him. He wasn’t a brave man and he wasn’t heroic. But he wouldn’t let Geralt hear his screams as he died. He couldn’t do that to him.

And yet, there were screams.

It took Jaskier’s sluggish mind a moment to realise that those weren’t his own screams. They were Geralt’s. For a moment, he almost thought they were but memories of Dol Blathanna, but no. Back then, Geralt had told the elves to leave Jaskier alone with no feeling other than responsibility and guilt.

Now, his voice was laden with fear and unbridled desperation.

The words he screamed didn’t make sense to Jaskier, but he knew the emotion behind them. It was the same thing he had felt every time he had seen a monster charge at Geralt or when he had been forced to press his hands against a wound in Geralt’s stomach, pleading with him to stay with him.

There was a word for it. Jaskier was sure of that. But he couldn’t for the life of him think of it now. Everything was too muddled, burning too hotly, agonizingly.

And then the vampire drew back. A sharp gasp escaped Jaskier and he would have fallen forward, had he not been held upwards by the ropes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt asked, panic surging through his voice.

“Still alive,” Jaskier panted with a crooked smile, though he knew that Geralt wasn’t able to see it. Perhaps he could hear it in his voice. “And by the looks of our new friend, my blood doesn’t taste too good.”

The vampire bared his fangs at Jaskier’s words.

“Oh, don’t you worry, pretty one.” The vampire’s tongue darted out to lick a stray droplet of blood from his lips. “You taste delicious.”

“Thank goodness,” Jaskier deadpanned through clenched teeth. “Why don’t you drink some more then? Maybe you’ll choke on it.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt warned him harshly.

The vampire’s smile widened. He ran a hand through Jaskier’s hair, almost soothingly, before he gripped his hair tightly and yanked his head to the side.

Jaskier braced himself for the sharp pain to pierce through him again, but instead of biting into him, the vampire took a long sniff at his neck before drawing back in disgust.

“You would be truly perfect, my dear,” he said coldly, “if it weren’t for that disgusting smell. I can barely scent your blood through it.”

Jaskier blinked at him. “Really? You’re about to kill me and you complain about my perfume? Pardon me for not exactly being sympathetic towards your great woes right now.”

“No matter,” the vampire said, ignoring Jaskier’s words completely, “doesn’t change a thing about the taste.”

The vampire opened his mouth once more and Jaskier could already feel the teeth gracing his skin, when Geralt jostled him to the side.

“Spare him,” he growled and there was something broken about his voice. “Don’t kill him.”

The vampire tsked in disapproval. “Now, you know I won’t do that. Why don’t you try again, come up with a better suggestion?”

Glee stood in his eyes. Every sign of him enjoying this torture made nausea rise in Jaskier’s throat.

“Then kill me first.”

“No! Geralt, don’t say something like that!” Jaskier twisted his head. The movement sent piercing agony through his neck, but he fought back against it. He needed to see Geralt. He clutched his hand as tightly as he could, as if that could somehow dissuade Geralt from this madness. Quieter, barely louder than a breath, Jaskier added, “Don’t make me listen to you die.”

“Oh, now it’s getting interesting.” The vampire tilted his head to the side, his eyes darting from Jaskier’s wide-eyed expression to Geralt who must look as stoic and undeterrable as ever. “The both of you, begging for each other’s life. The question is only, who is begging more beautifully?”

“He’s a bard,” Geralt spat. “If it’s words you want, he has more of them than I do. And look at him.” Geralt’s head jerked back, nodding towards Jaskier. “He’s not going to make it long is he? I am a witcher. You can drink from me for longer.”

The vampire let out an appreciative hum. “You would do that to the bard? You would prolong his suffering and listen as I drained you for hours?”

Geralt hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was so unexpectedly soft that it made Jaskier gasp.

“I am sorry. I promised to keep you safe. This is the best I can do.”

“It’s not enough.” The vampire taunted, but his words were dripping with truth. “You will both die. But before he does, I will make him look at you, see how loud he can scream when he sees what I’ll have left of you.”

Jaskier whimpered, a plea leaving his lips and he squeezed his eyes shut. It didn’t stop the images of Geralt’s lifeless body from assaulting his mind.

“I’ll hate you,” Jaskier whispered. “Geralt, if you make me go through this, I will hate you. I’ll never forgive you.”

A harsh breath escaped Geralt and this thumb brushed oh so tenderly over Jaskier’s knuckles.

“I’d rather you hate me than me having to live knowing that I could have saved you.”

Jaskier wanted to shake his head, to protest, but the vampire’s grip was still tightly holding him in place. Jaskier’s eyes burned and his throat was impossibly tight. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his chin, his neck and he could feel them mixing with his blood.

“I can’t,” he sobbed. He hadn’t wanted to say this. Not like this, not in front of their murderer who watched the exchange hungrily. But he couldn’t stop himself. He needed Geralt to know. “I can’t hate you. I- Geralt, I love you.”

Geralt let out a strangled noise, before he found his voice. “Then let me do this.”

Jaskier’s shoulders wrecked with his sobs, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak up again. He had said everything he could say. Now the only thing he could do was let Geralt be the hero Jaskier had always known him to be one last time.

Jaskier’s silence must have been answer enough for the vampire. Ever so slowly, the grip in Jaskier’s hair loosened and the vampire stood to his full height.

“Don’t worry,” the vampire told Jaskier as if he was a parent calming their child. “I will make it slow. You will have your beloved by your side for as long as possible. And it won’t take you long to follow after him.”

Relishing in every second of Jaskier’s agony, the vampire slowly rounded him until he came to a halt before Geralt.

Geralt didn’t scream, didn’t even draw in a sharp breath, as if he didn’t want Jaskier to hear what was happening.

It was in vain.

There was no mistaking the stomach-churning squelch of the vampire biting into flesh.

It was the most horrible sound Jaskier had ever heard. He couldn’t listen. He needed to drown out those sounds. Words tumbled from Jaskier’s lips. Pleas, screams, whispered words he was desperate for Geralt to hear.

If Geralt were to die now, the last thing he ever heard shouldn’t be Jaskier’s cries. It should be reassurances of how he couldn’t have done anything different, of how Jaskier didn’t blame him for a single thing, of how much he was loves. That more than all else.

Jaskier had no control over his words. He couldn’t tell what else he was saying, only that time and time again, he repeated the words he had been too much of a coward to say before it had been too late.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It felt like hours. Geralt’s body was tense and Jaskier’s voice became hoarse, giving out and leaving nothing but the horrible sounds of the vampire killing Geralt.

But nothing was as terrifying as when the sound of the vampire devouring Geralt suddenly stopped.

Jaskier’s blood turned to ice and claws of despair plunged into his chest.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered into the silence. There was no reply. A pit opened up in Jaskier’s chest. He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg, but all of his words had dried up. What use were words anyway? They hadn’t been able to save Geralt and now that he was gone, there would be no one to listen to them other than the reason why Geralt would never again say another word.

The vampire must have held Geralt up, for when Jaskier now heard the rustling of clothes as the vampire stood up again, Geralt slumped over and dragged Jaskier with him to the ground.

Jaskier’s side hit the floor painfully, but he was too numb to care.

He looked up with all the contempt he could muster as the vampire came into his view again. But there was something off about the way he moved. He had been slow before, but there had been a regal elegance to it, perfectly controlled. Now his movements were sluggish and almost wooden.

He didn’t crouch before Jaskier as he had before. Instead he fell to his knees.

“It’s your turn again,” the vampire purred – no, slurred.

Jaskier’s brows drew together and he narrowed his eyes. They widened again when they landed on the blood that was smeared around the vampire’s mouth. It was black.

The same colour of Geralt’s blood after he had drank his potions. The potions that were toxic to anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

But why – the vampire should have been able to smell it. He would have never drunken poisoned blood. Except…he hadn’t been able to smell the blood, had he? He had said so himself. The perfume had been too strong, strong enough to even overpower the smell of the toxins.

A disbelieving laugh escaped Jaskier. The vampire whirled around as if to fix Jaskier with a death-glare, but his eyes were unfocussed. He bared his teeth and surged towards Jaskier.

He didn’t reach him alive.

With a heavy thud, the body landed on Jaskier, unmoving. Dead.

For a terrifying moment, Jaskier didn’t dare move. The only sound in the room was his own panting breath. The noises of the ball had long since subsided.

He was alone.

The knowledge sank into his chest like a stone dropped into the ocean. He was alone. Geralt had saved him – had given his life to save him – and now he’d have to save himself.

With more strength than he thought he still possessed, Jaskier twisted in his bindings, kicking at the vampire’s body until it moved.

Bile rose in his throat when his free hand found the vampire’s head and pried his mouth open. He fumbled and he cut himself on the teeth, but he persisted, yanking the rope as good as he could against the sharp teeth until finally, they snapped.

Jaskier rolled to the side, panting heavily, as his chest finally was no longer restricted.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he counted his own heartbeats.

Ten. Ten heartbeats he allowed himself, before he clenched his jaw and faced Geralt’s body.

Tears stung in his eyes and his face was contorted to a grimace of grief and pain as he grabbed Geralt’s heavy body and rolled him onto his back.

He wouldn’t be able to get him out of here. Even if Jaskier had normally been strong enough to carry him, there was no way, he would be able to do so now, with his vision swimming at the tiniest of exertions.

Still, his insides twisted painfully at even the idea of leaving Geralt all alone here lying next to the man – the monster - who had killed him.

Jaskier’s eyes darted frantically through the room before they landed on the bed. It wasn’t what Geralt would have wanted and it was worse than he deserved, but it was the best Jaskier could do.

Jaskier’s hands shook, as he grabbed Geralt beneath his arms and tried to hoist him up. As he more dragged than carried Geralt to the bed, his knees gave out under him more than once and he had to furiously blink away the darkness that threatened to swallow him once more.

When he finally heaved Geralt onto the bed, Jaskier nearly collapsed on top of him.

When he had gathered enough strength to right himself once more, he felt his heart jolt in his chest. Geralt didn’t look peaceful as he lay in a stranger’s bed. He didn’t look like he was just sleeping. Half of his neck was smeared with blood and his skin was deathly pale. Jaskier had seen him like this before, every time Geralt had taken his potions that had drained his face of all colour. But he had always known that sooner or later, Geralt would open his eyes again.

He wouldn’t ever do so again now.

For once he had gone where Jaskier couldn’t follow.

Taking a shaking breath, Jaskier reached out. His hand found the cool metal of the medallion. It felt wrong taking it from him. Geralt never took it off. Never.

But Jaskier needed to give it back to his family. They deserved to have this. And Jaskier was selfish enough that he wanted to keep something of Geralt’s with him too, for as long as he could.

His breath hitched. He would have to return to Roach alone. He would somehow have to make her understand that Geralt wasn’t going to come back to her.

His hand trembled and slid off the medallion, landing on Geralt’s chest, right above his heart. How often had he pressed his hand against this place and complained to Geralt that he could feel nothing? That his heart was too slow? Now, he would give everything to know that that was the reason why there was no beat beneath his hand.

After a too long moment of hopeless hope, Jaskier lifted his hand off of Geralt. It came away sticky with blood.

Jaskier worked almost mechanically. Wiping away the blood, first from his hand and then from Geralt’s neck. He used random pieces of fabric to bandage the wound as he had done so often before. He knew it was useless, it was too late, but still, there was a comfort in the familiar motions.

He didn’t know how long he worked like that. It didn’t matter. He treated Geralt’s wound as best he could until there was nothing left for him to do.

His mouth went dry, as he brushed a strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear. He was so beautiful. Jaskier wished he had had the strength to tell Geralt before it had been too late.

The certainty that this was the last time he would ever see Geralt buried itself into Jaskier’s chest like a blade.

“You did it,” he whispered, a watery smile on his lips. “You saved me.” It was already too late. Geralt couldn’t hear his words anymore, but Jaskier couldn’t leave without telling him. He owed that much to him. “I don’t care what you said before. I am alive. Because of you.” A sob interrupted his words. “I will never forget you. I promise. I love you. I-“

His voice broke one last time. Too many things had he left unsaid between them and now he would never get to say them in any way that mattered.

His fingers trailed over Geralt’s face, desperate to memorise every scar, every feature, as if those weren’t already branded into Jaskier’s mind.

His finger’s came to a halt above Geralt’s slightly parted lips. Jaskier could almost imagine a faint breath ghosting over his fingers. But that was impossible. Wishful thinking, nothing more.

Still, he let his fingers linger and leaned closer, grasping onto this last impossible hope.

And then it happened. Geralt’s lips moved. No sound left them, but Jaskier could still understand the word they formed. It was a name. His name.

“I am here!” Jaskier’s other hand cupped Geralt’s cheek. “Geralt, I’m here. I am safe. You are safe. You did it, you – you’re alive!”

“’s loud,” Geralt mumbled faintly, but his lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile. His eyes opened just the tiniest bit, but the sliver of gold they revealed was the most beautiful sight Jaskier could imagine.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice got stronger with the word, though his shallow breaths were laboured and it was obvious how much it pained him to speak.

“You bastard.” Jaskier let out a laugh that might as well have been a sob. “You made me think you were dead. Don’t ever do that to me again!”

“I won’t.” Geralt’s expression softened impossibly. “And I… I wouldn’t leave you without telling you…”

Geralt tried to lift his hand, but the effort was too much. Jaskier caught it mid-air and pressed it against his own cheek.

“What? Tell me what?” he breathed.

Geralt’s thumb caressed his cheek with aching tenderness.

“That I love you.”

Jaskier’s heart felt like it would burst, like all of the agony, all of the fear and despair had been chased away with just these four words that he had never dared to dream he would ever hear come out of Geralt’s mouth.

“Tell me again?” he asked with a shaking voice.

A glint entered Geralt’s eyes and his lips twitched slightly. “You first.”

“I love you,” Jaskier said without hesitation. “I love you. And you better not wait until the next time I think you’re dead to say it back again.”

“I won’t.” For a moment Geralt looked at him, searching his face as if Jaskier was a miracle he couldn’t figure out. “I will say it as often as you want to hear it. For however long you are willing to have me.”

“Forever?” Jaskier had aimed for a teasing tone, but instead it came out tentative and small.

He could see Geralt’s throat bob labouredly as he swallowed. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is. I never want to lose you again. I can’t.”

“Then you’ll have me forever.” He paused. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier turned his face slightly, just enough to press a fleeting kiss against Geralt’s palm, but still holding eye contact. “Yes?”

“I can’t lose you either. I love you.”

#thanks for the prompt!#so this was not supposed to be that long #i thought it was going to be less than 2k #and yet here we are #prompt #my writing #geraskier #angst #injury #blood #geraltxjaskier #witcher #witcher fic #fanfic #fic #geralt/jaskier

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tearsofgrace · 3 years

Text

written for suptober day 31: carry on

word count: 1.4k, tags: fluff, married, happy, honeymoon, comfort, safety, love, warm feelings, ocean

also on archive!

Waves crashed loudly on the shore outside. It was interesting, beautiful even, that each one sounded different. Each hit the shore in its own time before receding back to the wide expanse of the sea. But they always came back.

The smell of salt was heavy in the air and a slight breeze blew through the window, rustling the heavy cream curtains. The sun was just starting to peak over the horizon, but it hadn’t yet climbed high enough to send light cascading over their bed.

Dean kept his eyes shut. There was no reason to be awake yet. No reason to ruin this perfect peace, every muscle relaxed and breaths coming free and easy. And there was no reason to disturb his husband.

Even with his eyes closed, a soft smile slipped across his face.

Husband.

Castiel, angel of the Lord, was married to him.

It still didn’t feel real. Cas said to give it time. They’d only been married two days after all. But somehow, he didn’t think this would ever feel real. He didn’t think this bliss was allowed to be real. Because there was nothing hanging over them. Sam and Eileen were on a hunt. Jack was back at the bunker. His family was okay and so was the world.

The wedding had been beautiful. Maybe not by typical standards, but Dean had loved every second of it. They’d been in the woods out behind Donna’s cabin. Dean just wanted close friends and family. But way more people came than they had planned for. Hunters they’d helped out, even some people they’d saved. And in the end, Dean was grateful to look out at the huge crowd in the evening light and see them all smiling back at him and Cas.

He hadn’t spent long looking at them though. His eyes always found their way back to Cas. Just like they always had. But now it was okay, it was allowed.

Cas had been beautiful too. They all made fun of Dean for it, but he didn’t want to dress up all special for their wedding. It wasn’t their style. What they didn’t know is he and Cas had agreed they would get to choose each other’s outfits.

Dean chose jeans, a black v-neck, and a leather jacket. It definitely wasn’t a black tux (he’d have to get Cas into one at some point) but in the soft light of the forest with the deep green behind him, it had looked perfect.

Cas chose a simple black button down that tucked easily into a pair of tight blue jeans. Dean had tried to argue they were too tight for an occasion like this, but Cas had simply smirked and reminded him that choosing each other's outfits was his idea.

The ceremony was simple too. Just a few quick words he and Cas had prepared. Tears shed all around. Dean blushing from head to toe.

It had all been exactly what Dean wanted. And exactly what he thought he’d never have.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Dean finally let his eyes slide open to see Cas staring at him, their faces inches apart.

“Huh?” he said groggily.

“You were smiling,” Cas said before pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Just thinking bout you,” Dean murmured.

Cas smiled and kissed him again before pulling him into his arms and kissing the top of his head.

“Cas?”

“Hmm?” Cas ran his hands down through Dean’s hair to his bare chest, letting them rest there comfortably. His touch was electric, but it was also safe. A jolt of warmth that sent shivers running up his spine while completely relaxing him.

“What if-” Dean paused. He shouldn’t say this now. Not when everything was so perfect. Not when he had everything he needed.

“What if what, Dean?”

Dean cleared his throat and turned around on the bed, settling his leg in between Cas’ before resting his head on his chest. “What if this isn’t real?” Cas didn’t move beneath him, didn’t answer, so he went on. “I mean, what if we didn’t beat Chuck? What if he’s still out there… he’s still controlling us… none of these decisions are ours?”

Cas sighed, his breath hot against Dean’s skin, and Dean propped his chin up to look at him. His expression was thoughtful. But it wasn’t annoyed or disappointed. It was almost sad. Because they finally had everything, finally had rid the world of Chuck, and he was still haunting them. Still making them question if they ever had any free will.

After what seemed like an eternity, Cas finally untangled himself from Dean and stood. He quickly pulled on sweats and a t-shirt and gestured for Dean to do the same.

Dean fumbled with his shirt, and when he got it over his head, Cas was standing by the door. “What are you doing?”

“Come on.”

Dean followed him through the glass sliding door that led straight to the beach. The sand was cool under his toes and the breeze was stronger out here. It ruffled his shirt as he walked after Cas all the way down to the water’s edge.

Cas leaned down and rolled up his sweatpants before stepping in, the waves licking eagerly at his toes. Dean didn’t want to join him. He looked perfect, backlit by the rising sun, his hair blowing in the wind as a serene expression settled over his mouth. But when Cas gave him an exasperated wave, he crossed the final stretch of beach.

Dean reached for Cas’ hand instinctively and the other man took it, rubbing it gently with his thumb. Then he settled his intense gaze on Dean and the hunter was lost. The waves faded to the background, the salt water soaking his sweats became meaningless, and he stared into the electric blue that never failed to trap him.

“The waves always come back to the shore,” Cas said quietly. He glanced down at their feet and was silent for a minute as the water washed over them. Dean was enraptured, staring at the way his lips parted as he waited to go on, and he almost missed the next words. “Maybe Chuck designed it that way. Maybe he put forces of nature into play and this was the result. But that doesn’t matter, you see? It’s still real. They still return, even with him gone. He may have created the ocean, Dean, but the waves live on without him.”

Cas reached down and took Dean’s other hand, pressing a soft kiss to it before he went on.

“Chuck created us. But he didn’t create this. I am yours, Dean Winchester, and you are mine. We are intertwined, our destinies connected from the beginning. We will always come back to each other. Be it Heaven, Hell, or even Earth. And that is not because of Chuck. It is no divine plan, no cosmic fate, no power outside of our control. We chose this. We choose to return, to be as we are. We choose to carry on. What we have is not inevitable. And that’s the beauty in it. We could walk away right now, but we don’t want to. And we never will want to. I will never leave you.”

Dean felt tears well up in his eyes and he stepped closer in the wet sand, pressing himself against Cas. But the former angel wasn’t finished.

“Listen to me, though. He’s gone. Chuck is defeated, and yet the universe goes on. He has no power over us. Do you understand?”

Dean gulped and nodded, letting his head fall on Cas’ shoulder. The sun was fully above the horizon now, and it warmed his back as he leaned into Cas.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you, too,” Cas responded. Then he lifted Dean’s chin gently with his hand, kissing him firmly, passionately, pouring every ounce of conviction, of faith into the action. And Dean felt all his doubt slip away.

His arms shook slightly as they tightened around Cas and the tears faded before they could fall, replaced by the peaceful feeling of Cas. Cas surrounding him, Cas being with him, just Cas. The waves kept beating upon the shore. Just like they always would. And he held onto Cas. Just like he always would.

Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there Psalm 139:7-8

tag list below (ask to be added or removed)

@fandomstuff67 @menjiiii @witchyanaels @starlightcastiel @chaoticdean @larryforeveralways @samhainsam @flowersforcas @tlakhtwritesdestiel @wanderingcas @prayedtoyou @spooky-things-do-happen-dean @jayus-fandom-writer @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you @gmotheemo @starrynightdeancas @radiantdean @piemaker-from-gallifrey @on-a-bender @eshaninjer @trasherasswood @dreadful-delight @feraladoration @trenchcas @contemplativepancakes @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @thefourthheadofcerberus @seffersonjtarship @randomblabbling @craftywitchywoman @supernaturalisheaven @adsp-destielcockles @tehmanda @castielscrookedtrenchcoat

#suptober20 #kinda sad this was the last one tbh #also relieved #destiel fluff #destiel fic #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #spn fan fiction #destiel fanfic #deancas fic #destiel ficlet #my writing

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hilarioushilarity · 3 years

Text

Artist Joe & Bodyguard Nicky AU Part 3

Joe had barely started to feel just this side of faint when a warm arm wound its way around his back, a hand settling home on his hip. He found himself leaning in but caught himself just in time.

“My love,” Nicolo said, looking for all the world a doting partner. “How are you enjoying the night?”

“Much better now that you’re here,” Joe said, meaning every word, even as his head throbbed unpleasantly and his eyes prickled. A polite cough to his right almost caused him to groan reflexively, but he swallowed it and instead added, “Nicolo, this is Mr Wetherington.”

“A pleasure,” Wetherington said. The smile on his face was all politeness, but the look he gave Nicolo was assessing. Nicolo smiled guilelessly back.

Harold Wetherington was the kind of old money that would’ve made Joe’s skin crawl even without knowing the kinds of pies he had fingers in, even without having helped bankrupt the cosmetics arm of Wetherington Industries by exposing the underbelly of unethical animal testing practices - and, well could treating animals as testing subjects ever be ethical?

Harold Wetherington was the kind of man who would put out a hit on Joe in a heartbeat, if he knew just who had been behind the social media campaign that shut down his labs. People like Wetherington was why Nicolo was here, ostensibly as Joe’s partner, rather than hovering behind Joe and raising the question of why a mild-mannered artist like Joe would even need a bodyguard at a charity ball.

Joe tensed as the pressure behind his eyes spiked painfully. The arm around him tightened slightly, and then, apropos of nothing, lips were pressed to Joe’s forehead. When Nicolo pulled back, he met Joe’s bemusement with a smile that looked a touch strained.

“Shall we go home?” Nicolo asked. “It’s quite late. Would that be alright, my love?”

“Um,” Joe said, articulately. His head was too sore to keep up with this dizzying turn of events. “Yes? Yes, let’s go. Harold, see you at the next one of these?” He made himself wait for a reply and the polite exchange of goodbyes before letting Nicolo gently guide him through coat-check and into their car. The arm around him only left his shoulders when he slid into the car, and he told himself that he didn’t miss it.

Nicolo pulled them into the flow of traffic. “How long have you been unwell for?” he asked.

“What?” Joe was caught off guard. “I’m not unwell?”

Without ever taking his eyes off the road, Nicolo reached over and placed the back of his hand against Joe’s forehead. “You are quite warm,” he said, almost to himself. He sounded unhappy.

“Not hot?” Joe tried for a suggestive smile, but the hand on his forehead was large and steady, and it was hard not to just sink into the soft leather seat. “I guess...my head’s been hurting a little lately.”

Nicolo took his hand away, and Joe tried and failed to not mourn its loss. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you wouldn’t have let me go to the charity ball.”

“You hate these events,” Nicolo pointed out. “And also, name one time I’ve been able to successfully stop you from doing anything.”

Joe sighed, and let his head fall backwards. “You need only ever ask, my love,” he murmured absently.

“What?” Nicolo asked, voice a little strangled.

“Hmm?” Joe said, his eyes sliding closed. The pressure in his head dulled a little, but not by much. “Oh - sorry, and I mean...I do hate these things, but it’s for charity and some money does go to people who need it...not all of it goes back into rich peoples’ pockets, and um...”

“That’s not-” Nicolo broke off, then sighed, a small, quiet thing. “You should get some sleep. I’ll call for a doctor.”

Joe wanted to ask him what was wrong, but the soft plushness beneath his head called him, and his head did hurt so very much. He could ask him about it later, Joe resolved. Later, when the throbbing at his temples and the rawness of his eyes receded. “’kay,” Joe mumbled. “Thank you, Nicky.”

***

It could have been seconds later, or minutes, or hours. A hand was on his arm. “Joe?”

Sleep was reluctant to let him go, and the pain in his head was blinding. “I’m here,” he whispered.

Fingers gently touched his forehead, and he turned towards them absently. “He - he’s burning!” someone gasped. It sounded like Booker. “Nicolo, can you get him up into bed? I’m going to call the doctor right now.”

Two hands gently cupped his face. “Joe, can you open your eyes for me?”

There was so much Joe would do for that voice. He opened his eyes with great effort, to see Nicolo crouched beside the open car door.

“There you are,” Nicolo said, his voice softer than Joe had ever heard it. It did funny things to his insides. “Do you think you can get to your room?”

His room was so far away. But the thought of a bed, his bed, with its warm blankets and the smell of sleep, called. “I think so,” Joe mumbled.

“Lean on me?” Nicolo said, taking his arms and helping him out of the car. “Here we go, you’re doing great. We’ll be there soon.”

There were around two hundred steps between the garage and his room, but later, all Joe would remember of them would be the smell of the shampoo Nicolo liked to use, the press of a firm, broad shoulder beneath his arm. He wouldn’t remember the way he was lowered onto the bed, gently, carefully. Nor would he remember the way he said, “Nicky - will you stay with me, please? I- if you want to,” and the way something raw had passed over Nicolo’s face. That night, amidst the murmurs of the doctor and Booker and Nicolo, he would dream of a man sitting beside his bed, of cool, soft hands smoothing hair away from his burning forehead and feeding him water.

And in the morning, when he woke up, there would be the slightest of impressions in the blankets beside him, still warm, as if someone had stayed the entire night by his side.

A continuation of this and that. Here is the original post by @veryoldmuchguard. Yes, this is 100% just softness, but sometimes it’s okay to not polish a piece up to a brilliant shine. I do have some ideas for plot, and you might be able to see some inklings beginning in this piece.

#the old guard #joe #nicky #joe x nicky #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #capichewrites #nicky x joe

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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 3 years

Note

So I have a request 👉👈 How would Darla and Mc's first kiss would be (Take your time doing this, I can wait patiently😊)

Written by @an-awkward-ghost

The last thing you had ever imagined was to do magical training with Darla, of all people

She had been growing on you lately. Both of you had tried to be less snappy, and Darla was actually fun to be around when she wasn’t firing off insults as if she were a machine gun. She was fiercely protective and surprisingly patient once you got on her good side. She had taken the whole fairytale world in stride, slightly shocked and skeptical at first but rolling with it afterwards.

You hadn’t planned for her to discover it, honestly. She had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and it had only been thanks to Lucas’ quick thinking that everyone had made it out alive. Who knew the Pied Piper of Hamelin would be such a bad guy? You had been hoping he would be different from the story, like Ezra, but he turned out to be even worse.

And now, here you are, practicing for the plan Nora and Arin had hashed out an hour ago, trying and failing to learn to play something to counter the Pied Piper’s own brainwashing melody.

For that matter — who knew Darla was so good with the flute? As the only one who knew how to play it, but also the only one without magic, she had taken it upon herself to teach the rest. Everyone had already left for the day, so it was only you and her now.

You, too stubborn to leave without at least accomplishing one note right, and her, too passionate about her task to deny you an extra lesson.

It could be going better, though…

“Do you even have air in your lungs, Beth? I swear I can’t hear a thing—”

“I am blowing!”

“Remember that it’s like you’re smiling. A little smile. You’re good with that, right? We don’t want an ‘o’ shape unless we need a low pitch.”

Darla’s eyes are fixed on your lips, analyzing the shape. It’s distracting. You know she only does it in the professional sense, but at some point over the lessons, you’d found that your breath stuttered every time she did it, smile widening more than intended for blowing out the flute, cheeks darkening.

“Let’s take a short break,” the brown-haired girl finally announces, turning away, and the tension in your chest you hadn’t acknowledged until now instantly disappears.

I’m a mess, you think, frustration creeping into the lukewarm feeling you get every time Darla looks at you.

“Sorry.”

“No problem, Beth, I know how learning an instrument can be.”

“But isn’t flute supposed to be easy?”

She shrugs. It’s a calm little thing, just a slight, elegant movement of her shoulders. Once again, you’re in awe of how patient she is. You would have stormed off a while ago.

“Any skill has its ups and downs, even the ones that are supposed to be easy. And hey, even that varies from person to person. Don’t feel down about it. I’m sure you’ll have it down by the end of the week.”

“Great advice as always, Darla.”

She smirks that smirk you used to hate, coated with confidence and typical Popular Girl Satisfaction™. “You know it.” And then her expression softens as she turns to look at her flute, twirling it slightly with a reverence that has you mesmerized. “I can’t wait to see you all work magic with these, or the look the Pied Piper’s gonna get.”

“It’s difficult. I don’t know how to explain it... Um. Well, it’s like the music keeps bouncing off any spell I try to combine it with. Like they aren’t compatible or something.”

“Nora explained that to me. That’s why she’s going to enchant the flutes instead, right? Once she gets the necessary materials?”

“Yeah… it’ll make things easier, too. We usually use incantations — they are way easier than just trying to image the spell. Hey, maybe that’s why it keeps bouncing off? But then again, I can’t exactly say the spell when I’m blowing…”

Darla frowns, looking up from the flute. “Who knows? All of this is too complicated for me. I’d rather stick to what I know… speaking of which, let’s try one more time. You’re going to hit the note, I’m sure of it.”

“Uh…”

The instrument feels heavy on your hands. You rise it towards your lips, clumsily placing your fingers the way Darla had instructed you before, but pause just before blowing, noticing the way Darla’s eyes focus on your lips as if magnetized.

“I…”

“C’mon, Beth.”

Shouldn’t her focus be on your hands…? She must know how much she’s distracting you, doesn’t she?

“It’s just… well…”

Her eyes flick upwards to your eyes, curious. “Yes?”

She has to know. There’s no way she can be this oblivious, right?

Your mouth opens and then closes, at a loss for words. The seconds tick by in the background like a restless pulse, and you lose whatever bravado you had managed to gather.

“Maybe I should just call it a day.”

Darla looks a bit surprised at that. There’s a pause as she looks at you, her expression impassive for all of two seconds before a soft, amused smile breaks through, eyes as alluring as a dark bottle of wine. The change is so instant it leaves you stunned; she’d been slightly distant throughout the lessons, more concentrated on the technique than friendly banter, but now she had seemingly abandoned that.

“Is something distracting you, Elizabeth?” She asks, voice soft and composed, and a shiver runs down your spine at the sound. The fact that she doesn’t use your nickname and how it makes her every word so much more intense means she’s probably aware of the effect she has on you…

And the realization sets the butterflies in your stomach alight.

“Well?”

There’s no sense in beating around the bush. Darla may be patient once one manages to get into her good side, but you know her well enough to know she appreciates direct answers more than anything else.

“You.”

She hums, leaning slightly forward, hand coming up to grasp your chin. Her hold is delicate, but firm.

“We can’t have that. You need to concentrate if we want to have any chance against the Pied Piper.” She slides the flute out of your grasp, leaving it on a table nearby without sparing it so much as a glance. Her eyes are locked on yours.

“T-this may be counterproductive…”

She stops.

“Don’t you want this?”

“I do!” You blurt out, fast. Too fast. Darla chuckles lowly, not pulling away but not advancing either. “What about you?”

The blush that spreads over her cheeks is answer enough.

“You really were using the lessons as an excuse to stare at my lips, huh?”

“N-no!” She grows still, all the suave energy she was exuding before fading like a dream. “Well, just a little bit, but mouth shape is important to play the flute—”

“A-ha! So you were!”

“Wha—hey! Didn’t you just hear what I just—?”

“That’s not important right now.”

She actually frowns, not truly offended but still irked you dismiss her just like that, but you don’t give her a chance to actually voice her thoughts. You tilt your head upwards, feeling the way her breath stutters, and lean forward.

Slow, so she’ll back away if she wants, but she doesn’t even hesitate.

Kissing Darla is like kissing an inferno—she’s intense, pushing you back until you hit the wall, her hand on your hair cushioning the impact. She kisses you as if you were to disappear from her hands in a puff of smoke, as if you were a receding tide and the setting sun, and she only had this second to capture the shape of your lips, to capture your existence in her mind. It’s almost dizzying, but you surrender to it completely anyway, your arms snaking around her waist and pulling her closer.

The only reason you even pull away is because your lungs demand air. Darla blinks, probably expecting a longer kiss.

“Too much?”

“I just… give me a second…”

She smiles against your lips when you pull her down a second time after you catch your breath, and this time it’s sweeter, gentler, more like a soft petal.

When you finally part, she sighs and melts against you.

“Will you try to focus more, now?” She whispers.

You give her an incredulous look. “After that? No way.”

“C’mon, Beth. You need to save the world.” She laughs, and you roll your eyes.

“Maybe I will stop getting so distracted if I had more time to get used to this. More demonstrations would help, certainly.”

“Certainly.”

You are, officially, on cloud nine.

#anonymous #answered #lovestruck #lovestruck fanfiction #darla pratt #ever after academy #eaa #eaa darla #lovestruck darla #darla x mc #fluff #fluffy

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bungamawar001 · 3 years

Text

Murder Mystery

this is supposed to be for Cubetober day one, but my mind blanked out in the middle of it, so i finished it late. also i wrote this in three different times of day with three different states of mind, so if it's inconsistant that's why.

anyway, this is set in my au that i made when i was 13, so i apologize to anyone reading this if it's scuffed, but it still holds a very special place in my heart, so here it is.

~~~~~~~

Sparklez was talking. Jesse wasn’t really paying attention to what he was saying, but it probably wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. What he was more interested in were the rest of the people seated in front of him. Their bubbles (or auras as was the proper term, apparently) to be exact.

Because the ones surrounding these people were strange. They were denser than the average person’s back in his home dimension, which usually meant they were physically stronger, but none of them looked like they could lift more than any other average person. A likely explanation was just that was how people were in this world, and that was all fine and dandy, but the one that concerned him the most was, ironically, the most normal of their group.

Alright, not normal, but her gold blinking aura was familiar, and to top it off, it was dense and had range. The only times he’d ever felt a bubble like this was with the members of the Order of the Stone. And even if they couldn’t lift more than their own body weight in the best of days, they still had their abilities. Which Jesse found out was the reason for the density and range.

This girl, however, (Cassie Rose, his mind supplied for him) was supposedly from this world. And yet, she had the aura of a person with the same sort of abilities as the old Order of the Stone and himself. Which, if that wasn’t suspicious-

He snapped his attention to where Dan’s fizzling started leaning more towards curiosity than anxiety. It could be something Sparklez had said, but no one else’s mood had shifted quite like his… also, he was looking under the table. Interesting.

“-whoever invited us-”

“Whatcha got there, Dan?”

Sparklez started as Jesse abruptly cut him off, and the entire table turned their attention towards him. Jesse nearly staggered at the weight of the scrutiny, but he managed to keep his gaze on the dual-colored aura.

“O-oh, um, it’s just this button, see?” Dan pushed his chair back and stood up to reveal that there was indeed a button under the table. “I was just thinking that it was an odd place to put one…”

“Dan!” Lizzie looked at her friend incredulously, her swirls now had a hint of exasperation, but the anxiety seemed to multiply tenfold, “Don’t tell us you were about to press it!”

“What?” He was quick to defend himself as his fizzling shifted to fear and embarrassment. It was mostly the fear, though. “No! No, of course not-”

A quick glance around the table to the rest of his friends seemed to drain his resolve, “W-well, I-I mean - “

He stumbled around his words for another second before he threw his hands up and covered his face, “You guys know how I am with buttons! Give me a break!”

Surprisingly, despite how wound up they looked, they did stop glaring at him. And yet…

‘They’re all suspicious of him now’, Jesse thinks to himself as he glances around at the rest of the auras around him. ‘Well, all of them. Except for one.’

Cassie’s gold blinked in anticipation, satisfaction, and a hint of regret that kept coming and going. Which, combined with her odd aura was a dead giveaway that she was the culprit, one hundred percent. At least, that’s what Jesse thought, in any case-

“Oh, hey. I have one too.” Everyone turned their heads towards StampyCat just in time to see him press the button on his side of the table.

“Stampy, DON’T-!”

Jesse wasn’t sure who yelled, but it didn’t matter. Because one second, Sparklez was standing right beside him, and then the next his chair tipped backwards towards a gaping hole that had opened up in the floor.

His reflexes had gotten better ever since a year ago, when they were still in that treehouse, but even then, he could do nothing but watch as his fingers brushed against Sparklez’s sleeve before he dropped into the abyss down below. He thought he felt someone whizz by him as he watched Sparklez fall, but there wasn’t any time to think about it before sand fell from the ceiling and filled up the hole.

At this point, everybody’s auras were swirling, fizzing, popping with fear, anxiety, grief. It was getting harder and harder to keep the forigen emotions at bay along with his own. It didn’t help that Cassie Rose (because she was a damn good actor, but she sure as hell can’t mask her inner self), aka White Pumpkin, aka the current literal bane of his existence, decided to put on a show right after the goddamn murder.

So when the lights turned on again, Jesse found himself kneeling on the floor and clutching his head. It took all of his power to not hurl his guts right then and there. Petra and Lukas, the godsends, seemed to be hoarding everyone out of the room, while Ivor had somehow ended up beside him with his hand on his head. He hadn’t been able to sense Gabriel anywhere since the sand fell, and he would’ve been more concerned over it if he were in any better shape.

As it was, he felt his nausea gradually receding as he felt the effects of Regeneration wash over him. Or maybe it was Health. He vaguely remembered Ivor trying to teach him something about that, although he can’t quite remember at the moment.

“Jesse? How do you feel?” Ivor’s voice cut through the fog in his brain, and he mentally thanked the man for keeping his volume down.

“I’m- I think I’m okay now.” He stayed on the floor for a second. Just to try and fill in the gaps in his memory after Sparklez…

He was instantly overcome with guilt at that thought. So much so that Ivor’s hand left his head as he recoiled from the intensity of it. It came back a second later, and Jesse could feel the other’s concern from where Ivor was sitting next to him.

“Jesse?”

“It- the- the sand- Sparklez…”

Ivor’s royal blue aura shimmered with relief, and Jesse looked at him in confusion as the older man lightly shook his head.

“Sparklez is fine, Jesse. I activated Speed and caught him before he fell.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. It’ll be a pain to try and explain that to the newcomers, however.”

Well. That’s a relief. Not the explaining part. But at least no one died this time. He’ll probably still have nightmares about this incident though. Bummer.

~~~~~~~~~

When Jesse and Ivor finally stepped out into the main hall, they took a double take at the scene in front of them.

Stampy was hiding behind Gabriel and Petra; Dan and Lizzie were in an argument against Stacy and Cassie; and Sparklez and Lukas seemed to be stuck in the middle failing to act as mediator between the groups.

“This is Stampy we’re talking about, guys! He didn’t do it on purpose!” Lizzie’s pink was swirling with anxiety and it seemed like her resolve was faltering.

“He still pressed the button! After all the grief we gave Dan for thinking about it, he still pressed it!” Stacy’s navy was the opposite. There was fear there, sure. But her anger and betrayal was burning much stronger and more decisively than Lizzie’s.

It would probably be a smart idea to diffuse this situation sooner rather than later.

“Hey! Hey, guys?” Jesse tried. They seemed to be too caught up in yelling at each other to have noticed the new arrivals.

“I would’ve pressed it! If Jesse hadn’t stopped me I would’ve! I was curious about it, and Stampy was too!” Dan’s blue and white aura was a sight to behold. Not because of the dual colors, Jesse's gotten over that while he’d been questioning him. His anger was making his bubble fizzle and spark, and his desperation was thick in the air.

“What Dan said!” Stampy’s aura was chilly with fear and betrayal. Which was valid, since two of his friends were vehemently against him..

“So you admit to being the White Pumpkin?” Cassie Rose. Her gold aura was bleeding with victory and even more regret. There was also a sort of desperate relief much closer to her core that almost had Jesse wondering why she was doing this..

Almost.

“Guys, I have-”

“Allll right! Let’s not start accusing people with doubtful evidence-”

Stacy whipped around to face her friend, “You were the one who fell because of him, Sparklez!”

“Yes, I know that, just- just hear me out, okay?” CaptainSparklez’ bright red aura had been calm, for the entire time that Jesse had been around him. Even now, after his brush of death, and the layers of anxiousness and fear within him, his aura didn’t send wave after wave of emotions like Jesse expected.

He didn’t know if that was the reason everybody settled, or because Sparklez was the one who nearly died this time, but finally, Stacy’s angry burning mellowed down to a smaller flame, and Dan’s sparks grew less intense, although his anger was still fizzling quickly and quietly in his own bubble.

“I- I know this has been a very stressful evening for all of us, but Stampy’s our friend. I know we haven’t known him as long as Lizzie and Dan have, Stacy, Cassie, but I know him well enough to be positive that he wouldn’t do something like this on purpose.”

“...fine,” With that, Stacy’s anger disappeared, and in its place was a mix of doubt and regret. Maybe she wasn’t really angry at Stampy in the end? There were only so many people to blame, after all. “But if you’re so sure he didn’t do it, then who did?”

Cassie’s bubble started to blink rapidly in desperation, and Jesse rushed to interject before she could say anything, “I know who it is.”

Before anyone could react and without missing a beat, Cassie responded, “Is it you?”

“Wha- No! I’m not going to say names without any further proof, but it’s not me!”

“That sounds like something a suspicious person would say.”

Jesse’s had just about enough of this ginger, honestly, “And how would you know what a suspicious person sounds like?”

“Like you, clearly.”

“I am not-!”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gabriel grabbed Jesse’s arm and pulled him away. “We have more important things to worry about.”

Right. Finding proof.

~~~~~~~

It was a hassle, trying to get everyone to agree to stay in the same room while Jesse, Ivor, and Petra took a look around. Eventually, they reached a compromise when it was brought up that Ivor was the one who saved Sparklez. Unfortunately, part of that compromise was they had to bring Cassie with them.

He risked a glance at the golden bubble blinking rapidly with determination and sighed. This was going to be a long night.

#if i manage to do the rest of cubetober it's going to be in this au #hopefully #mcsm #cubetober 2021 #day 1

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funkyhanji · 3 years

Text

Daddy's Perfect Cock-Slut [English | BNHA]

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia (@Horikoshi Kohei) Character(s): Todoroki Enji | Endeavor, Todoroki Shouto Pairing(s): EnjiSho Rating: E Word count: 3528 CWs: Shota, Underage, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Grooming, Mind Manipulation, Childhood Trauma, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Begging, Rough Sex, Large Cock, Cock Worship, Cock Cages, Cock-Slut Shouto, Creampie, Implied/Referenced Father/Daughter Incest, Dissociation, Dirty Talk, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Summary: - That green-haired runt [...] knew nothing about Shouto. Or about Enji. Or about their relationship and how it functioned. -

Enji's annoyed. That green-haired runt reminded him too much of All Might, with his self-righteous attitude and acting like it's his duty to go sticking his nose into someone else's business, unwanted and spewing corny bullshit. Did that kid even know who he was talking to in that way?

His Shouto doesn't need help from a kid who can't even properly control his quirk. He knew nothing about Shouto. Or about Enji. Or about their relationship and how it functioned.

[*]

It took two days for Enji to notice Shouto's catatonic state and lifeless stare. He'd been busy dealing with the paperwork necessary to hospitalize his wife after her psychotic breakdown and her attack on their youngest child. Also the press — keeping the nosy fuckers away from his family problems was of utmost importance. Good thing he showered his PR staff and lawyers in money.

It was a comment from Fuyumi which had clued Enji in on the boy's ghost-like presence around the house.

Shouto, excused from school for a couple of weeks after the incident, would be seen wandering the halls in a daze; he'd often gravitate to the kitchen or his mother's bedroom, and stay there for indefinite amounts of time. He only moved when someone nudged him out of the rooms.

His son, he also came to notice quickly, was very responsive to commands in that state. As if his brain was more than happy to be given directions or orders to follow.

Any sort of command.

«Stop right there, Shouto,» Enji ordered one day, seeing the boy walking down the corridor in front of his open studio door. Shouto did as told, making Enji hum, curiosity piqued. «Come in Shouto, and close the door.»

His son obeyed, standing just past the threshold, his face devoid of any real expression and a haunted look in his eyes. It was disconcerting, Enji had to admit, but the cooperativeness was pleasing after all the reluctance to follow directives Shouto had shown since they'd begun his training.

«Come to me, boy,» he said, waving him over. «And speak, I'm tired of you playing mute.»

Shouto slowly crossed the distance, halting beside the chair Enji was sitting in. «Father.» His voice was scratchy from disuse and a bit dull, but it was still an improvement over the contempt it held before.

Something could be bettered though.

«Call me 'Daddy', boy,» he ordered.

«Yes, Daddy.»

The word sent a shiver down Enji's spine. Something wicked and dark—a desire to claim what was his on the most base level — awakening inside him for the first time in months, maybe years. Rei wasn't here to stop him, this time; she wasn't here to distract him with her own body, or to send Fuyumi his way in her stead.

Shouto was all his for the taking, now.

«Your Mommy was taken away because of you, Shouto. And since you're the reason she's not here anymore, it'll be your job to do everything Mommy did for Daddy. Do you understand, Shouto?»

«Yes, Daddy. I'll do everything Mommy did for Daddy, because it's my fault she was taken away.»

The smirk slashing through his face was nothing but sinister.

«Good boy.»

They were in Rei's bedroom, alone and with the door locked. It wasn't necessary, frankly: his and his wife's rooms were on a different side of the house from his kids', and none of them were about to come looking for him, not after dinner anyway.

Enji had come out of the bathhouse to find Shouto once again in his mother's room, gaze lost like a kicked puppy.

Defenseless. Adrift.

And Enji was there, because it was easy to take advantage of a traumatized child when you use the excuse of providing him with an anchor, a grounding touch.

He spread out Rei's futon on the tatami mats — a half-empty bottle of lube rolled out of it as well —, sat down with his legs loosely crossed in front of him and reached out a hand toward Shouto. His other hand undoing the knot of the towel at his hips.

«Here, Shouto, come sit in my lap,» Enji ordered.

«Yes, Daddy.» Shouto plopped down in the circle his legs made, back straight and blinking slow, breath even.

He didn't protest when Enji took his hand in a gentle hold, brushing a large thumb over the white knuckles; he didn't protest when Enji cradled the bandaged side of his face in his other hand. He didn't try to back away, as Enji coaxed his jaws open and delved two thick fingers inside, the rough pads gliding over a soft tongue and gums. Back and forth, deeper at each passage and full of intent.

A flush began to creep onto Shouto's cheeks; his breath humid as it puffed over the back of Enji's hand, a spark flickering to light in his uncovered eye.

He brought his son's hand toward his groin, pleased to see him follow the movement, gaze focusing on the swelling cock nestled in dark crimson curls. A shiver coursed through Shouto's thin frame as his fingers made contact, a sigh escaping parted pale-pink lips.

«Daddy...» Shouto whispered, muffled by Enji's digits still in his mouth.

«Go on Shouto,» Enji said, letting his hand fall from the boy's face, setting it at his slim waist. «You remember what to do, right?»

Shouto nodded, too lost in the moment to respond verbally, but it was fine.

Enji picked up the lube, squirting some in the boy's palm. Cold fingers wrapped around his length — barely long enough to circle the girth of it even when limp — and stroked, the touch tentative, trembling but growing surer at each pass. The push and pull of the foreskin as it glided over the head, the stiffening of the cock under his fingertips seemed to entice Shouto. His pupil dilated the harder Enji got, the blush on his face darkening at each of Enji's pleased hums.

«Good, Shouto,» Enji praised. He groaned when his son's other hand joined in the stroking, the dual sensation of hot and cold enclosing his cock feeling nice on his burning skin. «Put more strength into it, boy.»

«Yes… Daddy,» Shouto whispered, sounding winded as his whole body shifted with his movements. Sweat started beading at his hairline from the extersion and the heat radiating off of Enji.

«Remember, Shouto, this is your duty now. Taking care of my needs, of my cock, is your responsibility.»

«… Because it's my... fault Mommy's not… here anymore...»

«That's right.» Enji smirked, dripping corruption and lust unbecoming of a hero. «Get your mouth down there, c'mon. Like I told you.»

Once the bandages came off his face and Shouto was cleared by the doctor to go back to school, the vacancy in his stare finally began to recede day by day. He no longer wandered around the house like a ghost and he talked more often, as stilted and curt as his sentences were.

A positive thing, according to the majority of people Enji spoke to — a phrase which never failed to make him raise an eyebrow. He could understand such naivety from Fuyumi, but from adults who should know better than to sweep PTSD and trauma under the rug? Bullshit. They were just trying to appease him, Endeavor, the #2 Hero.

They were lucky that worked perfectly for Enji.

He could do without the new-found sparks of defiance in Shouto's eyes whenever they crossed paths or trained in the dojo, sure, but in was worth it when all the fight bled out of his tiny frame at the first glimpse of Enji's cock. He knew playing his hand while the boy was in a malleable state would be beneficial in drilling some key concepts in his brain.

«That was weak, Shouto! Fuyumi could have punched harder than that!» Enji reprimanded, eyes narrowed in Shouto's direction at his poor attitude.

He received a glare from the other side of the dojo, Shouto then kicking the dummy in the dick with an angry yell. Enji almost rolled his eyes at the display, but a sudden groan caught his attention.

«Ah— nnh…!»

Shouto was squirming where he stood, face pinched in discomfort and the heel of one hand carefully rubbing at his groin. Ah, Enji thought, it's the cage isn't it. Of course it was — it'd been only a week since Enji had put it on Shouto; he wasn't used to it yet.

«Stop touching it, Shouto,» Enji said. «It won't help—»

«Shut up! Take it off of me!»

Enji stood up, growling low and stalking toward his son. He gripped a fistful of bi-colored hair and shoved Shouto's face into his crotch none too gently, grinding him against his clothed, soft cock. Any protest died quickly. A breathy moan warming Enji's bulge, which twitched in interest as Shouto nudged his nose further into the crease between his thigh and pelvis.

«I told you not to touch the cage, Shouto,» Enji said, looking down at the boy.

«Mmkay,» Shouto muttered into the fabric of his sweatpants; his tiny arms embracing Enji's waist. «Daddy… wanna…»

«What do you want?»

«Daddy's… Da— haa!-» Enji rubbed a knee over Shouto's trapped little dick- «cock! Nnnh— Daddy's cock! P-Please...»

Enji chuckled. «And what d'you wanna do with it, mh, Shouto?»

Shouto looked up at him, flushed face and eyes swimming with desire to please. Enji could imagine the boy's mind quickly being overtaken by thoughts of his cock; touching it, stroking it, feeling its weight and warmth on his tongue — the way he'd been primed to in the weeks after the incident.

«S-service you— ah! — Daddy… please!»

«Since you're being so polite-» Enji patted his head, then undid the pants' drawstring and pulled them down enough for his cock to bounce free- «go ahead.»

Shouto's eyes light up, a needy whine falling from pink lips. «Thank you Daddy!»

He delved right in, mouth parting to suckle on the head, tongue sneaking under the foreskin and swirling around it like an ice-cream cone. Popping off the tip, Shouto moved down the hard length, kissing and licking every pulsing vein all the way to the base; he coated Enji's cock in saliva to ease the stroking of his small hands while he nuzzled up to the sac under it.

«Suck on those, boy,» Enji grunted, a large hand on the nape of Shouto's head. «That's where you came from.»

Shouto's tongue lapped at his heavy balls with careful brushes, lips puckering over the sensitive skin, sucking gently. Over and over, he kissed Enji's sac with something akin to reverence in both his touches and his eyes. His breath was humid and hitching as he worshiped Enji like the all-consuming being he was.

A low rumble reverberated in Enji's chest, his palm caressing red-and-white hair in silent appreciation. «Yeah… like that, Shouto. You like Daddy's cock, don't you?»

Shouto moaned, long and trembling with need. «Ah! I… I-I— yes! Like-» his lips attached to Enji's cock-head once again, drinking up the pre-cum oozing from it and mewling- «mngh— l-love it Daddy!» He rutted against Enji's leg, no doubt trying to find relief for his tiny dick trapped in that cage.

«Good boy. Now back to sucking.»

Enji unceremoniously pushed Shouto's parted mouth down on his twitching cock, fucking into it fast but controlled, thrusts shallow as his son let himself be used. Flushed cheeks hollowing and puffing out in time with his movements, and small hands cupping his balls, it didn't take long for Enji to feel himself starting to cum.

«Here it comes, Shouto,» he groaned, fingers dipping into the boy's nape to keep him still. «My seed— shit! Ngh!— don't spill any!»

Shouto's muffled assent sent jolts of pleasure up his cock, pushing him over the edge until he was dumping a load of scorching cum down the awaiting throat. Shouto drank and drank, lips tightening around his length to coax out every drop.

The sight alone — of Shouto's still-developing Adam's Apple bob — arousing him enough he could go for a second round immediately. «Like mother, like son: she loved to guzzle it down too.»

«Quit your squirming, dammit!» Enji growled, a rough palm on his son's hip.

«Nooo…! Back— put it back Daddy! Too empty...» Shouto cried.

Enji ignored the whining and the wriggling hips, too busy trying to reach for the lube one-handed, to appreciate the desperation Shouto was showing. At last managing to pop the bottle open, Enji poured the lube over the boy's slightly puffy hole — a huff of laughter escaping him at the squeak it earned him — and sank a finger inside.

Shouto's body shivered, no longer fighting. «Daddy...»

«Yeah,» Enji said. His digit moving back and forth, taking stock of how prepped his son's ass was after pulling out the plug which had been stretching him. «This is better, mh? A minute without something filling you up is unbearable, isn't it.»

The only answer he got was a whorish moan and Shouto pushing back into his hand.

Enji had introduced butt plugs around three months into his molding of Shouto into his personal, perfect cock-slut. He'd been dreaming about fucking his son well before Rei had snapped and gotten herself locked away in a hospital, and after teaching Shouto how to pleasure him with his mouth, Enji had decided it was time he started training that cute, round ass to take his cock. It'd been a couple of painstakingly long years. Years filled of better and better blowjobs, thigh-fucking — and occasional Fuyumi-fucking, because sometimes he missed the familiar feeling of a cold and wet pussy soaking up his boiling-hot cum —, and the slow-increasing girth of butt plugs up Shouto's hole.

The wait was finally over.

Enji was already rock-hard at the prospect of sinking balls-deep in Shouto.

His son seemed eager as well; spine curving sharply upward, hands gripping the futon under his shaking body in a vice. «Hhhnggh…!! O-oh! Da-Daddy! More— aah!— moreee!»

Enji smirked, a second finger pushing alongside the first to scissor and loosen Shouto; a third was quick to follow, and a fourth, the blushing rim stretched deliciously around his fingers, shiny with lube and fluttering. Enji shifted his hand back a little, calloused pads prodding at his son's prostate, licking his lips at Shouto's shocked yell. He kept up the touch until Shouto's walls were quaking and he was orgasming with his ass, his little caged dick limp but twitching uselessly over the sheet.

«Look at that, Shouto, you mastered the art of cumming like a woman,» Enji praised, fingers popping out of the boy with a squelch.

Shouto was out of it, drowning in post-coital bliss. «… Like a wo… man… did good?... Daddy…?»

«Yes, you did good. So good, you deserve my cock.»

Shouto didn't have time to say anything, Enji lubing himself up quickly and thrusting inside the small body in the next minute. Both moaned, when he bottomed out, then he pulled the boy up to sit on his thighs. Hands at a slim waist — leaving bruises on the milky-white skin —, Enji began ramming Shouto onto his cock at a brutal pace, the slapping of skin on skin loud and obscene, a nice background to the gritty grunts and the breathless mewls they made.

«How's Daddy's cock, mh, Shouto?»

«Mmngh! Aaah! Oh— l-l-loooove it…! Daddy!! Oh! Hhhgaah— yes! Cock!! Co— AH!»

Shouto was a mess of snot and tears and drool, with barely enough functioning brain cells to form words while he was mercilessly bounced on Enji's cock. His guts were speared continuously, his stomach visibly bulging every time Enji thrusted into him; his prostate was brushed against over and over to the point of pain, but Shouto kept moaning and sobbing in pleasure like Enji had molded him to—a slut for anything Daddy's cock gave him.

And Enji made sure to tell him.

«What a... whore! Happy to be a— ngh— rag-doll in my grasp... just to get my— shit!— cock. Ready to crawl— haa!— on your knees and choke on it! You're a bitch in heat, Shouto— my bitch. My cock-slut!»

«Yours, yes! Yesyes! Slut— AH! DADDY! AH! AH!»

Shouto orgasmed again, body like jello in Enji's hands as he shook and shuddered and pissed all over the futon. He kept up his onslaught anyway, fucking up into Shouto through his walls' clenching down on him until he was cumming violently inside, still thrusting while he rode it out, uncaring of the seed spilling down his cock and adding to the nasty mess.

«Thank… you… Daddy...»

«Mmh, good boy, Shouto.»

[*]

He sees his son walk towards him, on his way to compete in his first match. «Shouto,» he calls, «I'm expecting to see you use your fire today.» Shouto scowls, seeming determined to ignore him and that won't do for Enji. He steps in front of his son, blocking the passage with his large frame; this time it's him who ignores Shouto's gritted «Get out of my way». He bends at the waist until their faces are as close as can be with Enji's quirk active. «I put up with this defiance at home,» he says. «but here and now? It's going to ruin your performance and I won't have that.» «Fuck o—» Shouto starts, only for the words to die out as soon as he sees Enji unzip the fly of his hero suit and pull out his limp cock. He smirks. The change in demeanor is instantaneous: Shouto's pupils swell, black overtaking gray and blue irises; his jaws grow slack and his lips part; a rosy tint blossoms on his cheeks. Tense shoulders sag. In the next second, Shouto's on his knees in front of him. «Daddy...» he whines. «Aah, that's better,» Enji says. He reaches out, weaves his large hand in bi-colored hair. A low moan leaves his son's throat. He can practically see the saliva gathering on the boy's tongue in anticipation, can see him squirm on the floor as the seconds pass by. Shouto moves closer, nosing at the crimson pubes at the base of Enji's cock but not touching the half-hard shaft. He wasn't given permission to yet. «Need your Daddy's cock to calm down, mh?» Enji teases. «Like a baby with his pacifier-» with his free hand, he strokes himself, quickly growing fully hard at the sight of Shouto panting and sniffing at his crotch like a dog- «wanna be a good boy for Daddy?» Shouto nods wordlessly, slowly humping his boot and Enji can vaguely feel the chastity cage rub on him through Shouto's clothes. «Yes! Yes, please Daddy...! Please, your cock— oooh I want it! Daddy, please... pleasepleaseDa— mgahghn!» Enji grabs a fistful of white-n-red hair and pulls on it, shoving his cock past slack jaws without hesitation. «Suck Shouto,» he orders. Shouto moans around him. His hands grope Enji's thighs, blunt nails digging into the muscle as an anchor while he starts bobbing his head over the massive length. His tongue swirls around the shaft in just the right way to make Enji groan; Shouto's throat constricts as he's swallowed past his son's gag reflex, the vibrations from the mewls travel all the way up Enji's spine. His son's mouth is perfect. «Yeah, that's more— nngh— like it! Fuck, Shouto— you love my... cock mh? That's a good whore—» Wet and tight around him — it almost reminds him of Rei's and Fuyumi's pussies. «Cool yourself down a bit boy,» he grunts. When his son does as told, Enji moans at the feeling and fucks himself deeper, harder past Shouto's lips—they're stretched and puffy and red, with drool oozing down his chin. Shouto chokes on his cock yet keeps working it like the greedy slut he is. He ignores the tears running down his flushed cheeks and the snot mixing with his spit and Enji's pre-cum. His face looks dazed and Enji knows Shouto's brain is mush right now: the only words blaring in there are "COCK" and "DADDY" and "DADDY'S CUM". Exactly the way Enji wants him. It's what Enji's taught him ever since Rei had disappeared from the house, eight years ago-and his youngest cock-sleeve has grown up to be exceptionally great at giving head. The most talented at it since his mother. «Take Daddy's spunk, you slutty boy!» Enji says through gritted teeth as he feels himself getting close. He rips Shouto's mouth off him, gripping his cock and stroking himself quick and harsh until his balls draw up and he's throbbing in his own fist. «Open up and say— fuck!— thank you!» Shouto whines, swollen lips parted and tongue lolling out, waiting to be fed. It's enough to push Enji off the edge. With one last stroke, he's cumming, the thick ropes of seed landing on his son's eager tongue as well as on the bridge of his nose and his left cheek. He milks his orgasm to the last drop, staring down at Shouto with a dark glint in his eyes as the boy slurps up all the cum sizzling on his face. «Thank you Daddy...» Behind him, Present Mic's voice calls for Shouto's name.

#todocest #enjishouto #todoroki enji | endeavor #todoroki shouto #bnha #rarepair #funkys fics #guess who randomly decided to change theme of this blog lol #and to post the fics I've written since The PurgeTM #maybe #I honestly forgot how annoying it is to format here from AO3

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